Gideon's Rescue Read online

  The next cage brought us to a female shepherd mix, and Heather called, “Hello, Dolly.”

  Like the others, Dolly was a victim of human neglect. She’d been tied to a stop sign in North Hollywood and abandoned.

  We paused in front of the next cage. The pit bull inside looked that much fiercer because of all the stitches and scarring, not to mention the cast on her back leg. “This is Emily,” said Heather. “How are you, my sweet girl?”

  The dog with the ferocious appearance began wagging her little stub of a tail. Because of her wounds and her cast, it took some effort to stand up, but Emily wasn’t going to miss out on getting affection. Heather put her hands through the bars and started scratching a spot where there weren’t any stitches.

  “She looks like she’s been through a war,” I said.

  “In a way, she has,” said Heather. “We suspect Emily was a bait dog.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Emily was basically supplied as a sacrificial lamb to another fighting dog. She was a teaching tool for another dog to learn how to maul and kill. Even worse, Emily’s muzzle was duct-taped closed when she was forced into the pit. She couldn’t fight back even if she’d wanted to.”

  It was a story I found hard to hear; seeing Emily’s condition made it even worse.

  “Bastards,” I muttered. It wasn’t a harsh enough word to describe the criminals who fought dogs.

  Because of Heather’s own past, she probably sympathized with Emily’s imprisonment and torture that much more. Both of them had proved to be survivors.

  Even though she had suffered a mauling, Emily acted calm around Sirius and Angie. The dogs took turns sniffing each other through the barriers of the cage; there was a lot of tail wagging.

  “Emily and three others dogs were tossed onto the side of the road in East Los Angeles and left for dead,” said Heather. “The other three dogs with her had been shot. I guess the shooter thought Emily was already dead and didn’t want to waste a bullet. When police responded to the dumped animals, though, they discovered Emily was still alive. Normally, a pit bull in her condition would automatically have been euthanized, but we were contacted and agreed to subsidize veterinary care. Because Emily was selected as a bait dog, not a fighter, my hope was that she would have a good temperament despite everything that happened to her. So far, that hope has been validated. She’s shown no signs of aggression. I know someone is going to see past her scars and realize what a sweet dog she is.”

  I found myself scratching Emily. She looked like a patchwork dog; her flesh had been ripped open in dozens of spots. There had been a time when I was a patchwork human. I still had a big scar on my face, courtesy of the fiery night during which Sirius and I had captured Ellis Haines, the serial murderer known as both the Santa Ana Strangler and the Weatherman. Haines had identical keloid scarring, although on the opposite side of his face from mine. I often catch people surreptitiously observing my scar, and there are times I can see reactions of uncertainty and fear. Of course, I’m probably oversensitive. To date, I haven’t felt the need to do a John Merrick and yell out, “I am a human being!”

  “You are a good girl,” I said to Emily.

  She responded with more tail wagging. Emily had ample reason to hate the human species. Instead, she had forgiven us. I doubted I could ever be as forgiving.

  “Do you want to start by spending ten minutes with Emily?” asked Heather. “Because of her broken leg, I wouldn’t walk her. I wouldn’t even do much in the way of commands until she’s healed up more, but we do want to give her as much socialization with different humans as possible. I can take Sirius and Angie and have them participate in temperament testing of other dogs.”

  I found myself nodding. Heather opened the cage and I stepped inside. “Careful scratching around her head,” she said. “I think one of her wounds is still infected.”

  She pointed to the side of Emily’s head. I could see where it looked raw and red.

  “I’m surprised she’s not wearing a cone.”

  “We took it off a short time ago because it seemed to be chafing her,” said Heather, “but we’ll be putting it on again later today.”

  I went inside the cage. When I worked Metropolitan K-9, we used to do squatting exercises so as to be able to get down to the level of our charges. I squatted down, which is supposedly the natural resting position of humans. A lot of creaking and cracking went into that natural position.

  Emily sniffed around my face and gave me a little lick. Even though she seemed glad for the company, she was alert, watching all my movements. I spoke to her in a calm, subdued voice, and between my measured speech and soft scratching and rubbing, she decided it was all right to completely relax.

  “What happened to you, Emily,” I said, “was cruel and inhumane. I’m glad you live in the moment. That’s what I envy about dogs. It gives you a freedom to go on with your life without dwelling on what occurred. But I promise you this. If I can find the miserable excuse for a human being who did this to you, I will make him pay.”

  My tone was meant to lull Emily; my words were meant just for me. Emily was hearing “Brahms’s Lullaby”; I was hearing a vow. It was what we both needed to hear.

  I spent time with a handful of other dogs. Each was given a ten-minute walk, followed by training. All seemed happy just spending time with me. I tried to give each dog all of my attention, but I found myself thinking about Emily.

  Sirius helped me work with some of the dogs. When he wasn’t needed I had him practicing his exercises, including his sits and waits. It was my responsibility as a handler to run Sirius through his paces; we both benefitted from the exercise and the time working together. Our ability to communicate and understand what the other wanted could save lives, including our own.

  When I finished my shift, I was sweating. My partner and I walked over to the office, where I jotted down a few notes in each dog’s file. Afterward, Sirius and I tracked down Heather. We found her in a storage room, holding a clipboard and doing a food inventory. Angie was sprawled out on the floor and Sirius went and joined her.

  “How did it go?” Heather asked.

  “Really well,” I said. “You have a bunch of good dogs.”

  The proud mom smiled.

  “Before I take off,” I said, “I was hoping you had a minute to answer a few questions about Emily.”

  “I noticed you spent a long time in her cage.”

  I shrugged. “She had a lot to say.”

  Heather knew I wasn’t being funny. Emily did have a lot to say even without words. “What is it you want to know?”

  “I wondered if you could provide me the particulars of Emily’s rescue. I’d like to know where she was found and if the police were involved. Dogfighting is illegal, and LAPD is part of the city’s Animal Cruelty Task Force.”

  “I’m almost finished up here,” said Heather. “After I’m done we can walk over to the office and make copies of Emily’s intake form. Most of what you need should be on those pages.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  I went over and joined Sirius and Angie. They welcomed me with tail thumps. It was more than I deserved, but dogs are generous with their encouragement. Humans can be trained, although it’s not easy.

  Chapter Two

  Swear to Dog

  Heather accompanied Sirius and me to the front desk. I went behind the counter and waited while she made copies of Emily’s paperwork. Sirius decided he wanted service and pushed up from the ground so that both his paws hung over the front desk.

  The woman behind the desk began laughing. Her name tag said Suzanne; her button said, Love Me, Love My Dog.

  “Why, yes, sir!” she said to Sirius. “I’ll bet you’d like a treat.”

  I got paperwork; my partner got part of a rice cake and a massage. While Sirius was being told how handsome he was, I looked over the forms. Emily’s medical treatment had been documented, but there were no contacts listed for animal control or the pol
ice. I hoped the vet listed at the top of the form would be able to provide me those names. I tried to make out the handwriting.

  “Dr. Caitlin Misko treated Emily?” I asked.

  Heather nodded. “She’s the shelter’s on-call vet.”

  Suzanne paused in the scratching of my partner’s ears to ask, “Are you looking for Dr. Misko? She came through just a few minutes ago to examine the new puppies.”

  “I’ll go introduce the two of you,” said Heather.

  My partner was given another piece of rice cake as a parting gift, and the two of us followed Heather over to what she called the quarantine area. Dr. Misko was in an enclosure with half a dozen puppies. Even vets aren’t immune to such charms, and the doctor was enjoying their antics while she entered notes into her tablet.

  “Kate,” yelled Heather, “this is Michael Gideon. He’s a volunteer here, but he wants to ask you some questions related to his day job.”

  “As long as he’s not an IRS agent,” the vet said, “that’s fine.”

  Dr. Misko motioned for me to join her inside the enclosure. Sirius followed me in, and I went over to shake the vet’s hand. “I’m Detective Michael Gideon,” I said, “and this is my K-9 partner, Sirius. We’re with LAPD.”

  “Kate Misko,” she said. “We can talk after I finish up here. In fact, if you don’t mind, I can use the extra hands.”

  “Glad to help,” I said.

  “I’m examining each pup, followed by picture taking. Would you mind corralling the three pups closest to you?”

  I did as she asked, using my arms to make a puppy enclosure, or at least that was the idea. The clumsy puppies suddenly became seasoned escape artists. Luckily, I had a second line of defense; Sirius played middle linebacker and was able to push the escapees back toward me. Dr. Misko finished up with the first group, and we switched out the puppies. Two of my new charges were happy to stay within the confines of my arms and kiss me; the third kept close to Sirius, acting like his protégé. The little one had picked a good role model.

  “Thank you, Detective Gideon,” said Dr. Misko, finishing up her pictures and notes. The vet was around forty, small and slender, with short brown hair. On the tip of her nose, thick black glasses perched precariously.

  “Gideon,” she said, her voice suddenly thoughtful. She lifted her glasses up to her eyes and stared at me. “And Sirius,” she added, turning her gaze to my partner.

  At hearing his name, my partner’s ears rose and he offered up his good side. The hambone enjoys any and all adoration.

  Dr. Misko smiled triumphantly. “I remember now,” she said. “It was the two of you who caught that awful killer.”

  Don’t say his name, I thought. Like Voldemort, I was convinced, it was better to not say his name.

  “Ellis Haines,” she said.

  I nodded, and then said, “He’s an individual I don’t like wasting my breath on.”

  Dr. Misko respected my wishes. Most people don’t. With a smile she asked, “You said you had some questions for me?”

  “I spent time with Emily today,” I said, “and was told you were the one who performed emergency surgery on her.”

  “I did,” she said. “Emily presented with some very serious injuries.”

  “When did this occur?”

  Dr. Misko pursed her lips and tried to recall. “It must have been ten days ago. She was brought in early Monday morning. We suspect the dogs were dumped the night before.”

  “How is it that you were the one who treated Emily?”

  “The animal control officer who called me knows I’m a soft touch. Officer Santana said I was the dog’s only hope, but the truth is that Heather was her only hope. I had to call her to see if she would help with the cost of care, and whether Angie’s Rescues had a spot for her.

  “I made the call on the day the shelter officially opened. I’m sure it was absolute chaos here. I expected Heather to say no. That would have been the reasonable thing to do. And that would have been my out. There was no guarantee the dog would live, anyway, and I couldn’t vouch for her temperament. It’s difficult to place even the most docile of pit bulls, and I was asking Heather to take in a former bait dog that was going to be riddled with scars. At a shelter, space is always at a premium, which is what makes it so difficult to accept a dog into your care that might not be adopted for months or years, or maybe ever.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t settle on a career in sales,” I said.

  “I haven’t even told you the worst thing I said. Heather asked me what I thought should be done with the dog. I said that judging from what I had been told, there was a good chance she’d survive the surgery, but despite that, it probably made more sense to euthanize her.

  “Heather thought about that for maybe ten seconds and finally said, ‘Do your best to save her.’”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dog with more stitches.”

  “Compared to how she looked when she came in,” said Dr. Misko, “now she looks like an angel. When those monsters left her for dead, there was trauma to her head, open wounds everywhere, broken ribs, and a broken back leg that needed to be reset with pins.”

  That was the same dog who had licked my hand, and my face.

  “Were all her wounds the result of bites?”

  “I suspect a baseball bat or cudgel was also used.”

  “Did you take pictures of her prior to treatment?”

  She nodded. “If you decide to look at them, I advise you not to eat beforehand.”

  “Did the police talk to you?”

  The shake of her head was almost enough to displace her glasses. “That’s why I’m glad you’re talking to me.”

  “I assume animal control is investigating what happened?”

  “I wouldn’t assume anything,” she said. “Animal control has to make do with a minuscule budget. They’re stretched incredibly thin. But you should call Samson. He’d be able to tell you for sure.”

  “Samson?”

  “That’s what my staff calls Officer Santana. If you meet him, you’ll see why. He has beautiful long, curly hair—almost to his shoulders. Would that I had his hair.”

  She touched her short hair and made a disparaging sound.

  Once I was in the car, I grabbed for my lint roller. When you work and live with a German shedder, you need to buy lint rollers in bulk. Before I started in on my aerobic exercise, I went in search of the right music. The name Santana had been brought up earlier, and I took that as a portent. I scrolled through my sizable music library, and then turned up the sound. Anyone watching me might have thought I was holding a castanet instead of a lint roller; I did my shaking, rattling, rolling, and, most importantly, cleaning, to the song “Smooth.”

  I tuned in my musical time machine for a Santana encore, and the timeless music of “Oye Como Va” started playing over the speakers. Santana inspired me to more aerobic cleaning; I grabbed Sirius’s brush and moved it through his coat to the beat of the music. My partner seemed to be moving to the same beat, or maybe he was just enjoying the grooming.

  Each song seemed the perfect length for our respective cleanings. “I know you like to look good for the ladies,” I said, finishing up.

  I was tempted to play another Santana song but decided to call Officer Santana instead. When he picked up he identified himself by name, and I did the same.

  “I’m following up on those dogs that were dumped,” I said, “and the dog you brought in some ten days ago to Dr. Misko. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “I do,” he said. “I never heard if the dog lived or not.”

  “She’s alive,” I said.

  “I knew it,” he said, sounding pleased. “I told the doc she was one tough dog who just needed a chance.”

  “You were right.”

  “She was on death’s door,” he said, “and yet she still wagged her tail when I came on the scene and she saw I was there to help her. That’s why I pushed her on the doc. That’s what I c
all game, even if those pendejos don’t.”

  “‘Game’?” I asked.

  “The dogfighters say their dog is game if he has lots of fight in him. They think it’s noble if their dog will fight to the death.”

  “Are you familiar with dogfighters in the area?”

  “I’ve had to cross paths with them on the job.”

  “Dr. Misko said you were investigating the dumping of those four dogs.”

  “I left a message with the Animal Cruelty Task Force,” Santana said. “And I’m investigating it by reminding people I meet on my route about the twenty-four-hour anonymous tip line and the reward money available.”

  “What kind of money is being offered?”

  “Up to five thousand dollars,” Santana said.

  “Anything else being done to investigate the dumped dogs?”

  “On our website we’re soliciting information about the crime,” he said, “and emphasizing the reward.”

  “I was told an LAPD officer was dispatched to the crime scene. Do you know if he reported his findings to the ACTF?”

  “He left that to me,” Santana said. To my ear, it sounded as if he was being diplomatic.

  “What was the officer’s name?”

  “Brockington,” he said.

  “Hollenbeck division?”

  “I assume so.”

  “He wiped his hands clean of the whole thing?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Does the dogfighting tip line ever lead to any arrests?”

  “Now and again,” said Santana. “Last year we were involved in taking down a ring. Usually our job is to collect the fighting dogs, while LAPD or LASD deals with the bad guys.”

  “If this is an ongoing problem, how come there aren’t more arrests?”

  “We’re up against a secret society,” Santana said, “and the bad guys have gotten sophisticated. They’re able to organize last-minute fights in remote or secured spots.”

  “But you know who these bad guys are?”