Authors: Carolyn Arnold
The sound of barking dogs resonated through the shelter. The cacophony was comprised of several breeds, the ranges going from a higher octave to a lower register.
The front of the building had a couple of large chained-off areas for animals, but there weren
’t any out and it likely had to do with all the snowfall they had received yesterday.
Paige had never had a dog in her life, even as a kid, but after she’d moved away from home, her parents had gotten one. They said it would have taken too much to care for kids and an animal, but they now had the time to devote to a pet. Paige didn
’t buy their reasoning. She put more stock in the house feeling empty after nearly thirty years of having kids in the home. She never voiced her suspicion.
A woman in her mid-twenties approached. She held a cat in her arm and scratched its ears. Its purrs could be heard several feet away. “Can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to the manager.” Paige held up her official ID, as did Zach.
The woman analyzed them.
“Well, you’ve got one of them.”
Paige proceeded with the introductions.
“And what is your name?”
An extra-deep massage behind the cat
’s head. “Alisha Clark.”
“Do you have some place we can talk?” Paige’s eyes fell to the feline in the woman’s arms.
Alisha held it up in the air and nuzzled its forehead to hers.
“Time to sleep for a bit, my friend.” She smiled, a flash of contentment washing over her face, as if the cat could understand everything she said.
She placed it in a kennel behind the desk. The cat peered up at her and then headed to the back of the space and curled into a tightly knit ball of fur.
Alisha smiled at Paige.
“That’s Thor.”
Paige laughed.
“Yeah, like in those superhero movies. He’s a real fighter and not of this world. Any other cat may have given up, but not my boy. I see it on your faces—I get a little attached, what can I say? I actually helped nurse him back to health and served as his foster care for a while.” Alisha paused, assessing them. “I take it you don’t know much about what we do here besides let people adopt animals. You do know that much?”
“Actually, part of the reason we’re here is to get a better understanding,” Zach said.
Alisha leaned on the counter.
“You came to ask about what we do here? Something like that could be found on the Internet, I would think.”
“We’re specifically interested in how things work when it comes to animal abuse cases.”
She pulled back, her arms laced tightly together.
“What about them?”
“How do charges get filed in a case like that?”
“There’s a process. It’s not really complicated, but it needs to be followed perfectly, or the bastards walk.”
“Bastards?” Paige said.
Alisha
’s eyes snapped to hers. “Yeah. The dicks who abuse animals.”
Paige found the sudden shift in Alisha to be unsettling. “This makes you very angry.”
“Damn right it does. There is no reason for it, and the people—if you want to call them that—who do this, they deserve so much more than what they get.”
They could have rushed to a conclusion about their unsub being a man. A woman amped on revenge would be capable of most anything as well. Paige had to probe Alisha’s statement. “What do they get?”
“Monetary charges, sometimes a little jail time, probation. It’s a joke. You know the expression, getting away with murder, well, these people, even when they are—quote/unquote—held accountable, they get a slap on the hand and sent away.”
“You think that these people should meet the same fate they inflict on the abused animals?”
Alisha’s eyes fired.
“I know what the right answer is, but in a just society…When you’ve seen animals barely clinging to life and realize the only reason is because some bastard used it as a punching bag, or neglected it, it’s a test of one’s inner character. Before you ask, the fight between right and wrong, that’s in all of us. Our conscience, some call it. I can’t say I haven’t fantasized about exacting the same treatment on these animal abusers.”
Paige and Zach remained quiet.
“Something happened, didn’t it? I can tell by your faces.”
“You don’t read the paper, or watch the news?” Zach asked.
She slowly shook her head.
“Between here, night class, and another paying job, no. What happened?” She paraphrased her original question. Her eyes clearly communicated she wasn’t going to back down until she had her answer.
“A man was murdered, and we believe it has to do with his past. He was charged with poisoning a dog, but ended up beating those charges.”
Alisha
’s eyes blanked over. “We haven’t had a case like that in a while. We recently brought in a few cats who were given antifreeze to drink.”
“This specific instance goes back over twenty years.”
“He was killed twenty years ago?”
“No, he was killed last week, but the charges go back that far.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?”
Paige mimicked, hoping Alisha would expound on her line of thought.
Alisha shook her head.
“All I know is, I didn’t do it. I know what I just said—” She crossed her arms.
“We’d like you to walk us through the process of placing charges,” Zach said.
“From the beginning? Let’s
see. We have what we call agents. They are specifically trained for handling these types of situations.”
“Types of situations?” Paige asked for clarity.
“When we have to go in and get the animals out of these homes. First, we’ll receive a report of abuse. From there we arrange for one of these agents, along with staff from the shelter, to go to the address, and, of course, cops need to be there too.”
Paige nodded.
“Whenever a formal charge is involved, that would make sense.”
“Exactly. That’s the gist of it, but basically, just as a lawyer makes a case for the courts, the same is true when it comes to the agent. They are responsible to ensure that we gather everything to support the charge and have this submitted as evidence in the case. If they mess up and forget to log something, it’s too late. There’s no amendment. A few guilty parties have walked because of this.”
“Give us an example.”
“Proof of ownership.” Alisha adjusted her stance. “First you have to prove that the animal fell under the person’s care. Whenever you remove an animal from a property, they must sign off that you’re taking them. This serves as proof of ownership. I know in at least one case this let a man get off. He and his live-in girlfriend had over thirty cats. They were tired of them taking over. They called for us to get them off the property. It started off as a plea for help, but when our volunteer told them it would take time to arrange something like this, the man said that if we didn’t get there within a half hour, they’d poison the cats.”
“What happened?”
“Everything was arranged in a thrown-together rush and we were still too late for some of them. We pulled in and the man was walking back to the house from the barn. He had just laid out the rat poison and antifreeze.”
The thought that a human being would do something like this had Paige’s stomach churning. “I can’t believe people are capable of this.”
“You’ve probably seen a lot worse.”
Paige swallowed awkwardly. The woman was right, on a certain level. The victims she sought justice for were humans, but it somehow struck her as worse when the abused were animals. It went against the natural order where men were to care for them. She spoke her thoughts out loud.
“I’m used to seeing people taking out their own perverse justice against other people, but not their aggressions on an innocent animal.” Realizing that she phrased it
used to
seeing made her realize how callous the job had made her.
“It is rough to witness.”
“So what happened in this case?”
“The one with the cats? The property owner signed off for every cat removed, but these weren’t submitted as evidence, and once you’ve had your say, well, you’re done there.”
“They walked?”
“Yep. And sadly, this happens more than it should. The agent is responsible for ensuring everything is filed properly. That’s the point of training them, and they are to have an attention for detail. If they don’t, then they are of no use to us.”
“What about photographs? Aren’t these taken as evidence?”
“Yes, but without the proof being submitted, our hands are tied. Here’s another sad fact. We were called out to a farm once. This horse’s hooves were so long, they were curling upward. They got a five thousand dollar fine and were put on probation for two years. Meaning that after two years they could go get themselves another horse and abuse it. The cycle would be able to start all over again.”
Listening to Alisha tell these stories made Paige empathetic toward their unsub. Typically the driving force to stop a killer was to bring about justice. On this case, the line was blurred. “You mentioned that these agents are integral. So what happens when an agent fails to do their job properly? Do they get let go or can there be charges laid against them?”
“They are reviewed, and if it was negligence, they’ll be let go.”
“Being an agent is a paid position?” Zach asked.
“Absolutely. While most of us at the shelter are volunteers, there are a few paid positions. Supervisory staff, agents, vets, fund managers.”
Paige regained eye contact with Alisha.
“Fund managers?”
“The person who basically manages the shelter, ensures we have enough money to keep running. They are also responsible for arranging fundraisers, but the bulk of our support comes from our volunteers and donations.”
Paige had a thought and wanted to see it out.
“You mentioned donations? Do you have regular contributors?”
“Of course.”
“Could we see that list?”
“With a warrant. I’m sorry, but if I just handed it over I’d lose my post here, and even though I’m not paid, I love my work.”
“I can understand that, and if we had questions on a specific case?”
“You’d best be speaking with the manager who runs the place.”
Paige nodded.
“And their name?”
“Kim Delaney. I can leave a message for her to call you.”
“That would be great.”
They were on the move when Alisha shouted out.
“If you’re interested in knowing our bigger donors, you could always check the plaques on the wall on your way out.”
Jack and I were on the way to visit the journalist, Kent Fields, at his downtown condo.
I was happy to see that the weather was holding off. Even though the forecast called for more snow, we hadn
’t seen it yet.
Fields
’s building was located in a wealthy district that attracted those who made a minimum seven-figure salary, if not more. Anyone with less money would have shied away, preferring the comfort of an older subdivision, or a new development geared toward lower level income families.
Inside, a man in a light blue suit was positioned behind a front desk.
“Good day, gentlemen. What can I do for you?” Based on his self-elevated aura and the purr to his voice, he considered us below him. He must have suspected we weren’t there to see an available unit.
Jack and I held up our credentials.
He splayed a hand over his chest
. “Are you sure you have the right building? Our residents are upstanding citizens. You might have us confused somehow with the condos three blocks over.”
Did he think those with a large bank account could do no wrong? In my experience, often the wealthy got themselves into trouble.
“We’re here to see Kent Fields,” Jack said.
“And you’re sure you have the right building?”
“We’re not here to play games. We have an appointment with the man, and this is where we were told to come. Either you lead us in the right direction, or we’ll come behind your desk, consult the building’s layout and figure it out ourselves. And if you push us to that, we’ll take you in for obstruction of justice.”
Both of his hands went up.
“Now, there’ll be no need for that.”
No audible response was needed.
Jack jutted his chin forward. His gaze was intense enough to cut glass.
The man pointed toward an elevator bank.
“He’s in the penthouse.”
*****
“Detectives.” Kent Fields’s blond hair was near platinum, and his skin tone was so white it bordered on albino. His blue eyes were sharp lasers.
“We’re Special Agents with the FBI.” Jack’s hand went to his jacket and I didn’t sense it was in response to a cigarette craving. I wondered if he contemplated pulling his gun on the man for reducing our rank. Instead,
he pulled out a photograph and extended it to Fields.
We were still in the front entry of the penthouse—a bright and open space. From this vantage point, the kitchen and eating area were to the right, and a living room was straight ahead to the far end. To the left was a half bath.
Fields looked at the photograph.
“Why don’t we go take a seat?”
He gestured ahead of us.
“But first, please take off your footwear. My maple floors wouldn’t take so kindly to the moisture.”
We adhered to his request and went into the sitting room. I sank into the most comfortable couch I had ever encountered. I ran my hands along the fabric—soft, like crushed velvet.
Jack sat beside me. Fields had taken a detour to the kitchen.
“Can I get either of you something to drink?”
“No, we’re fine,” Jack called out to him.
I detected irritation in his tone. Fields was taking too long to sit still and seemed to be avoiding the conversation we needed to have with him. Finally, he sashayed into the seating area, holding onto a martini glass, pinching the stem between his fingers. His other hand held the photograph.
He dropped into a chair and crossed his legs away from us. One long draw from his glass before he set it on a side table.
“All right, what can I do for you?”
Jack
’s neck held a steady, tapping pulse that had a cord bulging. He was too aggravated to speak.
I pointed to the picture.
“Do you recognize him?”
“Absolutely, but I’m not sure what he has to do with me.”
“He was found murdered behind a bakery in town a few days ago.”
“Well,
c’est la vie
, right?
I mean, we live, we die.”
“You don’t seem too upset over the loss of life,” Jack observed.
Fields centered his line of vision on Jack.
“I didn’t really know the man. We weren’t close. Should I be grieving?”
Fields lifted his martini glass for a brief sip
.
“How do you know him? You said you recognize him.”
“I used to report on local news. See how far I’ve come.” He spread his arms to take in the space, and to guide our eyes to the walls full of commendations and awards. “Three Pulitzers.”
“How lovely for you, but that’s not why we’re here.”
Fields
’s eyes flickered with egotistical insult and he picked at the material of his pants. After a few seconds, he said, “I remember this man, the one who died, was charged with poisoning his dog. It was said to be rat poison.”
“You have a very clear memory about something from twenty-six years ago,” I said.
“Don’t think anything of it. My mind works like that.” He pointed to his glass. “This isn’t the real deal. A true master of his craft wouldn’t dilute his brain matter with the vice of alcohol.” He flashed a sly grin. “Here you thought I was drinking mid-day. Stereotypical writer, you probably thought. Well, I’m most certainly not that. I am unique. One of a kind.”
I swallowed the urge to edit his inclination toward redundancy.
Jack stood and paced the floor.
“Yes, we know. You are award winning. Less of the resume and more on topic.”
Fields
’s brows furrowed downward and his mouth gaped open. His eyes read,
why I never
.
“We spoke with your brother,” I began.
“I don’t have a blood sibling. You must mean my stepbrother. Please, he collects trash.”
“You write it.”
Fields twisted to see Jack.
“If you’ve simply come here, to my home, to insult me, you can both leave.”
“Well, isn’t it true? Your first years weren’t the glory days. You reported on animal abuse cases, local news.” Jack dropped into another chair.
Fields watched his every move.
“How did writing this rubbish make you feel?”
Fields
’s eyes held concentration, and his lips held the curl of a snarl. “Angry. I was so much better than that. And I have proved it. Look around. Local news will not get you a million-dollar condo.”
“Multi, from what I understand.” I was going with feeding his ego, toying with him, while Jack sought to derive the answers we desperately needed through berating him.
“Tell us about the man in the photo, your viewpoint,” Jack said.
“His name was Darren Simpson. Before you think any more of it, I watch the news and I know all the details. Craig even called me when he found the body. He left a message on my voice mail. I never called him back.” Fields’s gaze fell somewhere behind me.
I shrugged and it served to align his focus.
“Family can be like that sometimes. He doesn’t think of you as being close either. So no harm.”
A glaze skimmed over Fields
’s aura. He was fine as long as it was his choice to remain aloof, but when that decision was made by someone else, that equated to him being rejected and was a different matter.
“Do you know why he called you?”
Fields shook his head.
“He thinks you might have killed the man.” It was a stretch but I was curious where it would lead.
Fields uncrossed his legs.
“This is absurd, the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard—and I hear a lot.”
“You reported on Darren Simpson,” Jack said.
“Yes, but I never killed him.”
“You also reported on Gene Lyons.”
“Lyons? Sounds familiar. Do you have his picture?”
Jack pulled it out and handed it to him.
Fields considered it briefly and gave it back.
“Yes. Animal neglect if I remember correctly.”
“You really do have an awfully good memory .”
“Don’t read anything more into it than that.”
“What were you doing—”
Fields shook his head again.
“Nope, I’m not going to do it.”
Neither Jack nor I said anything.
“You mean like an alibi? Huh.” Fields paused. I surmised the quietness of the condo mirrored the emptiness of the man’s life. He had the material possessions, but behind the pride, I believed he was alone.
“That night,” his eyes went from me to Jack, “I was with someone.”
“We’ll need her name.”
I caught Jack
’s eye and wondered if he had missed picking up on Fields’s apparent sexual preference, or if he were somehow trying to demean the man again. Perhaps Jack hadn’t advanced to the twenty-first century yet.
“It wasn’t a she. And I’m not going to give you the person’s name. That would be a violation of their privacy.”
“You’re a potential suspect in a murder case, and in the disappearance of Gene Lyons.”
“No, I didn’t do any of what you’re saying. If I give you his name, please do not let this get out to the press.”
“You’re in the spotlight all the time with those awards of yours, and you don’t think people know you’re homosexual? Besides, one would think people in your circles would completely understand and embrace you for who you are,” I said. It warranted a glare from Jack. He must have resonated more with the old-school philosophy that stemmed back to Adam and Eve—an irony, as he wasn’t a religious person by any means.
Fields
’s shoulders sagged for a fraction of a second but lifted as a smile lit his face. “You are right. It’s time for me to be happy. It’s Kent’s turn.”
The guy was an egomaniac, a textbook narcissist. The referral to himself in third person, twisted my gut with suspicion. The persona he presented was that of an individual who had most things together, yet the opposite seemed true.
My mobile beeped with a message. I normally wouldn
’t check it at a time like this, but I had a hunch it was important. As I slipped my cell out, Jack stared at me, condemnation firing from his eyes.
“His name is Henry. He makes me happy.” Kent went on to share his story with Jack.
My attention was on the text from Paige.
I put the phone back in my pocket, and both men watched me.
“You are a large contributor to the animal shelter in town,” I said to Fields.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s a suspicious thing.”
Fields rubbed his hands on his thighs.
“I’m being set up.”
Jack laughed.
A touch of red burned in Fields
’s cheeks. “What is so funny?”
His head pivoted, turning between us.
“This is a joke. My stepbrother put you up to this.”
“I assure you it’s no joke.”
“Where is Gene Lyons?” Jack asked.
“I don’t know. I have nothing to do with any of this. You take me downtown and I’ll lawyer up.”
“Sounds like he’s trying to make a deal, Jack.”
“We don’t make deals with killers. Get up.”
I pulled out a pair of cuffs. It had been a while since I’d had to use them.
“Please, just pull my financial background. You’ll find that I support all types of local charities. The food bank, the Salvation Army, the Catholic Church. I need write-offs. Please, just tell me this, why do you think I’m guilty? Tell me that and I’ll come with you—”
“If we want you to, you’re coming with us.”
“What do you—”
“The evidence is stacking against you. Your stepbrother found Simpson, a man whom you reported on twenty-six years ago, a man who got away with poisoning a dog, a man who was, in turn, killed by poison.”