Scent of Murder (34 page)

“No, above her. So you better move on. We have nothing to discuss.”

“But I saw Bill Slaton this morning. The probation officer.”

“So?”

“I'm not sure. But I have an odd feeling, and Rocky made an abnormal alert just like he did the day he found that rag near Katie Ziegler.”

Fusco sighed and rubbed his hand across his face. “Now you want me to go after a probation officer because your goddamn dog has a theory about the case? Come on, Hallett, you're starting to lose it. I'll do you a favor and forget you ever mentioned this bullshit to me.”

Hallett stared at the arrogant detective, resisting the urge to choke him because he realized it would only make him look crazier than he already sounded. He allowed the detective to walk away as he considered his next move.

*   *   *

Hallett immediately started to put his manic energy to use and looked for Ruben Vasquez at the training center. He found the dog trainer in close consultation with Claire Perkins.

Everyone expected cops to have all the answers when it came to crime. In fact, a modern police force had so many units and contained so much information that one person could never be an expert on everything. One of Hallett's strengths as a police officer was asking advice from the right people. The most knowledgeable person about dogs that Hallett knew was Ruben Vasquez.

Ruben looked up and said, “What can I do for you, Tim?”

He calmly explained what had just happened when he visited the probation officer.

Ruben said, “It was the same reaction to the rag?”

“Exactly.”

Ruben nodded and muttered, “This could be big. Belgian Malinois aren't known for that kind of scent discrimination skills, but Rocky is an exceptional dog.” Then he looked at Hallett and said, “And you're certain no one in the D-bureau is interested?”

“They won't even talk to me. The only issue is how much time we have before homicide submits an affidavit to the state attorney's office on Arnold Ludner. I'm not sure I can work this alone.”

Claire spoke up. “You, Darren, and I will work it as a team.”

Hallett liked that attitude.

 

40

Claire insisted on coming with Tim Hallett to the hospital that had treated Bill Slaton after he'd gotten injured during the arrest at the Ludner house. It was a simple but unofficial assignment. They wanted to look at his medical records from the day he was checked out for the injury. It was an absolute violation of patient privacy, and they weren't telling anyone at the sheriff's office what they were doing.

Claire felt a pang of guilt not telling John Fusco what they were doing. They were trying to start a relationship now that she was out of the detective bureau, and she had never been a good liar. That was one of the things she admired about John. He wasn't a good liar either. That's why she believed him when she asked if he had planted the story about Tim in
The Palm Beach Post
. Incredibly, Tim seemed to be the only one who had moved on from the incident. She and Darren were outraged that someone would provide information to a reporter like that. No matter what the reason, it just didn't feel right.

Claire believed it was important for her to come along to show Tim she believed in him and was willing to do whatever was necessary to solve this case. She knew Tim must be going through hell thinking about how he distracted the detectives from the real kidnapper by focusing on Arnold Ludner.

She didn't mind walking through hospital corridors in uniform. Unlike in most other places, no one seemed to notice a uniformed cop in a hospital. It was natural. When she walked just about anywhere else, people stared at her. She realized part of it was they weren't used to seeing a petite woman wearing a tactical vest and a gun, but part of it was just the public's curiosity with police work.

She'd been impressed how smooth Hallett had been as he went about discovering which emergency room doctor had treated Bill Slaton. There was no way they were going to get a look directly at the file, but a doctor might be able to tell them everything they needed to know.

In the emergency room she immediately noticed the young Indian doctor leaning against the counter at the nurses' station, filling out some paperwork.

Hallett called out, “Dr. Naza?”

The good-looking young doctor nodded as he focused on the papers.

“I need to speak with you.”

The doctor still ignored them.

Hallett threw in an emphatic “Now.”

That got the doctor to look up and assess them before he said, “What can I do for you?”

“We're just doing the follow-up on an arrest from last week where a probation officer got hurt. Do you remember treating Bill Slaton?”

The doctor thought about it for a moment, then nodded his head and said, “Portly gentleman, about forty-five?”

“That's him. Can you tell me how serious his injuries were for the report I'm writing?”

The doctor hesitated, then said, “I can't talk about a patient without his permission, even in a situation like this.”

Claire liked how Tim Hallett stayed cool and professional even if he was lying his ass off.

“We're trying to file charges on the drug dealers that injured him, and I just wanted your quick opinion. We know he hurt his back. All I need to know is if you think it was serious or not.”

After a moment of internal conflict he said, “It was obvious the man had physical stress, but I don't think it was a very serious injury. I told him a day's rest would relieve any of the discomfort in his back.”

Claire pretended to make a few notes to add to their facade.

Hallett asked, “Did you notice any other injuries? Mr. Slaton said his ankle was sore and his ribs hurt.”

Now that he was more comfortable with the conversation, the young doctor relaxed and spoke freely. He nodded his head and said, “I never looked at his ankle, but he had a previous injury that had already started to turn black and blue on the left side of his torso. It didn't happen from the same incident as his back. But that wasn't serious either. Just a little discoloration and, at most, a cracked rib. He seemed to be breathing all right, but I gave him a prescription for hydrocodone until the pain eased up.”

Claire smiled as Tim nodded his head like they were in a professional consultation. Then Hallett asked, “Could you tell us how he might've come by the injuries on his torso? Did he offer an explanation?”

The doctor shook his head. “Isn't he one of you guys? Shouldn't you just ask him? I was busy that day and don't think I inquired.”

Claire sensed the doctor getting suspicious and realized Tim did, too, when he said, “Thank you for your time. We'll be back in touch if we need something else.”

She liked this kind of sneaky investigation as long as they didn't get fired for it later.

*   *   *

Even though it was only six in the evening, Junior wished he were a drinker so he could take something to steady his nerves. It wasn't just visiting his father, it was the building itself. Just the thought of the smell inside made his stomach flip.

But Junior intended to make use of his urge to grab Michelle Swirsky to get through this dreadful task. When he was finished visiting with his father, he could look for Michelle in earnest. Just the thought of her could get him through it.

He nodded to the attendants as he strolled through the hallways he knew so well and ended up at the semiprivate room where Mr. Goldman occupied the first bed. The retired builder had married a younger woman who took the first opportunity to dump him in this cesspool of a nursing home and run off with the yard guy. He loved telling Junior the story every time he came to visit his father.

Thankfully, tonight, Mr. Goldman was absorbed in the local news.

As soon as Junior stepped to the far side of the room, his father's yellowed eyes shifted to him.

He croaked, “Hello, Junior. What brings you around today? Has it been a week already?”

Junior said, “I'm a day early, Pop.” Before he could say anything else, the newscaster on TV mentioned the name Michelle Swirsky, and his head automatically swiveled around to see the bright, youthful face smiling and talking with a young female reporter. He heard Michelle say something like, “I won't let the incident change my life. I'm just a little more alert.”

Junior muttered, “Arrogant bitch.”

From his bed, Junior's father said, “That little firecracker will go far in life. You could probably take some lessons from her.”

“Take lessons, give lessons, it would just be nice to chat with her. You always told me to reach for my dreams. Who knows, she might be part of my dreams.”

The old man said, “Does your dream have something to do with your dick?”

“Why?”

“You were a little creepy shit as a kid. Always peeking in windows and lingering too long when you shouldn't. Your mother just thought you were curious, but what did she care, living two hours away. At first I thought you were nosy, always trying to hear things the adults were saying. God damn if you didn't cling onto your mother like you were a tumor until she fled to Chicago.” The old man suffered a coughing fit that startled Junior, and Mr. Goldman mumbled, “Keep it down, will you?”

When Bill Slaton Sr. had recovered, he wiped his eyes and looked at his son. “Then there was the time you showed your little pecker to the neighbor girl, remember? She laughed and you cried. I had to tell her parents it would never happen again.”

Junior wondered if his father had lost it completely. He didn't know what the old geezer was babbling about. Then looking at the old man's face and recalling what it was like thirty years ago did something. It flipped a switch in his brain. It hit him all at once. He did remember.

He took a step back and felt the chair behind him. His legs seemed to give out as he plopped into it, still staring at his father. The next thing he knew he was back in his father's cluttered, two-car garage in Fort Wayne. This had been in autumn, near Halloween, because he had shown the girl from next door his ghost costume. Her name was Karen Olson and she was a classic midwestern Viking beauty, a year younger than him. He had been curious about the differences between men and women. He had seen his mom naked a number of times, but by now she was gone. He wondered what a younger female looked like. He also wondered if she wanted to see his penis. So, without asking or warning, he unzipped his pants. At first Karen seemed amazed. Even though she hadn't asked to see it, she wasn't afraid either. Then she started to giggle. Just the thought of it, even after all these years, made his blood turn cold. He wondered if his father could notice it past his cataracts.

Things had just gotten worse. Her giggles turned into an all-out mocking laugh as she said, “I've only seen pictures, but yours is a miniature. It's even kind of cute.”

Junior hadn't known what to do. He was desperate to shut her up, but she kept laughing. Even after he had zipped up his pants and was trying to shove her out of the garage, her laughter cut into his brain. He had seen a hammer sitting on his father's workbench and wondered if bashing her blond hair would get her to stop. But he hesitated to pick it up and it was too late. She strolled home, her giggles echoing back into the garage and torturing him.

Karen Olson left on a fall vacation a few days later, and her family moved to Minneapolis because her father found a new job. Somehow, Junior had managed to block the whole incident, as well as the girl, out of his brain completely. It wasn't until Miss Trooluck showed him how to please a woman that he realized how he was interested in the opposite sex. Miss Trooluck had been kind and patient and didn't laugh when he pulled down his underwear.

More astonishing than recalling the memory of his brief encounter with the beautiful Karen Olson was his father's cold and calculating treatment to “cure” his problem. By this time in Junior's life, his mother had pretty much checked out of the family and moved to a suburb of Chicago. She only visited three times after she had moved.

His father's punishment was simple. If Junior wanted to parade around nude and show off his private parts—as his father called them in those days—his father would give him a lesson in modesty. He made young Junior strip down naked and then put a ribbon of Scotch tape across his penis, holding it up out of sight. That's where it had started. That's when he became the goddamn “dickless wonder.” A chill went through him as the memories came flooding back to him.

He was a little kid, and the man he depended on most had taped his dick up, then chained him to a tree in front of the house like a dog. It wasn't cold out. It was a mild autumn. And it wasn't long, maybe an hour. But other kids had seen him. Other parents, too.

First the cops came by. The uniformed patrolmn had laughed at the innovative punishment. Then a lady from child protective services. If something like that occurred today, the media would've eaten his father alive. In those days the woman told him it was unacceptable and left. For good. That was it.

That's why Junior had handled the situation the best way he could. He forgot it. Completely.

Maybe that's why he didn't like cops. Maybe that's why he had a job that required him to go to people's homes and make a judgment on their behavior. Maybe that's why he was so fucked up.

His stomach tightened and all he could think about was Michelle Swirsky humiliating him.

Now he snapped back to reality as his father raised his hoarse voice, knocking him out of his memories.

Bill Slaton Sr. said, “What's wrong, Junior? You gone batty on me?”

Junior looked down and shook his head, trying to make sense of everything he'd just recalled.

His father said, “So you've moved on from your dick. I was afraid it would push you to do stupid things. Is your dick part of your dreams?” The old man's cackle reminded him of Karen Olson.