Gideon's Rescue (A Gideon and Sirius Novel Book 4) Read online

  “But you know who these bad guys are?”

  “Most of them,” said Santana. “Some of those dudes even operate out in the open by claiming they’re training the dogs for guard service. But their equipment tells a different story.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s like the difference between a regular gym and a boxing gym. Fighters need to have gloves, target mitts, headgear, heavy bags, punching bags, and a boxing ring. Dogfighting has specific training apparatus as well. They got these heavy ropes attached to trees that dogs swing from with their teeth. And typically you got flirt poles, dog weights, catmills, exercise turntables, spring poles, and treadmills.”

  “I hope a catmill isn’t what I think it is.”

  “It probably was at one time,” said Santana, “but now a nonliving lure is used. There’s this central shaft in the ground that the dogs are harnessed to, and they run ’round and ’round after the lure. You know how dogs at racetracks run after the mechanical rabbit? It’s sort of like that.”

  “What’s a flirt pole?”

  “It’s this bamboo pole with an animal hide attached that the trainer swings. Imagine a fishing pole with a lure on the end. The dog goes crazy trying to attack it.”

  “Is it common for dead dogs to be dumped?”

  “No,” Santana said. “Dogfighters usually like to cover up what they’re up to. I’ve heard of mass graves in the desert and carcasses left for coyotes to scavenge out in wilderness areas, but having four dogs dumped in an urban setting isn’t the norm. Especially dogs that were shot.”

  “What happened to the three dogs that died?” I asked.

  “They were cremated.”

  “And neither you nor Officer Brockington collected evidence?”

  “I’m not trained to do that,” said Officer Santana. “And to tell you the truth, no cop has ever been interested in a dead dog before. You’re the first. Are you really planning to follow up on this?”

  “Swear to Dog,” I said.

  Chapter Three

  End of Shift

  Officer LaVar Brockington was on patrol when I called him and left a message. Ten minutes later he called me back on his cell phone.

  “Let’s talk about four dogs dumped on the side of the road,” I said.

  Immediately, Brockington went on the defensive. “The animal control officer took charge of that situation.”

  “And you never considered contacting the Animal Cruelty Task Force?”

  “Like I said, the animal control officer . . . ”

  “Are you aware that particular task force was created to act as a deterrent to dogfighting? The crime of dogfighting is something LAPD investigates. It’s a felony.”

  “The dogs were dead . . . ”

  “One of the dogs lived. I saw her today.”

  “I didn’t know . . . ”

  “You didn’t care enough to know. You didn’t do your job.”

  “With all due respect, Detective Gideon, that animal control officer assured me he was good to go. Was I supposed to question that?”

  “Your job was to secure the crime scene.”

  “There wasn’t any crime scene. The dogs were dumped.”

  “That wasn’t your call to make,” I said. “Evidence should have been collected.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No,” I said, “but I will be shitting on you after I reopen this case and write up my report. The three dead dogs were all shot. A ballistics report could have told us what kind of gun was used and if the same gun was used on each of the dogs. And down the road when we finally arrest the bastard that did the shootings and we find him carrying, we could have matched those ballistics with his gun. But now we can’t do that. Instead of getting serious jail time, the SOB skates. That’s where we stand because you cut corners.”

  There was a part of me that knew I was overstepping my boundaries. Police officers put their lives on the line every day, and Brockington worked a particularly tough neighborhood. He was witness to all sorts of human tragedies playing out, and probably wondered where the hell I was coming from. These were dogs, he was thinking. If I wanted to get indignant, there was no shortage of human misfortune to comment upon.

  I listened to the silence on the line. Brockington finally broke it when he said, “My bad,” and then offered up an explanation. “I know it’s not a good excuse, but the dog call came in at the end of my shift and I hadn’t seen my wife in days. Both of us needed time together to work some things out.”

  I didn’t want to let the incident completely slide, but at the same time, it was easy to sympathize with Brockington’s position. I had been there, and I had probably done my share of kicking the can down the street instead of dealing with it. One of the reasons being a cop is so difficult is that there really is no end of shift. The cases never stop coming, and there is always carryover. End of career, I have decided, is when end of shift occurs.

  “If you’re wondering where I’m coming from,” I said, “I was with Metropolitan K-9 for years. So I don’t buy into the argument that because these were just dogs, and not humans, their deaths aren’t important. The way we treat our animals speaks about us as a society.”

  There’s a reason serial murderers invariably begin their awful predations by torturing animals, I thought. In their psychopathy they have no souls, and they want to learn their craft practicing on those who can’t speak.

  “You’re right,” Brockington said. “I screwed up. What can I do to make it right?”

  I took a breath, let it out, and then said, “While you’re patrolling, I want you to talk with the people on the streets, and get me a list of those suspects who work or live within the neighborhoods you work who are likeliest to be involved in dogfighting. Also, see if you can come up with any reason for those dogs being dumped where they were. Dogfighting is an activity that tends to stay in the shadows. Putting its victims on display makes no sense.”

  If Brockington was a good cop, he would have cultivated contacts who knew things, or heard things. It was likely he’d be able to pick up on information that might elude me.

  “I’ll get right on it,” he said. Most officers aspire to a detective’s shield. To that end, he added, “Are we good, Detective?”

  No cop wants to be dinged in a report; one blackball could sabotage advancement, or at least slow it considerably.

  “We’ll be good,” I said, “when you get back to me with some answers.”

  Chapter Four

  Explaining the Impossible

  Sirius and I stopped at an In-N-Out and ordered at the drive-through. I refrained from asking for my usual choices of a Double-Double, fries, onion rings, and a Neapolitan shake; Lisbet has been trying to get me to eat a more healthful diet, which means smaller portions and less fat. On the nights Lisbet cooks, Sirius and I get lots of fruits and vegetables and whole grains. Some of her dishes even border on being tasty.

  I made my choices from the so-called secret menu. “I’ll have my burger Animal Style with fried onions,” I said, “and an order of fries. My hungry friend will have a Pup Patty.”

  Animal Style meant my burger would be cooked with mustard; a Pup Patty was a rare burger with no salt.

  “And what would you like to drink, sir?” asked the cheerful female voice over the intercom.

  “Just water, please,” I said. “In fact, you’d better make it a double.”

  My partner has probably benefited the most from my new habits. He used to cadge half my fries and part of my burger. Now I carry a container of dried food in my car and he doesn’t get my leftovers. Sirius has actually lost a few pounds from the arrangement. I wish I could say the same for myself.

  I parked in the outer section of the lot, as far away from the street and car exhaust as possible. There was a light breeze, and I lowered all four windows. I pulled out Sirius’s bowl, poured in a cup of dried food, and then crumbled up his Pup Patty. He watched the operation critically.

  “Yeah,
like you’re Bobby Flay,” I said, putting his bowl down in the back seat.

  In less than ten seconds he’d finished everything, which meant I was only one bite into my burger when he took to staring at me.

  Another change in my eating habits is Lisbet’s encouraging me to eat slowly. More than a dozen years of interrupted Code 7s—the LAPD code for taking a meal break—had taught me to eat quickly. In fact, Sirius and I used to eat at about the same speed.

  I took another bite of the burger. Brown eyes monitored every inch of the process.

  “You’re not going to get anything,” I said.

  Hope springs eternal, said his eyes.

  “This isn’t a Four-by-Four, or a Three-by-Three, or even a Double-Double. It’s a solitary burger without any cheese. You should be feeling sorry for me, not trying to hypnotize me.”

  I took a sip of my water. He didn’t find that as interesting. I put his cup of water in his cup holder and he started lapping. When I resumed my eating, he resumed his watching. I finished my burger, then started in on my fries. I looked in the rearview mirror; Sirius was all plaintive eyes, and something else.

  “Quit drooling,” I said.

  What quit his drooling was my handing him two fries. I shoved the rest of the fries into my mouth so as to avoid any more guilt. Besides, we needed to get moving if we wanted to be on time for our monthly 187 Club meeting.

  After Langston Walker was killed, I had warned the membership that there was no way I could ever fill the retired detective’s sizable shoes. But in the months since his death, I had done my best to get to know club members. I had also read some books on grief therapy, which had mostly made me feel that much more inadequate in trying to deal with the group’s collective loss. The dues to join the 187 Club are unimaginably steep: you have to lose a loved one to murder.

  It’s likely I would have thought that running the club was beyond me if not for Sirius. My partner would have made a great hospital or hospice dog. At the meetings, he seems to have a wet nose and a wag of the tail for everyone, even those who profess to being scared of dogs (and cops).

  We arrived five minutes early at the Jim Gilliam Recreation Center. The lot was almost full. I knew I was in the right place when I saw all the bumper stickers on display that said, Someone I Love Was Murdered.

  Luckily for me, Catalina Ceballos had agreed to continue in her role as club organizer. She fills gaps big and small, and I don’t have to worry about the community room being set up or arranging for the monthly snacks. The previous month’s speaker had talked about how poor nutrition accentuates depression; the membership must have listened, because as I stepped into the community room, I could see there were bowls with grapes, orange sections, and apple slices.

  Our guest speaker was already there, and Catalina was introducing him to the club’s members. We had never met, but over the years I had seen him profiled a number of times in the local media. Isaac Jordan made a point of being a loud voice for his flock, which he said was the same flock that Christ had tended to—namely, the poor, the meek, the disenfranchised, and most of all, the sinners. In addition to being a community organizer, Jordan was a prison chaplain.

  My partner led the way into the room. Sirius somehow senses who is most in need of a meet and greet, so I let him do his version of search and rescue. Sirius coaxed reluctant hands to reach out, offering his muzzle and head to those in pain. “Good dog,” most of them said. A look would pass between the afflicted and my partner, and I could see a real healer at work. Heather Moreland had referred to the oxytocin responses of humans and dogs. I was seeing it.

  Sirius was the icebreaker; I had the easier job of shaking hands and offering a few words. Most of those I talked to I knew from other meetings, but there were several unfamiliar faces who identified themselves as irregular attendees. Only one person seemed to be new to the 187 Club. Marta Hernandez introduced me to Luciana Castillo, a diminutive young woman with big brown eyes. In broken English, Luciana explained that her fiancé, Mateo Ramos, had disappeared six weeks ago.

  “He is dead,” she told me, her big eyes filling with tears.

  According to Luciana, the detective assigned to his case had done little to investigate his disappearance, and seemed inclined to believe that the undocumented Mateo had returned home to Mexico. Pointing to her heart, she said the detective didn’t understand how much Mateo loved her.

  In law enforcement there is a chain of command. There are supervisors whose job it is to oversee how cases are being handled. In a bureaucracy you’re supposed to go by the book; in real life there are teary orbs and matters of the heart. Luciana continued to point at her heart as if that should explain everything. Maybe it did.

  Normally, I take the night’s speaker out to dine as way of thanks. Isaac Jordan had asked instead for a hundred-dollar contribution to the soup kitchen to which he ministered. That meant my evening was free.

  “Do you have time to talk after the meeting?” I asked.

  Luciana stopped pointing at her heart and nodded. Then she took her two small hands, wrapped them around my right hand, and said, “Yes, thank you.”

  “De nada,” I answered, although I wished my Spanish were good enough for me to add, You need to understand ahead of time I’m no miracle worker.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Sirius, steering him toward the speaker.

  Isaac Jordan was of average height, but his exuberant presence made him appear bigger. He had a big gap between his front teeth, and a graying Afro. I could see he had the same talent my partner did of being able to put people at ease. Many club members have lost their joie de vivre as a result of a loved one being murdered. It’s as if their true self has been replaced with a pale imitation, except for the occasional flashes of anger. Some revive with the passage of time; others seem forever tempered. I always seek out speakers that might offer club members a jump-start. The LAPD brass probably wouldn’t have approved of my choice for our speaker of the month; Isaac was a regular critic of the force, especially if he thought LAPD was violating human rights. But even LAPD couldn’t deny his passion.

  “Reverend Jordan,” I said, offering my hand, “I’m Michael Gideon. The two of us spoke on the phone. Thank you so much for being here.”

  “Call me Isaac,” he said with a big smile. “And if you feel compelled to give me a title, call me Pastor Isaac.”

  I introduced Isaac to my partner. Pastor Isaac extended his hand for Sirius to smell and was rewarded with a lick.

  “I won’t take that as a comment on my hygiene, Sirius,” he said, “but rather that I was helping in the kitchen before I came here.”

  I asked Isaac if he was ready to begin his talk, and at his nod and smile I made my way to the front of the room. Sirius didn’t follow me; he still had rounds of his own and people to see. I waited while the room quieted and everyone took a seat. After reading a few announcements, I cleared my throat. Langston had liked to start and end each meeting with a poem. Of course, when he did his reading it sounded like a benediction. I didn’t have his speaking voice, nor was I sure about the poem I had selected, but I knew better than to tamper with tradition.

  “Tonight’s poem,” I said, “is Robert Frost’s ‘The Road Not Taken.’ I picked it because I started thinking about how choosing different paths can take us on very different journeys. Because all of you experienced the untimely death of a loved one, I expect you were stopped in your tracks. What I hope, though, is that even with that terrible detour, you find a way to continue on with your intended journey.”

  The poem, luckily, was much shorter than my explanation. I read it slowly and did my best to make eye contact with the room at its conclusion:

  Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  Coming into the meeting, I wasn’t sure how the words of a poet known for his rural New England sensibility of trees, farms, and snow would go over with a gro
up of mostly nonwhite Southern California mourners, but I was glad to see heads nodding thoughtfully.

  The poem allowed me to segue into our speaker’s biography. “Pastor Isaac Jordan has made a point of taking the road less traveled,” I said, “and I will let him tell you how it has made all the difference. I did some research on Pastor Isaac, and I found that his personal hero is Nelson Mandela. One of the reasons Pastor Isaac works as a prison chaplain is that Mandela was imprisoned in South Africa for twenty-seven long years. During that time, Mandela’s native South Africa practiced apartheid—which means it favored the white minority ruling class and discriminated against all people of color. From behind bars Mandela managed to fight against apartheid. And while I wouldn’t recommend going to prison, Mandela didn’t let his many years there stop him from learning or becoming a better human being. He not only won the Nobel Peace Prize, but he became the president of South Africa.

  “Pastor Isaac says he speaks for those who don’t have voices, such as prisoners and the poor. Tonight he wants to minister to you. In the words of Nelson Mandela, ‘A good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination.’ Pastor Isaac is that formidable combination.”

  I gestured for him to come to the front of the room. The two of us shook hands, and then I took a seat.

  “Thank you, Brother Gideon,” he said, “and I thank everyone here for having me. As the good detective told you, my life’s mission has been inspired by Nelson Mandela. In his lifetime Mandela accomplished what seemed to be the impossible. He explained his successes by saying, ‘It always seems impossible until it’s done.’ I try to live by those seven words, and they are how I explain miracles.”

  Then, with his fingers, Pastor Isaac counted off the words as he spoke: “‘It always seems impossible until it’s done.’”

  Everyone was already leaning forward in their chairs. It had taken Jordan less than a minute to capture the room’s attention.