Scent of Murder (4 page)

It was hopeless. The only thing he could do now was follow the scent. The scent that had changed to a nasty combination of odors that were completely unnatural.

Rocky had decided this was a
very
bad person.

 

3

Tim Hallett sat on the tailgate of the Tahoe with Darren Mori while Rocky and Brutus rested in the shade of the truck. They had been unable to find whoever had abducted the girl, and it was eating at Hallett. The dogs were spent. A search like this would wear anyone out. After the girl had been taken to safety, they tried to pick up the track of the suspect but had no luck. Now the girl was back “East” at the Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office headquarters. The residents out here in the communities around Lake Okeechobee referred to the urban areas along the coast as “East,” usually with a hint of disdain and distrust in their voices.

Hallett casually looked over to make sure Rocky was okay and was pleased to see him breathing normally, not panting, which was a sign of overheating. He had lapped up plenty of water and eaten a few snacks. Now Rocky sat in his “Sphinx pose,” his front paws lined up and his head held high. Hallett could stare at the dog for hours when he took certain postures. It was another way the dog communicated nonverbally. This pose signified satisfaction and calm. Rocky looked regal sitting in the shade. He turned his head to look up at Hallett, and his left eyelid closed. It was a wink. Hallett could never convince other dog handlers that his dog winked at him after a tough assignment, but he had not imagined it. The Belgian Malinois winked at him to let know everything was cool.

Hallett often studied other dogs to see if they displayed the same behavior. Sometimes he worried that if he saw another dog wink he would end up in the uncomfortable position of explaining how dogs winked at him alone. He knew it would earn him an odd nickname, so he was just as happy Rocky was the only dog who chose to communicate that way.

Darren's Brutus, with his thick hair, had a harder time keeping cool but had managed to sprawl across the shaded road and seemed perfectly content. “Why did Claire have to go in with the detectives?” Darren asked.

“The girl formed a quick connection with her. She was comfortable talking with Claire, and no one wanted to screw that up when they needed so much information from her.”

“Too bad she didn't get a look at the guy. But it sounds like the same suspect grabbed a couple of girls in the past few years.”

Hallett nodded, committing the description to memory. Tubby middle-aged white male with thinning hair. None of the girls had seen much other than a black pistol. He had come up behind them and forced them to wear blindfolds. It was always a different car. The creep had performed oral sex on the first two girls in addition to fondling them; the detectives in sex crimes said it was common for the same sex act to be performed each time. Both crimes were committed in wooded areas, and no one knew about it until the girls returned home. One of them was so ashamed she hadn't even told her mother for over a week, a very common situation with young girls who'd been molested. It was a similar circumstance that had caused Tim Hallett to punch a suspect named Arnold Ludner until he revealed he'd left a terrified eleven-year-old girl in the wooded area of a park off Forest Hill Boulevard. The stunt had gotten Hallett booted out of the D-bureau, but the sheriff was a stand-up guy and refused to screw someone who had saved a little girl. Helen Greene had been outspoken in her support and had influenced the sheriff. One of Hallett's options was to join the K-9 unit, and he had never looked back.

Darren said, “I don't know about you, but I'm dog-tired.” He laughed at his own joke. It was a good thing he was close with Brutus, because no one else liked the puns.

Hallett sat up straight as he heard a call over the radio asking for a K-9 unit half a mile south of where they were now.

Darren said, “I recognize that voice. It's John Fusco, isn't it?”

Hallett just nodded.

“Didn't that jerk get you kicked out of the D-bureau?”

Hallett shrugged and said, “No,
I
got me kicked out of the D-bureau.”

*   *   *

Claire Perkins waited in the undersized interview room with low ceilings as Smarty sat very properly next to her on the linoleum floor. The girl they'd found in the cane field, Katie Ziegler, refused to allow Claire or Smarty out of her presence. Although Smarty was terrifying to most people, Katie had seen past the facade and was on her knees in front of the beefy Shepherd, calmly patting his head and running her fingers through his thick coat. Smarty would occasionally nudge the girl to let her know it was a two-way street and he appreciated her, too. Katie had only spoken to Claire since she'd been found. That frustrated the detectives, but they went along with it.

Katie never saw the man who kidnapped her. She had intended to apply for a job at Ruby Tuesday's and was in the parking lot of the massive Wellington Mall when she heard a man's voice and felt his pistol against her head. The next thing she knew he had put a blindfold over her and wrapped tape around it to keep it in place. She didn't know how long they drove but thought that it was less than half an hour, and as soon as she felt firm ground under her feet she ran as hard as she could, pulling at the blindfold as she did. The first thing she saw was the sugarcane and thought it offered her sanctuary. The man ran after her and called her by name but was only able to grab her arm once, just as she came out the other side of the cane field near a canal.

The detectives on the case were scrambling to figure out how the suspect knew her name. Katie was certain she hadn't told him.

No matter what angle Claire took, she got the same information over and over again. She felt sorry for this girl, but at the same time, she realized being asked to sit with Katie and question her was a tremendous opportunity for her career. She knew there were detectives on the other side of the mirrored panel watching everything she said and did.

Claire said, “Your mom should be here any time.”

Katie just nodded.

“Does your dad live around here?” She hadn't heard the girl or anyone else mention her father.

Katie shook her head, then, in a quiet voice, said, “He's in jail.”

“I didn't know that. Why's he in jail?” She knew it was a question she didn't have to ask, and it might keep the girl from talking more, but curiosity got the better of her. She thought back to some of the lessons Tim Hallett had taught her. One of the more important ones was “Never deny your own curiosity. That's what makes a good cop.”

Katie said, “He was on probation for possession with intent to sell cocaine and he violated. Now he's doing six years at South Bay Correctional. I get to see him every other weekend.”

Instantly Claire's mind started racing, and she wondered if Katie's abduction had something to do with her father's involvement in the cocaine business. Then she remembered the two other girls and how closely the incident matched. Kidnapped, blindfolded, molested—there were too many similarities. This wasn't a crime of profit. They had something much worse than an enforcer for a cocaine distributor; they had a serial sex offender targeting teenage girls.

And he seemed pretty smart, judging by the way there were no leads to work with yet.

*   *   *

Hallett brought the Tahoe to a stop about fifty feet from the crime scene tape set up on a road that ran east along a row of pine trees. Darren parked right next to him, and they hooked the six-foot leads on the dogs. He could see Detective John Fusco directing a couple of crime scene techs and another detective. Fusco stood tall. It was a rare moment when the detective removed his expensive suit coat and worked only in a shirt and tie. As Hallett and Darren walked over, Hallett knew exactly what Fusco was going to say.

Fusco turned toward them, smiled, and called out in a loud voice, “Look, the kittens are here. Oh, sorry, the CAT.”

Cops being cops, they had naturally come up with the nickname CAT for the Canine Assist Team. Not very original, but not objectionable, either, until a dickhead like Fusco got hold of it. Cops loved nicknames and acronyms. In a profession that could get you killed, they risked everything, but most of them knew the value of a good laugh and blowing off steam.

Since he was prepared for Fusco's greeting, Hallett just nodded and said, “How's it going, Fusco?”

“Not bad, how about you, Farmer Tim?”

Hallett shrugged but didn't acknowledge his personal nickname. He'd earned it by living in a trailer behind a Christian school in Belle Glade and having a growing menagerie housed next to him. It had started with a teacher building a small pen for an injured raccoon, but somehow Hallett was now in charge of the original raccoon, two possums, a chicken, a boa constrictor, a goat, and, incredibly, an alpaca someone had left abandoned on State Road 80.

John Fusco was a detective in the crimes/persons unit. That title covered anything that happened to a victim physically short of death, where homicide investigated. It was a catchall phrase and everyone used it to distinguish between them and the less prestigious crimes/property unit, which dealt mainly with burglary and thefts. Fusco was the highest profile and most effective detective in crimes/persons even if no one wanted to admit it and give the puffed-up prima dona any more reason to swagger.

Fusco said, “Don't you guys live out here in this shithole?”

Hallett mumbled, “In town.”

“I thought this
was
Belle Glade.”

Darren was the one who said, “What do you got, Fusco?”

The tall detective looked down at Darren in a show of power and said, “What's the hurry? Got a date?”

“We're tired and the dogs are worn out. Could you, for once, get to the point?”

Fusco purposely kept quiet for a moment. Hallett knew it was to show he wasn't bowing to pressure from anyone in a uniform. Then he said, “The crime scene techs are photographing the area, and we found a rag that could've come from the suspect. Can either of you geniuses make your dogs sniff it and see if it's related to the track they had earlier?”

Darren said, “What do you think the dogs are going to do, Fusco? Smell it, then turn around and tell us it belongs to the same guy?”

“I don't know what kind of voodoo you guys do. But I've seen Hallett's dog do some pretty amazing things besides just grabbing someone by the balls and throwing him down.” He twisted to look in every direction. “It's getting late. We gotta get this show on the road and clear out of here. This is the last damn place I wanna be caught late in the afternoon. The gators would love a big chunk of Italian sausage like me.” He cackled at his comment, then gave them a hand motion that said to speed things up.

Hallett mumbled, “Give me a second.” He scanned the scene and noticed the pretty young crime scene tech standing by with a plastic bag to process the white rag that was on the ground near her. As he stepped closer, Hallett heard Fusco say, “Sorry there's no one to beat up in this case. I know that tends to make things easier for you. We're following the book on this one.”

Hallett felt his face flush. He saw the embarrassment on the face of the pretty evidence tech, so he worked hard to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to explain to the young woman that he didn't beat people up arbitrarily, but he was tired of telling the story. He let Rocky get closer to the rag, then leaned down and said, “
Ruiken,
Rocky,
ruiken.
” It was the Dutch command for “smell it.” He'd worry about what they could learn from it after Rocky got a whiff. That's when he got a surprise.

Rocky leaned down, sniffed the rag, then stepped back and moved his front left paw against the rough ground as he made an odd sound in his throat, like a lawn mower. Hallett looked over at Darren, who just shrugged. It was the first time he'd ever seen his partner do something so unusual in relation to a scent.

One more mystery to ask Ruben Vasquez about.

*   *   *

Junior worked hard to make his “dates” with the young women undetectable to the police. The rag was an anomaly, but they couldn't say it was actually connected to the incident, and he didn't think they could link it to him. Even if they got a DNA sample from it, he wasn't in any databases. He left the beat-up Toyota Tercel in the same spot where he had found it off Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard and was careful to wipe down the interior so even if the owner had reported it stolen, it would be excused as a lapse of memory.

He'd spaced out the first two girls over two years, and as a result, there hadn't been much news coverage. The second girl, Lily, only rated a short story in
The Palm Beach Post
over a week after his intimate encounter with her. That sort of coverage and the current lack of effort by the police led him to believe that he had chosen the right girls. Looks were important, but so were the family history, their age, their actions, and their connections. Junior had the system figured out and knew he'd never be caught.

Sometimes it was just his disciplined practice of observing the girls from a distance that was enjoyable. He loved the anticipation of what was going to happen, but the idea that he could watch them so closely, and no one ever knew, started the chain of events that made him feel so special. Using the computer to learn their family history also made him feel sort of like God. He wondered what guys like him did before computers. The old stereotype of the creepy stranger in a van with free candy was a little low-tech, but probably still effective in the right circumstances today.

Ultimately, it was his close and intimate interaction with the girls that satisfied his complex desires. He recognized they were like a drug to him. Each experience felt more intense. Each girl had to have a slightly different attribute to make the encounter as satisfying as the one before. But this was his form of relaxation. He didn't smoke, drink, or use drugs. He felt like everyone was entitled to one vice. God knew he had earned it by putting up with his father. Even now that he was an adult, the old man tended to bully him. Junior had caught himself doing things he hoped his dad would be proud of. No matter what he did, his father would rant and bluster. But this activity was his own private secret. He was in charge. It was a feeling he rarely got to enjoy.