ROTTWEILER RESCUE
a Dianne Brennan mystery
by
Ellen O’Connell
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Ellen O'Connell at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 by Ellen O'Connell
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is strictly coincidental. Many of the places mentioned do exist; however, descriptions may have been altered to better suit the story. The dogs are real, although their names and circumstances may have been changed.
Used with permission: Poem "Baggage" by Evelyn Colbath, now Phoebe Lane Scott, copyright 1995, all rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
* * *
DEDICATION
This book is for all the dogs who have enriched my life - a shepherd mix
named Laddie who was the companion of my childhood, Kim and Bear, the dignified Akitas who walked beside me during the early years on my own, and of
course the Rottweilers who have graced my life for the last 17 years - my own
and those who stayed with me only a short time on their way to new lives.
* * *
Baggage
Now that I'm home, bathed, settled and fed,
All nicely tucked in my warm new bed,
I'd like to open my baggage lest I forget
There is so much to carry - so much to regret.
Hmm... Yes there it is, right on the top.
Let's unpack Loneliness, Heartache and Loss;
And there by my leash hides Fear and Shame.
As I look on these things I tried so hard to leave -
I still have to unpack my baggage called Pain.
I loved them, the others, the ones who left me,
But I wasn't good enough - for they didn't want me.
Will you add to my baggage?
Will you help me unpack?
Or will you just look at my things -
And take me right back?
Do you have the time to help me unpack?
To put away my baggage, to never repack?
I pray that you do - I'm so tired you see,
But I do come with baggage -
Will you still want me?
by Evelyn Colbath, now
Phoebe Lane Scott, copyright 1995
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
LETTING GO IS THE HARDEST part. The dogs come from shelters, from homes that no longer want them, from vets or kennels where they are left by owners who just disappear.
You take them into your home, love them and teach them, then one day you drive to the new home, make nervous small talk with the new owners, and leave. No matter what else it is, it's a betrayal.
The first time was the worst. Betty was small for a Rottweiler, still thin from the starvation and neglect that had brought her first to a municipal shelter and then to our rescue group. After only a month with me, she believed I was her adoptive home.
Dusk was falling when I left Betty. Maybe if I'd never looked back..., but I did. The image of her there, clearly outlined through the darkening night by the house lights, nose pressed against the front window of her unfamiliar new "home," has never faded with time.
Other foster homes say this is the best part, the goal achieved, a time of joy. Not for me.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror at my silent passenger diverted my thoughts from Betty and the foster dogs who had come after her. The big Rottweiler rode quietly behind me, gazing calmly out the window.
We were nearing the end of a thirty-minute drive, but he showed no more interest in the children playing in a yard we passed than he had in joggers, cyclists, or even other dogs. The back windows were down several inches, but so far as I could tell he had not reacted to the earthy smell of pastured horses at the beginning of our journey or to the yeasty perfume of a doughnut shop near the halfway mark.
The high school that was a marker in my detailed directions appeared on the left. With an effort I forced my attention away from the dog and concentrated on street signs and turns. The address I was looking for was one of the thousands of new houses in the subdivisions spreading south and east from Denver, making seas of roofs where once there had been seas of prairie grass.
Stonegate had more charm than many other developments, with some variety in house styles and outside finish. The sculpted green belts that wound around the subdivision were studded with pine trees and featured wide sidewalks already in use by early morning dog walkers and joggers.
Spotting the number I wanted, I parked my car across the street from the house so that the shade of an ash tree fell across the front seat. The August day was going to be in the nineties long before noon, and morning cool was already giving way to oppressive heat.
Moving slowly and without enthusiasm, I got out, opened the back door, and snapped a leash on Robot's collar.
"Come on. Let's go see your new home," I said.
He kept his head turned away from me and didn't move until I tightened the leash slightly, then he jumped from the car. Crossing the street, he lagged several feet behind me like a teenager embarrassed to be with a parent.
Opening the gate to Jack Sheffield's backyard finally lifted my mood. The six-foot cedar privacy fence would keep a dog safe, and the lush green lawn shimmering in morning sunlight would hold cool air throughout the day in the tree-shaded areas. A mower roared nearby, filling the air with the sweet scent of new mown grass.
Maybe Susan McKinnough, head of Front Range Rottweiler Rescue, was right. Susan was the one who had dubbed the dog now following me "the Robot" because of his unnatural behavior. She wanted a special kind of home for a dog that had been so abused he had withdrawn from the world, and she considered Jack Sheffield special.
I closed the gate, followed the walk around the side of the house then along the edge of a low redwood deck toward the center steps. The sound of a sliding glass door meant Jack had been looking for me, eager to meet his new dog.
I glanced up and started to greet him. "Hi, I'm Dianne Brennan, I...."
The figure that came out of deep shade near the house into the bright light at the edge of the deck was swathed in black from the ski mask on his head to his ankles. White running shoes stood out under the black apparition. He stopped at the deck's edge, staring at me as intently as I stared at him.
As I stood and gaped, my mind struggled to accept the obvious - this wasn't Jack Sheffield, and something was terribly, dangerously wrong.
Jack was shorter and slighter of build. And he didn't have colorless eyes so cold they made my stomach curl. Because I was staring into those eyes, as mesmerized as any hapless mouse by a snake, I saw the change in them when he decided what to do about me.
The glint of sun on metal broke the spell. I tore my gaze from his eyes and saw the knife, saw him raise the gloved hand holding it toward me.
Before he moved, before I could turn to run, Robot walked forward. He looked up at the figure in black with the same calm indifference he had shown to sights through the car window.
No sound came from him, his hackles were not raised, his posture had none of the stiff-legged signs of canine aggression. He just stood there, a hundred and twenty pounds of unwanted rescue Rottweiler between me and a man with a knife who had just decided to kill me.
The man on the deck was the one who ran, ran across the deck away from the dog and me. He jumped from the deck, crossed the lawn in a few strides and swung up over the fence effortlessly.
Sick and light-headed with fear, I turned and stumbled back toward the gate, toward my car, other people and safety. My hand was on the latch when I realized I was alone. No dog, no leash in my hand. Robot wasn't in the yard. He hadn't chased the man with the knife. The open sliding glass door showed the only place he could have gone.
The smart thing, the safe thing, was to get back to the car and call 911, but what if Robot made whatever had occurred in that house worse?
I didn't waste time calling a dog I knew would not come. I went after him.
A trail of red drops led the way across the wood deck. Only a few steps through the doorway and into the kitchen, Robot was sniffing at the edge of the pool of blood that had spewed from Jack Sheffield's torn throat and countless other ragged wounds. The dog was already leaving bloody pawprints on the white tile floor. Fighting nausea, I stepped on the end of the leash, picked it up, and pulled Robot out the door.
It took three tries to get the key in the car door with my shaking hand. When the lock finally clicked, I shoved Robot into the already broiling back, got in myself, started the engine, and threw the air conditioner on high. After a few seconds, I locked all the car doors again, reassured by the solid thunk.
For the first time since the killer came out of the house, I stopped reacting and started thinking as I looked out at the quiet, empty street. I thought about responsibility, obligation, and duty. I thought about big black dogs in the heat of a day like this one was going to be, about the little I knew of homicide and police procedure, about the prejudice and blind hate too often shown towards Rottweilers as "killer dogs." And I thought about those bloody pawprints now drying near Jack Sheffield's ravaged body.
Finally, with hands still shaking, I dug my cell phone out of my purse and started pushing numbers.
The 911 operator did her best to keep me on the phone, but I disconnected after giving her Jack's address. I had other calls to make and other things to do before the first sheriff's deputies arrived on the scene.
WHEN I FINISHED MAKING SURE both Robot and I would be safe no matter what happened next, I called the dispatcher again.
"Now you stay on the line and stay put until the officers are ready to talk to you," she ordered.
Hours later, I was still staying put. The house and the street around it were a beehive of official activity. Black and white Ford sedans with the blue and gold logo of the sheriff's department lined the street. News vans nosed in wherever they could.
An ambulance had arrived silently and now waited with open back doors for its grisly burden. Men and women in uniform and civilian dress bustled up and down the sidewalks and around the house. Yellow crime scene tape held eager reporters at bay. Curious neighbors stood in small clumps on lawns and sidewalks of the nearest houses.
I sat on a strip of lawn beside Jack's driveway in the shade of a young pine. Hours ago, the shade had shrunk to almost nothing, leaving me thankful for the sun screen I'd slathered on in the cool of morning. Now my shade patch was expanding again.
My sandals, loose-fitting denim skirt, and sleeveless white blouse were not only as comfortable as anything could ever be in the intense summer heat, they were helping me blend in with neighborhood lookie-loos.
An official car pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner. Attendants loaded a gurney with a telltale black bag strapped tightly in place into the waiting ambulance, which left as silently as it had come.
A tiny hope bloomed brightly in my thoughts. The first deputies to arrive had taken my name and address before ordering me to stay and wait. Maybe all this massive officialdom would just finish whatever they were doing, pack up, and leave. Tomorrow, or even next week, I would receive an official summons to appear for an interview.
That hope quickly died. The next time an officer in the blue-gray uniform of a Douglas County sheriff's deputy emerged from the house, he headed straight for me. Reporters crowded around, yapping questions like a pack of human terriers.
Under his wide-brimmed hat, the young officer's tanned face was set in a scowl, and he ignored shouted questions with a maturity beyond his years. He gave them nothing, not even my name.
"Deputy Horton, ma'am. Would you come with me please?"
"Of course." I tried to imitate his calm, but the shouting and bodies crowding too close made me hesitate.
As if sensing he might lose me, Deputy Horton took my arm and hustled me through the throng. He let go of me as we ducked under the yellow tape and magically left them all behind.
"It's even worse than it looks on television," I said.
"They're a bunch of vultures. They know we'll talk to them when we're ready, and it will be a senior officer, not me, but they do it anyway." He led the way to the front door.
As I had suspected, the front room of Jack's house was a formal living room done in decorator pastels. One of the uniformed men in a group across the room turned and came toward us. "Thanks, Horton." His tone was dismissive, and Deputy Horton disappeared into the interior of the house.
"I'm Lieutenant Forrester, sheriff's department," he said. "You discovered the body and called 911, right?"
"Yes," I said, studying him as he looked down at handwritten notes in a small notebook. He was like me a few years from forty, but unlike me, I thought, on the far side. A sprinkling of gray hairs salted thick, dark brown hair. His square, strong-jawed face was deeply lined, pleasant more than handsome. Then again, maybe scenes like the one in the kitchen had deepened the lines in his face more than the years.
The lieutenant looked up again, and the intensity in his manner and pale blue eyes cranked my already jittery nerves up another notch.
"Now how about telling me what happened, Ms. Brennan."
I swallowed hard and started my story.
"I had an early appointment with Jack Sheffield, eight o'clock. It was a couple of minutes before eight when I got here, and I went through the back gate, around the side of the house...."
"Why the back, why not the front?"
"He told me to go to the back when he gave me directions. We talked on the phone."
"I see, and what was this appointment for?"
Better just take a deep breath and spit it out, I told myself. "I'm a foster home for Front Range Rottweiler Rescue, and he was adopting a dog from us. I brought the dog he was adopting."
I risked a look at the lieutenant's face, reassessed my previous thought that it was pleasant, and added, "That's why so early, Rotties have trouble with the heat, you know, big black dogs, so we decided on eight, so it would still be cool."
The silence hung between us for long seconds before he broke it, his voice low and furious.
"You brought that dog here. It ripped a man's throat out, then you made up some story about a man with a knife? You sat out there for hours while every cop in the county looked for a figment of your imagination! Where's the dog?"
"Safe," I said, starting to get angry myself.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I felt compelled to add, "Jack was dead when I got here. Any doctor will tell you a dog didn't do that to him. I'd be dead too if it weren't for the dog. He got between me and the man, the killer, and that's why I'm still alive. I was so scared I almost fainted, then I dropped the leash, and the dog got in the house and stepped in - made those pawprints before I got him out. He didn't hurt anyone, and I knew it would get too hot to have him waiting around on the street, and so I got someone to - and so he's someplace safe."
None of this had made any impression on the lieutenant, whose mouth was now a tight line.
"Do you know what obstruction of justice is?"
I swallowed hard. "A felony. Most often committed by presidents and those in high office, I believe."
The intensity of the pale blue gaze made me wish I could take the smart words back as soon as I uttered them.
"All right, Ms. Brennan," he said softly, "we'll finish this interview at the Justice Center. Horton!"
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
DEPUTY HORTON APPEARED SO QUICKLY he must have been lurking in the next room. He listened to Forrester's orders silently, then escorted me to one of the black and white Fords with a careful politeness that should have been reassuring but somehow was not.
After a few words from Horton, a second deputy climbed into the front passenger's seat, and I began second guessing myself and the situation wildly. Were there two of them because they thought I was dangerous? Should I have refused to cooperate and demanded a lawyer? But I wasn't under arrest now; would raising hell have made everything worse?
I tried not to think about the purpose of the divider that protected the deputies in the front seat from desperate criminals like me in the back seat. Then I noticed that the car's back doors had no inside handles and almost lost control. Closing my eyes, I gulped in several deep breaths, determined not to let my fear show.
When I opened my eyes, I forced myself to stare out the side window and to concentrate on the scenery flashing by. Neither the blur of rooftops when we started out or the open grasslands beside the highway when we left the developments behind held my attention, but as we approached the Justice Center, I had regained a semblance of calmness. After all, the cavalry was on its way, and everything would work out in the end.
Usually I enjoy any trip to the town of Castle Rock, but this trip was different, and Deputy Horton took a route that avoided the historic town center and its appealing Nineteenth Century homes and businesses anyway. The Justice Center was an ordinary-looking brown brick building northwest of town. Its modern starkness suited my mood far better than the charm of the old town.
Not only that, I thought wearily, the small room where Deputy Horton left me alone with my own thoughts was government-issue dreary, but at least not century-old dreary. Air conditioning was a most welcome modern convenience. I sat and waited. And waited.
When the door finally opened and Lieutenant Forrester walked in, he was accompanied by Deputy Horton and a short female officer who probably didn't look as thick in the waist when she was wearing something more flattering than her uniform. Her brown hair was skinned back into a knot and emphasized the tight lines of her face. There had to be recording equipment built into this room, but she thumped a notepad down on the table. I understood her aggravation at being the one assigned to do the note taking, but my position was much worse.
The lieutenant was either over his earlier anger or had it well in hand.
"It's been a long day for you," he said. "Do you need anything to eat or drink? Restroom?"
I looked at him warily. My thirst was slaked and my bladder was empty. "I'm fine, thank you," I replied.
He threw a hard glance at Deputy Horton, who was busy looking elsewhere. "Just as well," he said. "Saves time. Now, are you ready to talk to us?"
I tried to read something in his face but couldn't. "Am I under arrest?"
"No. You were first at the scene of a homicide, and you saw someone leaving the scene. You're going to give us your statement is all."
"Did the medical examiner tell you that it was a knife, not a dog?"
I expected him to stonewall or to bluster, but he ran a hand over his face and answered quietly. "Coroner. We have a coroner. Dr. Reiker says it wasn't a dog, but that dog still made a mess of the crime scene, and you're going to have to give him up. We could bring charges for tampering with evidence or hindering an investigation. Now, do you want to cooperate, or do you want us to find something to charge you with?"
If he was going to be halfway forthcoming, I would do the same. "I'm willing to talk about anything except giving you the dog. We can fight over that when my lawyer arrives."
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed very slightly, but he kept his voice even. "So you ran out of that house, you called somebody to hide the dog, then you called a lawyer, and then you finally called us. You're a good citizen, Ms. Brennan."
I couldn't help smiling at him. "Actually, I called you first. You can ask your 911 dispatcher. She tried to keep me on the line the first time and couldn't. I hung up on her and called someone about the dog. I never really called a lawyer - I don't know one to call - but I do know Judge Cramer in Arapahoe County because he and his wife adopted a dog I fostered last year, so I called him. And I didn't call him until your officers were already there."
"And you didn't worry about the risk of our first responders showing up before you handed off the dog?" he asked.
"I've lived in Douglas County for a long time. I figured it was a good bet you wouldn't show up until he was safe."
His frown told me I'd just risked our new found détente, so I added quickly, "I'm not being critical. I live here, and I know how big the county is."
"Eight hundred forty-four square miles," he growled.
"Exactly, and our county commissioners have never heard of a development they didn't like. Your department must hire a new deputy every other month to try and keep up."
Admitting that the response time of the sheriff's department hadn't concerned me because I'd driven Robot back to the school that had featured so prominently in my directions and met Carey Inman there didn't seem prudent right then. Carey was a rescue adopter who lived only a few miles away, and she'd been willing to provide a safe haven. I'd parked in front of Jack's house again and reestablished my connection with the dispatcher at the sheriff's office only minutes before the first deputies arrived.
Our preliminary sparring was over. Lieutenant Forrester dictated time, date, names of those present, and a case number clearly for the recording equipment. I took note of the fact that he didn't recite a Miranda warning.
At first knowing I was being recorded and the sight of the deputy taking notes made me stutter self-consciously, but soon the horror of the morning wiped out such small concerns. No one interrupted, but as soon as I finished, the lieutenant's questions started.
"You're sure it was a man?" he asked.
I was sure, but had to think why. "Yes. His size, the way he looked at me, body proportions, the way he went over the fence. Yes, I'm sure."
"And you think he was a big man? You're what, five foot five? What's big to you - six feet?"
"Usually, yes, but he was above me on the deck, and I was so scared.... So maybe he wasn't that tall, but my first thought was that he was bigger than Jack, and Jack was maybe your height, but smaller looking, fine boned, really thin, not that you're...."
"I get it. Sheffield was scrawny, delicate even. I'm not. And the killer was definitely more than five foot ten. You call Sheffield 'Jack.' How well did you know him?"
"Not well at all. He's - was - a professional dog trainer. Dog handler is what he'd call himself, I guess. He showed dogs for a living. I go to a dog show maybe once or twice a year, just to look sometimes, to help at the booth our rescue group sets up sometimes. I knew who he was. He probably couldn't have put my name and face together."
"Tell me more about this rescuing business."
"Okay, rescues are groups, or sometimes individuals, who take in homeless dogs and find new homes for them."
"Yeah, but you called it 'Rottweiler Rescue.' You don't take any Benji types, right?"
"Well, no. Rescue usually means purebred dog rescue. Fanciers of one breed work with that one breed. The theory is that people familiar with a breed can evaluate their own better and know if a certain dog is adoptable and what kind of home it should have, and that if each breed takes care of its own, the shelters would have more time and money for the Benjis."
Lieutenant Forrester wasn't buying my explanation. "Sounds like a bunch of dog snobs to me."
I wasn't going to deny what I knew to be true. "There's an element of that in it. The reason people are fanciers of one breed is that they think it's the best. And while most dog people care about all dogs, they tend to care most about the kind they live with."
The lieutenant changed the subject slightly. "So if Sheffield dealt with show dogs, why was he getting one of these homeless leftovers from your group?"
"I don't know."
His look told me he heard more than my words. "Tell me what you do know."
"What I know is all from Susan McKinnough, the head of our rescue group. She told me Jack always said he couldn't have a dog at home because his boyfriend - his, um, partner - was allergic." Here I searched the lieutenant's face to see if he understood my full meaning. He did.
"The neighbors told us about the boyfriend. He's out of town on business."
"Yes, well, all of a sudden Jack called Susan and said he wanted to adopt a dog. He said his friend was moving out soon and until then they had agreed that the dog would be in only part of the house, and...." I tapered off, unsure how much to say.
"So Ms. McKinnough believed it, and you didn't."
Perceptive. The lieutenant was all too perceptive, but I couldn't see how telling him about Robot could do any harm.
"Susan's been breeding and showing Rotties for over thirty years. She started before most people even knew what a Rottweiler was. She's really at home with the breed people, the people whose whole lives revolve around dog shows. She didn't want to adopt Robot - the rescue Jack was adopting - to the kind of regular family that adopts most rescues. She thinks, thought, an experienced dog handler like Jack was perfect."
"What's wrong with the dog?"
"Nothing's wrong with him."
"Okay, what does she think is wrong with him?"
"He's been abused, abused so badly he's like children get, I guess, when they just withdraw. Most abuse cases are so delighted to have anyone be kind, they're all over the first person who feeds them. We test all the dogs before we adopt them out, and Robot flunked the sociability part of the test. On a scale of one to ten, he's a zero. In any area he's in, he'll get as far from people as he can. For that matter, he doesn't react to most things like a normal dog. It's like you have this living, breathing dog, but there's nothing inside."
"I'd think people would be standing in line for one like that. He'd be easy to take care of."
"People love dogs because dogs love them back. This one isn't going to. People don't want to adopt a dog that won't have anything to do with them. Susan thought if Jack knew what the dog was like and still wanted him, it was an ideal solution."
"How long have you been fostering the dog?"
"A little more than a month."
"And you didn't think Sheffield was good enough for him, and you were willing to go to jail to keep him away from us."
I just nodded my head, admitting the perceptive lieutenant was right. He said nothing. His expression made it clear he didn't think much of my priorities.
"Jack didn't suddenly want a pet after all these years. He told me to come to the back because he didn't want the dog in that fancy living room. He was going to make him a yard dog, and we don't adopt to people who keep dogs outside. I couldn't imagine what he did want, but now - I bet it was protection. He thought a big dog would keep exactly what happened from happening. Only I'm the one who was protected. It was too late for Jack. And if I hadn't gotten scared out of my wits and dropped the leash, Robot never would have gone inside, and you wouldn't be so keen to kill him and stuff him as Exhibit A in a murder trial when you may never even catch the guy."
My voice was rising with emotion, and the lieutenant replied to the part of my fear he had no problem with, in fact probably considered rational.
"We'll catch him."
"Oh, sure. From my great description. If he had shorts and a T-shirt underneath, he could pull off the black clothes, stuff them and the knife in a fanny pack, and just jog away. No one would remember him, and he'd be long gone before you ever arrived. And covered up like that he didn't leave so much as a flake of skin for you to find at Jack's place."
Some subtle change in his face told me I'd hit a nerve, but what he said was, "You watch too much television, Ms. Brennan."
Maybe so, but I was right about this. "So did any of those people jogging and biking through Stonegate see a man in black clothes?"
"Ms. Brennan, I ask, you answer. We're not sharing information here."
He'd already shared the information, and we both knew it. No one had seen the killer. Had the investigators found anything at all? I glanced at Deputy Horton thoughtfully, and the lieutenant caught me.
"Don't even try it. He likes ladies, and you all like him back because of his pretty face, but he's not that young, and he's not that dumb. He likes working here."
Not only would Deputy Horton give Brad Pitt a serious run for his money in the looks department, he was years younger and inches taller. I tried to look like I hadn't the foggiest idea what Lieutenant Forrester was talking about. So did Deputy Horton.
"Now, it's going to take a while to get a statement typed up for you to sign. So suppose while that's going on, you and your friend Deputy Horton there go and get this dog."
"Not without assurances from your department and from the county attorney."
He sighed heavily and leaned back. "What kind of assurances do you want?"
I'd had a lot of time alone to think about that and reeled it right off. "No confiscation, no impoundment, no quarantine except at my home, and no invasive tests."
"What's an invasive test?"
"Oh, cutting off a foot to preserve the pawprint, or removing his stomach to keep the contents, like that."
He got up and went to the door. The muttered reference to a female dog I thought I heard just after he yanked it open and before he slammed it behind him had to be my imagination. It had to be.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN THE DOOR TO THE interrogation room where I had once again been left alone with my thoughts opened, a tall man peered at me uncertainly through gold-rimmed glasses perched on a beaky nose. His body was thin and his hair was thinner.
"Are you Dianne Brennan?" he asked.
I nodded, wondering why anyone with such a diffident manner would choose a career in law enforcement.
"My name is Owen Turner. I'm an attorney with Simon, Perry & Simon. Judge Cramer asked me to see if I can help you out."
This was the cavalry that was going to rescue me? My spirits sank to my sandals and ran out onto the floor through the open toes. Sternly telling myself that the Honorable Horace Cramer wouldn't have sent anyone less than qualified, I poured out the story of the events that had brought me to this chair in the Justice Center.
Turner listened intently without interruption, making notes in a cramped hand on a yellow legal pad. When I finally wound down, he stopped writing, looked me in the eye, and proceeded to give me a lesson in not judging lawyers by their looks.
"Do you understand why they brought you here, kept you, and didn't just agree to have someone in Animal Control look at the dog and let you go?" he asked.
"Because I won't let them see the dog unless they agree not to hurt him and to give him back, I guess."
"Only partly. The fact is you committed what they consider to be a major crime, even though it isn't on the books - you dissed a cop, refused to back down, mentioned friends in high places, and had a lawyer on tap so they couldn't even give you a really hard time."
His language alone made me do a rapid reassessment of Owen Turner, but what he was saying was even more striking than how he said it, and I wasn't convinced.
"Half the world doesn't cooperate with the police any more," I said, "and everyone knows to say they want a lawyer."
"The reason the police do profiling is that profiles are usually right, and the profile for a woman like you would be someone eager to cooperate and slightly intimidated by the police," he said. "They realized you were unusual at exactly the same time they realized you weren't going to cooperate."
Turner was telling me I should fit in a profile labeled "Ordinary Woman in Her Thirties." Did all the fellow members of my group have ordinary brown hair cut short for wash and go, ordinary blue eyes, and an ordinary figure, neither noticeably svelte nor plump? Was there room in my profile for blondes and redheads? Were we all fair-skinned? Considering the wrong conclusions I'd leapt to about Turner himself based on appearance, his conclusions as to my ordinariness served me right, but that didn't occur to me at the time.
"And so what made them realize I'm not entirely ordinary?" I asked tartly.
"You're a foster home for Rottweilers, and you're suspicious enough of the police you hid the dog from them rather than take a chance they'd call Animal Control and haul him away. They don't believe that excuse about the heat any more than I do, you know."
"I was afraid they'd shoot him," I said. "All it would take was one deputy who's afraid of dogs. Jack was all torn up, and there was blood everywhere, and Robot's pawprints were in the blood."
Turner nodded. "Well, whatever they might have done, we're past that now, so what are you willing to agree to? What if they want stomach contents, for instance?"
My answer was ready, of course, but I couched my reply more politely than I had to Lieutenant Forrester. "I have no problem with that. I really have no problem with any test that doesn't hurt him, but I'm not willing to let them keep him locked up somewhere. I've been fostering him for over a month. I'll keep him."
"Even if they make an arrest, a trial and appeals could take years. Are you willing to keep the dog that long?"
"I've already accepted that this means I'm as good as adopting him. Yes, I'm willing, although I don't see why I'd have to keep him through all that. He just made a few pawprints. Why couldn't any adopter make him available?"
"They're worried about what some slimy defense attorney might make of those prints," said Turner with a hint of a smile, "and there's the question of identification of the right dog. By hiding him, you've already brought that into question."
"He has a microchip for identification. All our rescues are chipped before they go to new homes."
"Ah, that's going to make things easier, I think. Let's go talk to the county attorney."
An hour later, after signing my official statement, I also signed my name to an agreement with the county attorney as a representative of Front Range Rottweiler Rescue with only a small twinge of guilt. I am merely a volunteer, a foster home for the rescue group, which is a Colorado nonprofit corporation, but somehow Turner and the county attorney both got the impression that I was a member of the board of directors.
Susan would go along with the arrangement, I told myself. She would just take more convincing than I was willing to try doing by phone right then.
My new attorney had some more advice for me.
"You need to decide what you're going to do about the reporters outside," he told me.
"Oh, yuck," I said. "Can't I just sneak out of here and avoid them?"
"Yes, you can. But if you avoid them now, they'll be on your doorstep in the morning, or even late tonight. They probably already have your name and address. I'd advise dealing with them now. If you're careful you may be able to get away with telling them just enough so that they'll leave you alone, at least for the near future. A lot depends on whether there's better and more exciting news tomorrow and next week."
"If they hear the word 'Rottweiler,' they'll go crazy. If a Chihuahua bites someone they always put a picture of a snarling Rottweiler in the newspapers. They'll want to see Robot and take pictures."
"So don't say the word 'Rottweiler.' Nothing says you have to bare your soul. Tell them as little as you can." He seemed to consider for a moment, then went on. "Crying can help sometimes. Especially with the television people. They like visual emotion."
No wonder people paid attorneys huge sums to help them deal with situations like this. For the first time thoughts of attorney's fees skittered through my mind.
"Do you want me to stay with you?" Turner asked.
"Um, how much am I paying you?" I said.
Once again he gave me that controlled hint of a smile. "That should have been the very first thing you said to me, you know. But you're in luck. Judge Cramer talked me into donating today's time to your rescue group, which I understand is a tax-exempt charity." He paused for just a second before adding, "My wife and I have two greyhounds."
Greyhounds. One of the most abused and badly used of all breeds, greyhounds are killed by the thousands, sometimes in ways that don't qualify as "euthanasia." Dogs too old to race, dogs too slow to win - their bodies make pathetic mountains. Greyhound rescue is one of the oldest and most effective of all dog rescue groups, and if someone has a pet greyhound, they almost always have a rescue dog.
"My usual fee is three hundred dollars an hour."
Turner pulled a small leather case from his breast pocket, extracted a business card, and handed it to me. "For next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"Mm." His polite murmur was the essence of disbelief. "So suppose I help you face the press, and then if you'd like to ride with me, I wouldn't mind meeting this dog."
And I would like to ride in the front seat of whatever he was driving instead of the back seat of a sheriff's car.
Turner was right. The pack of reporters outside the Justice Center already knew my name. As soon as we walked outside, they proved it at the top of their lungs.
"Ms. Brennan, are you a suspect in Jack Sheffield's murder?" shouted one.
"Dianne, Dianne, why are you here at the Justice Center?"
The pack was smaller than what I'd seen on those tv crimes shows Lieutenant Forrester was sure I watched too much, but even so the group was intimidating, bristling with microphones and cameras, and I was grateful for Owen Turner's steadying presence at my side.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to look as if talking to reporters were the highlight of my day, and began answering their questions. I was at the Justice Center to give a formal statement to the investigating officers, I told them. Since I'd seen someone leaving Jack Sheffield's yard and through the open door seen blood on his kitchen floor and called 911, the sheriff's office wanted to be sure what I'd seen.
So did the reporters, and I told them. Sort of. As soon as I finished describing how little I'd seen, they shouted more questions.
A black-haired woman with lipstick so red the color dominated her pale face had elbowed herself to the front of the pack.
"Were you afraid?" she asked. "Did you think he might attack you?"
Her voice was shrill enough that her questions were clear through the din, so I chose to answer her.
"Yes, I was afraid," I told her. "For a few seconds I thought I might pass out. Then I ran back to my car and called the sheriff's office from my cell phone."
The voice of the woman in the front row carried over the rest again. "Why were you there? What were you doing there at Sheffield's house?"
"I had an appointment with Jack Sheffield this morning to talk to him about adopting a homeless dog," I said, choosing words with great care. "You must know by now that Jack was a professional dog handler. I went there to see him about a dog."
So those reporters got the impression that I never went into the house, never saw Jack's body, didn't have a dog with me but only wanted to talk to Jack about a stray I'd found. Maybe I'd missed a calling as a politician because Turner was right - misleading the reporters was only a matter of choosing which questions to answer and answering carefully. Just let tomorrow bring some juicy scandal, I thought. Nobody hurt or killed, just a scandal so they never follow up with me.
When the shouting erupted again, I felt Turner's arm around my shoulders. "Very good," he said in a low voice. "They've got enough for now. Let's get out of here."
He hustled me through the crowd. The reporters trailed us across the parking lot to Turner's Lexus. I sank back into the leather seat and closed my eyes with relief.
The deputies assigned to go along with me to get Robot led the way back to where my car was parked on the opposite side of the street from Jack Sheffield's house. The drive seemed much shorter than it had when going in the opposite direction all those hours ago. The bustle of activity was over, but crime scene tape still marked off the front of the house, and two sheriff's cars were still at the curb.
I left the air-conditioned luxury of Owen Turner's SUV with reluctance, got into the oven of my own car, and led the way to Robot's safe house.
The steering wheel was barely cool enough for me to leave my hands on it when I pulled up in front of the Inmans' home and waited for Turner, Deputy Horton, and Deputy Carraher, who looked only slightly less sour than she had when taking notes back in Castle Rock, to join me on the doorstep.
Petite, blonde, and too pretty to be considered ordinary by anyone, Carey Inman answered the door as if she were used to welcoming such motley groups. Greta, the small Rottie she had adopted more than a year ago, stood at her side, well behaved and watchful.
Carey didn't wait for introductions. "I'm so glad to see you," she said. "I didn't know whether to feed him or what to feed him."
I didn't tell Carey why it was a good thing she hadn't fed Robot, but just introduced everyone. Carey disappeared for a moment to shut Greta in a bedroom.
"She isn't too happy with a strange dog in her crate," she explained. "I moved it out of our bedroom and into the family room, but she still doesn't like it, and since he isn't staying, there didn't seem to be any reason to introduce them. You said he should stay in the crate."
"That's perfect," I assured her as we all followed her down steps into the family room and over to the plastic Vari-Kennel crate, which I suddenly realized, was roomy for Greta but really too small for Robot, who had been squeezed in there for hours.
"It's a tight fit," Carey apologized again, "but you said...."
"You did just fine," I told her. "Believe me, he was better off here with you in an air-conditioned house than in the heat for hours with me."
I uncoiled the leash from where it rested on top of the crate, reached down and unlatched the wire door on the crate and swung it wide. Robot stepped out as quietly as he did everything else and then stood there, waiting to see what the humans who controlled his life would do next.
For me, the moment was one of those rare ones when the reactions of others take you back in time and let you see something familiar as if for the first time. I was looking down at Robot, but saw Turner's gray-clad legs as he took a step back. At the same time I heard Deputy Horton inhale sharply. I never saw Deputy Carraher move, but when I looked up, her right hand was at her holstered gun. Their combined reactions brought back the memory of the first time I'd walked up to a full grown male Rottweiler, how my mouth had gone dry and my pulse had quickened.
Contrary to urban legend, Rottweilers are not giant dogs, and Robot was a proper twenty-six inches at the shoulder. He tipped the scale at my vet's office at one hundred and twenty pounds, a good weight that included little fat and showed off sleek, powerful muscling. He had come to rescue with no known background, but Susan estimated he was between two and three years old, a mature male with the typical substantial bone, strong level back, and deep chest.
In his time in foster care, Robot had shed a lot of dull, dry hair, and now, after the bath I'd given him the day before, his short black coat had a healthy shine, and the mahogany markings on his legs, chest, and face had a rich glow.
Still, it is undoubtedly the head that leaves so many people in awe of these dogs. Broad in the skull, with ears folded close to his head in a way that emphasized the breadth, Robot also had the developed cheekbones and shortish wide muzzle that all add up to impressive. His eyes were the proper medium size and almond shape, but instead of the dark brown, almost black color, the breed standard calls for, Robot's eyes were a topaz that made them stand out eerily in his dark face.
I pretended not to have noticed the reactions of any of my companions and snapped the leash onto his collar. My thanks to Carey were all the more prolonged and profuse because of my new insight into exactly what this small woman had done for me in putting a strange big dog into her car, taking him home, and stuffing him into a too small crate in her home.
Carey refused to let us leave until Robot had a drink, and I refused to put him in my car until he had a walk down the block. I even offered Deputy Horton the full plastic cleanup bag after our walk, but he insisted in a most gentlemanly fashion that I keep custody of the "evidence."
Turner and I followed the sheriff's car to the emergency veterinary hospital the county had decided to use to examine Robot. The hospital was a new one, open nights and weekends and closed during ordinary business hours. I was not familiar with the place, even by reputation, but as the heat began to fade with evening, and fatigue began to creep up my spine, I was grateful for an agreement on anywhere that didn't mean much more driving.
The staff was expecting us. As soon as we arrived, a wide-eyed vet tech led us to a large examining room. There was only one chair in the room, and I sank into it without asking, holding Robot close to me. No one spoke in the few minutes we waited before the vet appeared.
Dr. Jaeger was a small, round man who looked too young to have many years of practice behind him, but he had an easy way with Robot and showed none of the fear of big dogs too common in veterinarians these days. He asked me once if a muzzle would be necessary, and simply accepted my negative answer.
He started by running a handheld scanning device over Robot's shoulders until the microchip implanted there registered in the scanner window. He wrote the number at the top of the record he was starting for Robot, and both deputies verified the number on the scanner and initialed the record. He accepted the full plastic bag from me without comment and placed it on the counter. He used a small sharp instrument to scrape around each of Robot's nails. The rust color of some of those scrapings made me glad to be sitting down.
I watched as if from a great distance as Dr. Jaeger and Deputy Horton discussed the best way to get prints of Robot's paws. In the end they unrolled what looked like a large piece of wrapping paper on the floor, dipped each of Robot's feet in a blue liquid and walked him across the paper. The blue pawprints looked all too much like the red ones I'd seen so much earlier in the day. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and I leaned forward, elbows on thighs, head down.
"Are you all right?" Owen Turner asked.
"Yes. As soon as this is over I'll be fine," I assured him.
"Just a little bit more." Dr. Jaeger rubbed Robot behind one ear. "This good boy is making things easy," he said, earning a new client for his emergency services, even though I hoped never to need them.
"What is this?" he asked, his fingers still on the ear, but now moving over the entire length.
"Scars," I said. "He has a lot of scars all over."
I watched the vet's skilled hands move over every inch of Robot and saw from the look on his face he didn't like what he found any better than I did.
"Where did this dog come from?" he asked.
"A Good Samaritan found him more dead than alive on the side of Highway 85 north of Greeley. They took him to a vet up there, and the vet called our rescue group."
"Were these open wounds?"
"No, they were healed over already. The only fresh wound was from a bullet that almost killed him. Evidently it came close enough for whoever dumped him. Maybe they thought he was dead."
"And maybe he didn't care enough to make sure," Jaeger said angrily.
"He?" Owen Turner asked. "You know who did it?"
"No," I told him. "We just know the kind of person who did it, and it's almost always men. They try to fight Rottweilers, but Rotties aren't fighting dogs, and when the dogs don't work out, they dump them, and sometimes they use them as bait for real fighting dogs before they dump them. The scars on Robot - he would have made somebody like that really mad, he's totally non-aggressive towards other dogs." And towards all people, but I didn't bother saying that, as everyone in this room was seeing that first hand.
The rest of the exam didn't take long. Robot endured having blood drawn out of him and an emetic poured into him. He vomited promptly and saved himself a second dose.
I thanked Dr. Jaeger sincerely and left him labeling various samples.
In the parking lot, Deputy Carraher shut herself in the cruiser without a word, saving both of us any false politeness. I thanked Owen Turner and Deputy Horton and assured them that I was capable of driving home by myself.
I lied. Instead of starting the drive home, I detoured to the drive-through line at the nearest Arby's. Robot might not like people, but he was a fan of people food. Sharing a roast beef sandwich and potato cakes with him made me feel better. After all was said and done, the day was ending for both of us the same way it had begun, going down the road together. All considered, it could have been worse. For Jack Sheffield it had been a lot worse.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
THAT FIRST MALE ROTTWEILER THAT I'd ever met was my ex-husband's dog Butch. Butch was only one of the surprises John Brennan brought into our marriage. Like many young men, John had gotten himself a Rottweiler puppy on a whim.
Of course, unlike a Harley, a pickup, or a tattoo, the living breathing masculinity symbol John chose grew into an unruly adult dog that he dumped on his mother, who kept Butch tied in her yard until her son married me and she saw her chance. On her first visit to our new home, "Mother" Brennan brought Butch with her and tied him in our yard.
"Now that you have a home of your own, you need a watch dog," she said, almost unable to contain her glee.
Butch was only one of the many things John and I disagreed about with increasing vehemence over the course of our short and unhappy union. Our divorce settlement did not address the dog because neither of us wanted him. John was out of the house by then and never responded to any plea to take his dog. His mother had moved to another state. With no little bitterness, I suspected she'd deliberately made herself unavailable for involvement with any debris from our failed marriage, particularly Butch.
"Just take him to the pound," John told me blithely. "He's a great dog. Someone will adopt him."
As a matter of fact, I did take him to a shelter, the politically correct term for pound, but I never took him inside. Even without knowing the statistics, I suspected John's "great dog," so totally untrained that getting a leash on him and battling his filthy self into my car had taken all my strength and wiles, would not attract a line of eager adopters.
I watched several other people take dogs into the building. No one took any out. I wondered what Butch's odds would be in that place. I wondered how they killed - euthanized - the unwanted.
Butch never went in that building, but in the end, I did. The staff was quite willing to tell me about an alternative for Butch. Rottweiler Rescue. It sounded grand. It sounded safe. I called the number they gave me with great relief and got - Susan McKinnough.
The reason Susan is fond of me, I suspect, is that I'm one of the few callers wanting to "find a new home" for an unwanted and hopelessly unadoptable dog who ever listened to her.
Susan told me the unvarnished truth she tells all callers like me.
"Most adopters want young dogs. The few people who will adopt a dog as old as four want one that's housebroken, trained, good with children and other animals. If you find someone to take him, they'll keep him exactly the way your husband kept him, on a chain in the yard. Do you think that's any kind of life for a dog?"
No, I didn't, which was why John and I had argued about Butch on and off for the entire two years of our marriage. It was also why I felt guilty. I had argued but had never done anything about it, in part because I didn't know what to do.
Susan also told me about the other things that could happen to an intact male Rottweiler like Butch, things that were worse than living on a chain. She explained that sometimes euthanasia is the only decent thing that can happen to a dog.
"He's only four years old," I argued. "Surely there has to be something better for him."
"He's your dog," she said. "If you aren't willing to give him what he needs, why do you think someone else should?"
He's not my dog! I wanted to shout. He's John's dog! But John was already long gone on his merry way. Butch was mine, like it or not. So I asked Susan what to do, and she told me, although our voices reflected our mutual lack of confidence in my ability to bring about any change for the better in Butch.