Murders of a Feather, page 18
“Did the chief find any fishing equipment in his car?”
“Not that I recall. Was that his excuse for being up there?”
My notes were in front of me. I turned a page to my “Bruce Suspect?” column to make certain I remembered correctly. “He mentioned on Facebook he was doing some ice fishing.”
Cindy laughed. “Lover’s Lake isn’t stocked by the state. It’s pretty small as far as lakes go. We locals use it mostly in the summer.”
Not a fishing destination.
“What does the chief think?”
“Well, he’s pretty sure Bruce wasn’t ice fishing. They found him in possession of two sets of powerful binoculars and one portable telescope.”
“That sounds like equipment a voyeur might have. Maybe he likes to catch glimpses of women in their underwear.”
“Ick.”
I remembered Bruce’s face that day. He gave us all kinds of excuses why he couldn’t call 911. His phone was out of charge. He didn’t have any reception. I remember he refused to even show us where the body was. When Mari and I asked if he’d checked for a pulse, he hadn’t seemed to care. Like he knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“Kate. Are you there?”
“Sorry, I was going over what happened that day. So is he a suspect?”
“Yes, he is. Here’s something else. The coroner is waffling on the time of death because both bodies were frozen.”
“When was the last time anyone saw them?”
“At work, on Wednesday. They each took Thursday and Friday off for a long weekend.”
“Bruce hailed Mari and me down when we were coming back from our last house call on Friday, just before you went to Florida. That means…”
“Possibly a two-day window. And here’s another thing.”
I’d been taking notes about days and times and paused. “What’s that?”
“The parks department maintains a one-lane road that comes pretty close to that spot, but you approach it from the other side. In the summer we locals use it. We pull off and park our cars in among the trees. There are a couple of places that you can’t see from the road. That’s how Lover’s Lake got its nickname. From horny teenagers.”
“Funny.”
“Lover’s Lake. I confess to going up there a few times my junior and senior year in high school.”
“Cindy, you naughty girl,” I mock scolded her.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” she answered.
We’d gotten a bit off track, and I had one more question for her.
“Why did Bruce leave the main highway and drive across the field? It makes no sense. As it was, his SUV got stuck in a gully coming back down.”
“That’s what the chief wanted to know.”
After we hung up, I pondered all this new information. I recalled very clearly following the set of tire tracks Bruce had left as his SUV dug in and climbed to the tree line. If called to testify, I had to say I only saw one set of tire tracks. I tried to remember if it snowed on Thursday or Friday morning, or both.
Maybe Bruce kidnapped the couple and forced them to walk to where José’s body was found shot to death. But why wouldn’t Alicia try to break free? Her cause of death was strangulation. The lack of forensic evidence suggested that the murderer wore gloves, and in the case of Alicia, the lake water washed away any evidence.
José was shot at close range. Then that same gun was placed in his hand and fired, so he would be positive for trace evidence. Was the plan to shoot Alicia first? Things didn’t add up.
Another issue presented itself. Whoever killed José put the gun in the wrong hand. Would a person who knew him make that mistake?
So many unanswered questions. We didn’t know at this point whether Alicia was alive and restrained when José was shot or already dead. Both victims, the chief assumed, were killed in a short period of time, which meant the killer had their work cut out for them.
Unless there were two separate killers?
When I called up Gramps, he didn’t think much of my two-killers theory.
“Keep things simple, Katie,” he said after hearing me out. “Don’t think you’re hearing the thunder of zebra hooves when it’s only a mule strolling by.”
Gramps’s riff on that old zebra saying was pretty funny, and I told him so.
“Thanks. Remember, most crimes aren’t planned by master criminals. That’s only in the movies. There’s usually a pretty clear-cut reason someone murders someone else, unless we are talking psycho serial killer, which I don’t think is the case here. This crime appears to be planned but only up to a point.”
“I agree. Whoever did this was sloppy with a lot of the details. José’s and Alicia’s deaths feel personal, but Babs’s murder might be a crime of opportunity. Thankfully, the forensic guys caught a lot of discrepancies with all three killings.”
“Exactly.” Speaking to Gramps clarified my ideas.
“Whoever killed the couple wanted the police to believe it was a murder-suicide. That’s why they tried to do a better job with Babs. They learned from their mistakes.”
That made sense. Babs’s murder was almost too specific, too staged—unlike the violence directed at José and Alicia.
“What the killer didn’t count on was how resourceful Babs was,” Gramps added. “I admire the way she left you clues in the short time she had before the Xanax kicked in.”
“If we had only gotten back earlier…”
“Stop that,” Gramps told me. “You and Mari did everything you could. The blame is on the person who committed these crimes, not on the innocent.”
I knew Gramps was right, but it helped to hear him say it out loud.
“One last thing, Katie. This murderer. It takes a certain amount of strength to overpower two people. Keep that in mind when you talk to any suspects.”
My mind was racing through all the names in my notes. Bruce was a big guy, at least six feet. A bit bulky, a little out of shape but in the larger man category. The victims’ roommates, Nora and Rob, seemed pretty fit. When I visited Nora at her home, I remembered seeing a snowmobile and snowshoes in her garage as well as a ten-speed bicycle hanging on the wall.
“That probably rules out Linda, the ex-wife. She’s fairly thin and frail-looking.”
“Promise me you’ll keep that pepper spray on you.”
I patted my jacket pocket. “I promise, Gramps. Keep you posted. Love you.”
“Back at you, Katie.”
After I hung up, I felt more focused. With this information and a new way to look at the crime, I could concentrate on those people closest to the couple who fit the right physical profile. I made a mental note to find out what Greg Owens looked like, the man who filed the lawsuit against José.
A few sips of water refreshed me enough to think about having a snack. Thanks to Gramps, I’d concentrate now on the male suspects.
Then I remembered Crystal, the two hundred-plus-pound former mother-in-law with those linebacker shoulders. Crystal, who worked as a surgical nurse and would do anything to protect her daughter and grandchildren. Surgical nurses work in surgical suites.
Like the one Babs was killed in.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In my dream, Alicia banged on the ice above her with her fists, screaming my name. I woke with a start. Someone outside yelled my name, but it wasn’t a ghost.
Bright lights flooded through the curtains into my one-room apartment. Buddy was already awake, whining by the side of the bed.
I put on my bathrobe and cautiously snuck a look outside. A giant of a man stood on my front step, tears rolling down his face. In his arms he held something wrapped in a blanket. Was his beloved older dog in trouble?
“Pinky,” I opened the door for my next-door neighbor. “Is there a problem with Princess?”
He came inside, being sure to rub his boots on the mat. His mother had trained him well.
“It’s not Princess, Dr. Kate. She’s in the truck. I found this doggie tonight while I was plowing one of the weekenders out. I think it’s a doggie.”
“Bring it into the treatment room,” I told him. He followed behind, still choking back tears.
I prepared myself for the worst.
He placed the blanket down on the treatment table and stood back.
Gently I removed the first layer of blanket to uncover what looked like an alien creature. The dog was a young female, completely hairless, skin a gray color, like elephant skin. A fishhook penetrated her top lip, snagging the side of the bottom lip.
I understood his tears.
“It’s not as bad as it looks, Pinky. Hold her on the table and don’t let her fall.”
“Why is she gray and all crusty? Was she burned or something?” Fresh tears started streaming down his face.
I’d been searching our hospital junk drawer for some special tools, a pair of pliers and a wire cutter. “It looks like she has mange.”
“Mange?” Pinky gasped. “Am I going to get it?”
I shut the drawer and went back to the treatment table. “I’ll have to take a skin scraping, but I think this is demodectic mange and that’s not contagious. Now, can you keep her steady while I get this fishhook out?”
Pinky bit down on his own lip and said, “Yes.”
I’d removed fishhooks before. After carefully advancing the barb, I cut it with the wire cutter and removed the rest of the hook. After I put pressure on the wounds, the bleeding quickly stopped.
Blue doggy eyes looked at me with gratitude. While Pinky held on, I performed a quick exam, confirming this was a young female dog in urgent need of a meal.
“What kind of doggie is she?” Pinky asked as I made up a meal of prescription dog food for gastrointestinal issues. Not knowing when she’d eaten last, I didn’t want to overload her GI tract with too much fat or calories. It would be small, frequent feedings and constant weigh-ins for her until I got a handle on her condition.
“I have no idea,” I told him. “We’ll have to wait until her hair starts growing in and her body fills out.”
“Princess is the one who saved her,” Pinky said. “I was about to leave when she started barking and wouldn’t stop. That’s when I saw this doggie standing over by the woodpile. If it wasn’t for Princess, I would have driven away.” Telling his story elicited another round of tears.
Princess, Pinky’s elderly poodle, rode everywhere with him.
“You need to give Princess a special treat tonight,” I told him. “She saved this baby’s life.”
His round pink face remained incredibly sad.
“Come on. Let’s give her a name,” I said in an attempt to cheer him up as we both watched her lap up her food. “What do you want to call her?”
“You name her, Dr. Kate. I’m not so good at names.”
“Alright. I think we should call her…Bella, because in about four or five months she’ll be a beautiful dog.”
“Bella. I like that. Are you going to keep her here until she is all better?”
Bella’s sweet trusting eyes held the answer. “Yes. I think Buddy needs a friend.”
I noticed Pinky seemed embarrassed, keeping his eyes to the floor.
“You’re wearing your bathrobe, Dr. Kate. Do you want to put on your doctor coat?”
“That’s a good idea,” I replied, knowing that Pinky needed me to put it on. I’d left it on my office chair, where a sleepy Mr. Katt refused to move. Pinky had been raised by his mom and held back by the local school district. He was shy and kind, over six feet tall and three hundred pounds, and I counted him as a friend.
“You said Princess is in the truck? Don’t you think she needs to go home now?” The office clock read three a.m. With any luck I might get a few more hours of sleep.
His eyes lit up. “She’s probably wondering where I am. I left the truck running and the heat on so she wouldn’t get cold.”
While he was talking, I started herding him out the connecting hospital door, through my apartment and toward his plow truck idling outside in the parking lot. He bent down to pet Buddy before walking to my front door.
“I’m sorry I woke you up, Dr. Kate. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You did the right thing, Pinky. Please try not to worry. Why don’t you call us tomorrow, and Cindy will tell you how Bella is doing.”
Still not looking me in the eyes, he said his goodbye and softly closed the door.
After hearing Pinky drive off, I locked my door and went back into the treatment room to see if Bella had held down her meal. I’d put her in a dog run with a nice soft bed. Free of the fishhook, she’d emptied her food bowl and half the water bowl.
When I greeted her, she thumped her tail. I wrote a note to Mari on the treatment board briefly explaining who Bella was and setting up a treatment plan for the morning.
“Let’s give you a nice toy to keep you company,” I told the young dog. We kept a bin of toys just for this purpose. She needed something very soft, since her mouth was still tender. Near the bottom I found the perfect toy—a plush koala bear.
“Bella,” I said, “this is for you.”
She came over to the front of the cage. I very carefully patted her crusty head and handed her the toy. I wanted her to know she was safe—that we’d be here when she woke in the morning. Her blue eyes held mine, then she plucked the toy from my hand, walked over to her bed, and curled up.
“Good night, Bella.” I decided to leave one of the lights on so she wouldn’t be frightened.
At the sound of my voice, she lifted her sleepy head, then laid back down, the koala bear tucked under her paw.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As I slid my damp coat on to walk Buddy and Bella, I realized how sick I was of the cold. To my mind, February is a far crueler month than April, despite what T. S. Eliot says, because it feels like winter will never end. Spring flowers were still hiding from view in the frozen ground.
Buddy had been tentative at first meeting this new funny-looking dog, but he asked her to play. Bella stayed put, the koala bear in her mouth.
“Give her a few days, Buddy,” I told my dog, handing him a chew bone. “She needs time to adjust.”
“What a little sweetie pie,” Mari commented after handling Bella for her blood tests. “I wonder what color fur she’ll have?”
We’d finished up our Saturday appointments and were concentrating on our newest arrival. Mari and I reviewed all the new treatments for demodectic mange available as we started Bella’s medications. The cigar-shaped microscopic mite was a normal inhabitant of canine skin, but the combination of an immature immune system and stress had overwhelmed her body’s defenses and let them go wild.
“I worked for a vet one summer my junior year of high school and had to assist with a lime-sulfur bath,” I said while looking at Bella’s feet.
“Yuck. That stuff smelled like rotten eggs,” Mari answered. “Or funky garbage. I’m glad we’ve got other options now.”
“Bella, did you hear that?” We’d finished a medicated bath to sooth her skin and were gently drying her on the treatment table. “You smell like you came from the beauty parlor.”
By checking her teeth, I’d determined that Bella was still a puppy of about five or six months old. As a young, otherwise healthy dog, her prognosis was excellent.
Cindy walked in while we had Bella up on the table. “I’ve checked the lost and found notices. Nothing there.”
“I’m not surprised. Her skin didn’t get like this overnight. I bet she was searching for food and got snagged by the hook because it smelled like fish.” I pet Bella’s nose and continued examining her footpads. They were thickened and crusty from hard use and mange.
“Sit,” Mari said.
There was no response, only a bewildered look.
“That’s the first thing most dogs learn. I bet her mom was a stray.”
“Oh, Kate,” Cindy interrupted, “Pinky called. He still sounded frightened from last night.”
I lifted Bella up and placed her on the floor. “Of me in my nightgown, or the dog’s plight?”
Cindy laughed. “I’d guess the nightgown.”
That afternoon turned out to be payback day. I’d promised to meet Mike at his client’s place and wrangle their barn cats. We needed to vaccinate them, especially for rabies.
Also on my mind was Mike, who didn’t have a wife or twins and had gone from a friend to perhaps—I wasn’t sure.
I’d thrown the office Have-A-Heart animal trap in the back of the truck in case the kitties were feral, along with a cooler case full of vaccines, antibiotics, and a veterinary first aid kit. A barn cat can be perfectly fine one day and in need of help the next. They dealt with coyotes, foxes, raccoons, and dogs, to name a few common predators of cats, who might come sniffing around the barn.
Unfamiliar with the address, I let the truck’s GPS guide me. Always wary of a mistake in the programming, I made sure it didn’t send me up a logging road or a road closed for the winter. I’d read horror stories of people stranded in the snow in places they were sent by their GPS.
One thing I did know was that this destination was closer to Rhinebeck than my usual Oak Falls house calls—more in true horse country. Most horse people liked having barn cats, since they cut down on the rodent population, keeping expensive animal feed from being gnawed on. While I was in vet school doing farm calls, I often found barn cats perched on the backs of horses, cows, and even goats. They liked the warmth and the height. Trust a cat to figure out how to be comfortable under any circumstances.
The scenery rolled by, still covered with snow except for some brown patches that caught direct sun. The weather report said cold today, but with no snow or crazy winds expected. I’d packed some hand warmers anyway, the kind skiers used. I’d have to stick them in my pockets since I needed full use of my hands. They’d serve to keep me warm and thaw out any frozen digits in case the weather turned.
Before I left, I texted Mike. He was finishing up an appointment and would meet me at the barn. The owners knew I was coming.
