Scent of Murder

 

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For my parents, John and Jane Born. I didn't know it at the time, but they did everything right.

 

 

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Barbara Gould, the perfect reader and woman.

 

My thanks to the many dog handlers who shared their stories and insights on the wonderful world of police service dogs: Johnny Rivers, from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office; Robert Haight, from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office; Ray Ruby, from the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office; Rich O'Connor, from the Palm Beach County School Board Police and a former K-9 officer with the Boynton Beach Police Department; Tim Fischer, from the New York State Police (retired).

 

1

Very few cops, including Tim Hallett, ran away from a chance at seeing some excitement. Maybe after a few more years on the job he'd slow down, but he hadn't become a sheriff's deputy to let others have all the fun. He looked up for any sign of the helicopter as he maneuvered his Chevy Tahoe down a narrow, pockmarked, shell-rock road wedged between a Florida Water Management District canal and a sugarcane field near Belle Glade.

The Tahoe bounced violently, tossing his partner, Rocky, a Belgian Malinois police service dog, across the passenger seat. His biggest fear right now was catching a pothole wrong and careening into the canal. In his time on patrol, he'd pulled five bodies out of submerged cars from the crisscrossing canal system of southern Florida. He didn't want some rookie deputy telling the story of how he pulled a K-9 cop and his dog out of the murky water.

Hallett grabbed a quick glimpse of his partner and said, “Sorry about that, Rocky.”

As usual, Rocky didn't answer unless he had something important to express.

They were pushing the edge of safety to reach the other deputies who'd been called to the remote sugarcane field after a fisherman reported a possible abduction. To Hallett, the terrain looked much more like a third world country than Florida. The entire area around Lake Okeechobee was dotted with small towns and vast farms. The poor people were very poor, and the rich people didn't give two shits about them.

As the big SUV bumped along the canal's edge, Hallett said, “This is the kind of stuff we signed on for, isn't it, Rock?” He gritted his teeth against another hard bounce and added, “If everyone gets their shit together, maybe we can clear this up quickly.” He didn't mind his coworker's silence. Rocky was the best partner, human or nonhuman, he'd worked with in his eight years at the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office. It was unlike any other relationship he'd ever had with a colleague, or with anyone else. He looked across the space between them, then reached over with his right hand and ruffled Rocky's brown hair.

He cleared a line of pine trees, which acted as a windbreak for the sugarcane, and saw the other patrol cars parked along the edge of the canal with uniformed deputies getting their gear together. As he slowed the SUV, Hallett leaned across the console and pressed his forehead against Rocky's, in his normal ritual to psych both of them up for whatever assignment awaited them. Then he planted a kiss almost between Rocky's eyes.

Hallett said, “Time to get to work.” He opened the door and slid onto the rough road. Rocky climbed across the console, let out a short bark, and landed on all four feet with the grace of a much smaller dog. Rocky looked like the classic Belgian Malinois, slightly smaller than a German Shepherd but the same shape, with a thick tan coat and dark muzzle. The sheriff's policy dictated Rocky ride in the secure rear seat caged area, which had a hatch that opened to the passenger compartment, but whenever they had to drive for a long distance Hallett preferred to have his partner sitting next to him. Rocky enjoyed the freedom.

It only took a few seconds to open the tailgate of the Tahoe and pour some water into Rocky's favorite dish, the one with Garfield on the bottom of the bowl, as if mocking the dog. Rocky's sheer exuberance for life put him in a class of his own. He never walked when he could run. There was no such thing as easing them into a situation; the muscular Malinois had to jump in with all four feet, so to speak. Bred in Malines, Belgium, in the mid-nineteenth century, the Malinois was one of four Shepherd breeds from the area the American Kennel Club recognized in the 1950s. The only issue for the dog here in Florida was the heat. Hallett took his responsibilities to keep Rocky groomed and cool very seriously. The rear of his SUV was littered with Gatorade and water bottles he and Rocky had emptied during their long shifts. He'd brush out his partner for an hour after this job was done. It was tough keeping an eighty-five-pound dog cool in Florida.

As Rocky lapped at the water, Hallett got his gear in order, checking his tactical vest to make sure his flashlight, Gerber folding knife, and radio were all in place. He knew that whatever the situation, the K-9 units would be at the very front of the effort. That's why he had taken this assignment over three years ago.

He was happy to see Sergeant Helen Greene already directing the other deputies. It took him a second to recognize the detective sergeant. He'd heard she'd lost weight, but the woman in the slacks and white shirt organizing things hardly resembled the woman the other detectives had nicknamed “Mount St. Helen.” She turned toward him and gave him a quick smile and wink. St. Helen might not be mountainous anymore, but she really was a saint. She'd helped him when his career as a detective turned south, reminding the sheriff of the benefits of Hallett's rash acts, and she was known for protecting others as well. After the brief, silent greeting, the sergeant was back to work pushing other deputies to get ready.

Hallett hooked a sixteen-foot leash, or lead, on Rocky's harness and trotted toward the group of deputies. He kept chatting lightly to the dog, making everything they did a game. Every once in a while he would throw in Josh's name and smile at the dog's reaction. Hallett's son, Josh, commanded the dog's complete attention when they were all together.

Rocky was bounding forward, anxious to start their game and making some of the regular patrol deputies nervous.

The other two K-9 units from his special squad were on their way out from headquarters, but depending on how hard they pushed their own vehicles it could be another ten minutes before they reached the scene. There were three things a cop never hesitated to move on quickly: a missing child, a death notification, or a call for help from another cop. Hallett doubted Sergeant Greene would wait for the other K-9s if the information indicated there was really a kid at risk. Most times these calls were flawed and the witness had only seen a family argument or misinterpreted the entire situation, but no one wanted to risk a child's safety, even on a bogus tip. No one wanted a family to hear about the death of a loved one from the media, and no cop hesitated to help another in trouble. The scariest radio call was 10-24, which meant send help but was usually associated with an officer down. Hallett knew if he was ever in the shit and called for help, every available cop would be on the way instantly.

If this call was legitimate, this was exactly the kind of activity Hallett needed to help him feel like he'd made the right choices in life. Lately they'd been hard for him to justify. He didn't worry about any of that as Rocky strained at his lead and pulled Hallett toward the gathering deputies.

*   *   *

He took a moment to catch his breath after slogging through the drainage ditch between the two cane fields, each over six feet high. Somehow, the fields reminded him of growing up in Indiana. Sugarcane was like scratchy cornstalks with snakes and alligators. He was lucky it hadn't been harvested yet or he might really be in trouble. As he scrambled up the other side of the drainage ditch he could almost hear his father yelling, “Move your fat ass, Junior. You're never going to drop any of that weight if you don't start getting some physical activity.” Twenty-one years later, everyone in Indiana still called him “Junior.” He hated that goddamn name.

The other name his father continued to call him was “the dickless wonder.” The sour old bastard called everyone by some derisive nickname, but “dickless wonder” implied Junior couldn't take a chance or make a ballsy move. That wasn't true. He was proving it at this very moment. Somehow, his siblings had escaped the old man's wrath and attention. On some level, it comforted Junior to know he was the only one his father screamed at and berated. At least he was interested in Junior's life. However, it also made him wonder how much the old man had affected him.

The old man had caused a lot of trouble since relocating to the Sunshine State, but he sure could pick some stocks. If things kept going like they were, Junior might be able to live off investments before he turned fifty.

So far, the day had not turned out like he had expected. He had such high hopes for it. In fact, he'd dreamed about it for weeks. Maybe not details like this cane field or cops chasing him, but more his encounter with the pretty blond girl named Katie. He had followed her to the Wellington Mall and waited. He knew where she would be. It was a lucky break to catch her in the parking lot so quickly. She had surprised him by being so quiet and compliant until she was out of the car. She'd been scared by the blindfold and being stuffed onto the floorboard of the beat-up Toyota Tercel he'd stolen from the parking lot of the Palm Beach Outlets Mall. But as soon as her feet felt solid ground, she'd managed to slip his grasp and then guessed the right direction, scurrying through the cane like a rabbit, and he would've still been chasing her if not for the canal. But now he was pretty certain the old fisherman had seen enough to call the cops. The old man had pretended to be focusing on his efforts to catch something on his three cane poles wedged between rocks on the edge of the canal, but Junior was sure he knew something was up. These isolated fields rarely saw any excitement, and the commotion would have caught the man's attention.