Candidate for Murder Page 14

  “Gnarly, what is your position on Spencer’s law regarding clotheslines?”

  Immediately the crowd broke into a chant: “Gnarly! Gnarly! Gnarly!”

  Bogie and Gnarly walked up to the podium and microphone. The other two candidates on the stage glared at the audience, angry that the enthusiasm that had been denied to them was being shown for the canine candidate.

  Sitting up tall at Bogie’s side, Gnarly eyed everyone in the audience as though he were looking for someone. His eyes fell on Sheriff Turow, who was dressed in his sheriff’s uniform, and the young girl sitting next to him. A wide grin filled the girl’s face. Gnarly’s mouth dropped open into a grin, and he wagged his tail.

  When the chanting showed no signs of fading, Bogie spoke softly into the mic. Unable to hear him, the audience quieted down. Those who were slower to cease their chant were shushed by their neighbors until everyone was silent.

  Once the room was silent, Bogie began his response again. “Sixty-five people in Pakistan were killed by a suicide bomber yesterday.”

  There was a stunned silence in the room.

  “Two weeks ago, one state away, a seven-year-old little girl was snatched right off of her bike while riding twenty feet behind her friend—she was taken in broad daylight. She was found dead three days later, and the killer still has not been caught. He’s out there somewhere. Maybe he’s in this room right now.”

  The silence became deafening.

  Bogie took the time to allow his words to sink in before continuing. “What would you rather have your police force be doing? Do you want them patrolling for jihadist terrorists who want to blow you up while you’re waiting for an ice cream cone, searching for pedophiles who are hunting your children, or remaining on the lookout for illegally hung panties?”

  There was a growing unease among the audience.

  Bogie cocked his head at them. “Do you know how the whole clothesline mess started?” He pointed across the stage at Bill Clark. “Mr. Clark didn’t like looking out of the window of his home and seeing his neighbor’s extra-large tighty-whities hanging out on the clothesline that he had across his deck. So rather than behaving like a civilized grown-up and politely asking his neighbor to hang his dirty laundry elsewhere or to do it at another time when he wouldn’t have to see it or”—Bogie waved a finger—“Closing his blinds and not looking! Instead, Bill Clark decided to abuse his power on the town council and to create a regulation that would suit his own agenda. And that resulted in neighbors snitching on neighbors and police resources—the ones paid for by your taxes—

  being allocated in what has to be the most foolish manner imaginable.”

  A roar rose out of the crowd.

  Bill Clark was instantly on his feet. “That’s a lie!”

  “No, it’s not!” an overweight man yelled. “You’ve been bitching about seeing my underwear for years, Clark! I told you every summer to just close your blinds if you didn’t want to see them, but no!” He turned around to shout to his friends and neighbors. “Clark told me last year that he was going to have clotheslines outlawed so that he wouldn’t have to see my laundry hanging out on my back deck.”

  “If you don’t believe me,” Bogie said, “contact the secretary of the town council, and ask for the minutes of the town-council meeting in February of this year. They’re public record. All you have to do is go to city hall and ask for a copy of the minutes, and you will see who proposed the law banning clotheslines. The name of that person is”—Bogie pointed his finger across the stage—“Bill Clark, who less than ten minutes ago told everyone here in this room that he never supported the ban. If he never supported it, why did he himself propose it in the first place?”

  Seeing the audience turn on him, Bill Clark fired off a glare at the young man with whom he had been giggling before the debate. The young man quickly typed out a text on his cell phone.

  Picking up her cell phone, Salma said, “Our next question is for Gnarly.”

  Nancy Braxton was on her feet. “It’s my turn! I get the next question first.” Offstage, George Ward and Erin gestured for Nancy Braxton to quiet down. A pouty expression crossed Nancy’s face, and she stomped one of her feet.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Bogie braced for the ambush that he’d anticipated would come his way.

  “Do you believe that Gnarly has the temperament to be the mayor of Spencer, a resort town frequented by families, many of whom have young children?”

  Bogie let out a sigh of relief. “Why, of course. Why wouldn’t he? Everyone here knows Gnarly.”

  A roar of agreement rose up in the room.

  Studying Gnarly, Salma waited for the chorus to die down. “Gnarly does have a history of biting and even killing people.”

  “In the line of duty,” Bogie said. “Gnarly proudly served his country in the military. He’s also worked police cases here in Spencer.”

  “Gnarly has attacked and killed people?” Salma asked.

  “So have I,” Bogie said. “It’s not something that either of us wanted to do, but when it comes to keeping the peace and saving people from the bad guys, we sometimes have to step up to bat and do what has to be done.”

  “Gnarly is a killer. Is that what you’re saying, Deputy Chief Bogart?”

  “He’s not a killer.”

  “But he’s killed people,” Salma said. “If he’s killed people, then he is a killer, so can he really be trusted around people—and, in particular, children?”

  Furious, Bogie said, “If you don’t think Gnarly can be trusted around children because he’s killed murderers out to kill innocent people, then I guess you can’t trust me around them either.”

  “Did you ever kill your partner?”

  Bogie’s mouth dropped open. With a shake of his head, he said, “Huh? Repeat that.”

  “First Sergeant Belle Perkins,” Salma said with no emotion. “Gnarly’s handler in Iraq. He killed her in her sleep. Isn’t that why he received a dishonorable discharge from the US Army? Because he’s a killer dog?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Spencer Manor

  “Mac, I wish you hadn’t insisted on leaving the hospital,” David said while he and Murphy were helping Mac up the stairs to the master suite.

  “What were they going to do to stop me? Arrest me? Put me in jail next to my crazy, homicidal dog?” At the top of the stairs, Mac brushed David’s hands away from his arm. “Gnarly is not crazy! Yes, he’s a kleptomaniac, and he has issues, but he’s not a psychopathic killer. I don’t care what that so-called journalist says—he did not kill his handler. I’ll never believe it, and I’m going to prove to every single one of them that he didn’t kill her.”

  He turned around to where Murphy was holding his other arm. “You’ve got all types of clearances, Murphy. There has to be a report somewhere about Gnarly’s handler getting killed. Find it!”

  “I have a call in to my commanding officer,” Murphy said. “She’ll let me know when she gets it.”

  “When she calls back, put her on speaker,” Mac said. “I want to know what happened.”

  “You don’t have the security clearance, Mac. That’s why they wouldn’t tell any of you anything before.”

  Mac’s eyes were blazing when he stepped up to his son-in-law. “I don’t give a damn about security clearances. I don’t care if I have to go all the way to the other side of the planet. Gnarly saved my life, and he saved David’s life—he’s always been there for everyone! I want his name cleared. Now.” Pushing Murphy aside, he went into the bedroom. The slam of the door echoed through the large home.

  David sighed. “I’ve never seen Mac that mad.”

  “You’ve known Gnarly for years,” Murphy said. “Do you believe he could’ve flipped out and killed his handler?”

  “I’d believe it of Mac before I’d believe it of Gnarly.”

  The
doorbell rang downstairs.

  Noting that it was after eleven o’clock at night, David said, “It’s probably the media.”

  Archie peered through the window to check who was on the front porch before she opened the door for Sheriff Turow and a young girl.

  Concerned that the sheriff wanted to lock Gnarly up for being dangerous, Archie said, “Gnarly’s not here. We thought the media would be hounding him, so Bogie and Dallas took him to an undisclosed location.”

  Grinning at Archie’s nervousness, the sheriff shook his head and then nodded to Murphy and David, who were on the stairs, and to Jessica, who had come up from the dining room. “No, I didn’t come to arrest Gnarly for anything. I know he’s not a killer.” He ushered the girl forward. “I don’t believe any of you have met my daughter, Kelly.”

  While Sheriff Turow made the introductions, Kelly Turow, who was approximately ten years old, stepped into the living room, where they could see that her eyes were red, and her face stained with tears. All of their hearts went out to her.

  A solemn mood fell over the room, and the sheriff said, “Can we all sit down? I have something very important to tell you. Mac should hear this too.”

  At the top of the stairs, Murphy rushed into the bedroom to urge Mac to join them. Jessica went to the kitchen to prepare a pitcher of iced tea and to get the cake that she’d found in the refrigerator.

  Once they were all settled in the living room and Kelly was sitting close to her father on the sofa, Sheriff Turow began.

  “Five years ago, just after Kelly had turned five years old, her mother, a first sergeant in the army, was shipped off to Iraq for a yearlong mission. She was killed overseas.”

  “I can only imagine how awful that must have been,” Jessica said.

  Sheriff Turow cleared his throat before he continued. “Her name was First Sergeant Belle Perkins.”

  Hearing the name, they all sat up in their seats.

  “That’s why Gnarly took to you the way he did,” David said. “And why you always give him toys and—”

  “I’ve known Gnarly since he was a pup,” Sheriff Turow said. “So has Kelly, though she can barely remember him. I’m sorry. I never really talked to Kelly about this before. I only talked fondly about Gnarly, who we have pictures of in our family album. I took her tonight to the debate—we both felt as proud as parents about his success—and then they said those things. But they’re lies, and I felt that I had to tell you. What they said tonight”—his voice began to sound like a growl—“well, Gnarly never would have hurt Belle. Yes, she did die over there. But she was not attacked by a dog. The day before she was killed, she, Gnarly, and their unit were ambushed by Islamic terrorists. Four men in their unit were killed. Belle and Gnarly saved everyone else. On his own, Gnarly circled around and killed two snipers who had pinned them to a wall, and Belle took out two others. She skyped with me and told me about it, and then she said that during the last few days of their mission some really funky things had been going on. They were repeatedly ambushed.” He sighed. “I don’t have a lot of specific information about how she died or about the actual circumstances of her death, because their mission was highly classified, but the army did tell me one thing.” He turned to face Kelly. “Belle was not attacked by a dog, and Gnarly is not a killer.”

  The cell phone buzzing in his pocket prompted Murphy to get up from his seat and go out onto the deck.

  “Do you at least know the cause of death?” Mac asked.

  The sheriff looked at his daughter, apparently weighing whether he should answer that question in her presence. “Strangulation. And the commanding officer of the unit decided that since Gnarly did nothing to thwart the attack or to defend his partner, he was a coward, and he had him drummed out of the army.”

  “Gnarly is not a coward.” Archie practically jumped out of her seat.

  “Nor is he a killer,” Mac said. “Do you have any idea why he didn’t defend Belle?”

  “I know exactly why.” Sheriff Turow looked down at his daughter. “After that ambush and after they got back to the base, Belle found out that Gnarly had been hit. His hip had been grazed by a bullet. She told me—the last time I talked to her—that after we finished talking, she was going to take him back to her tent to treat his wound.”

  “Because of the remote locations of army missions,” David said, “dog handlers have to be able to work on their dogs and to do minor surgeries—they can’t get them to a pet hospital.”

  “Depending on how bad Gnarly’s wound was,” Sheriff Turow said, “Belle would have had to anesthetize him before stitching his wound.”

  “In which case Gnarly would have most likely been asleep when Belle was killed,” Archie said.

  “But all they would’ve had to do was give him a blood test, and they would’ve seen that,” Jessica said.

  “When the military contacted me about Belle’s death and Gnarly’s being a coward,” Sheriff Turow said, “I told them that she’d been operating on him that night, but it was too late. The sedative was out of his system. The CO wrote up a report saying that Gnarly was a coward, and he was released from duty. I tried to find him because I wanted him to come live with us, but his records were sealed. I didn’t know what had happened to him and even suspected that he had been put to sleep—until the day I met all of you, and Gnarly jumped out of David’s cruiser.”

  At Turow’s reference to wanting Gnarly to live with his family, Archie and Mac exchanged looks of concern.

  “Well,” Mac said, “looks like we have some work to do. We need to get to the bottom of this, find out who killed Belle, and clear Gnarly’s name.”

  “And bring down the dirty, rotten liars who called Gnarly a killer,” Kelly said.

  “Yeah!” Archie bumped fists with her.

  Murphy came in from the deck. “Sorry I had to step outside. I needed to take a call.”

  “Any success?” Jessica asked him.

  “If you’re asking whether I got a copy of Gnarly’s military records and his handler’s case file, the answer is yes.”

  Mac pulled himself up off of the sofa. “What are we all sitting around for? Time to get to work.”

  It was after midnight.

  After the debate, Dallas had rushed to bring Gnarly back to David’s home on the lake.

  Upon seeing Gnarly walk through the door, Storm leaped over the back of the sofa on which she’d been sleeping and met him halfway across the great room. The two shepherds twirled around in unison and headed to the back door, and Dallas let them frolic outside.

  Despite the late hour, Dallas did not want to sleep. She was struck by the long, detailed yarn that Nancy Braxton had spun at the debate.

  Generally, politicians lie. But that whole thing about flying into sniper fire and negotiating with Somali pirates was not a normal lie. It was downright outlandish.

  Who in their right mind would make up something so bizarre? Only a nut.

  After making a series of phone calls and sending out e-mails to her connections, Dallas was able to ascertain how much of Nancy’s claim was true.

  Nancy Braxton had once eaten dinner at a Somali restaurant in Washington, DC, which is where the State Department is—and the State Department is where the secretary of state works. It was entirely possible that she and the secretary had both been in the same city at the same time.

  Otherwise, none of Dallas’ connections, some of whom knew the secretary of state, had any reason to believe that he even knew Nancy Braxton, let alone that he would’ve entrusted her with handling negotiations on behalf of the United States.

  If such a thing had happened, wouldn’t it have made national news?

  Dallas decided that the woman was delusional, which begged the question, why would her political party go to such lengths to get her elected to office?

  Recalling the look on George Ward’s face wh
en he’d heard the yarn, she realized that maybe the party was only then starting to realize the depth of her detachment from reality. Maybe that was the topic of the serious discussion he was having with Erin Devereux. Maybe Nancy Braxton was nuts enough to have shot her own assistant.

  A high-pitched scream sent shock waves up Dallas’ spine and up out of the top of her head.

  Storm!

  The gut-wrenching yelp was mixed with an anguished cry for help and accompanied by a screech that Dallas recognized from growing up on a ranch in Texas.

  Mountain lion!

  Springing out of her seat on the sofa, Dallas snatched up her bag. While digging her hand inside for her semiautomatic, she sprinted to the door and threw it open.

  In the yard off of the back deck, she saw that Storm was down on the ground and that a big cat was tearing at the fur on the back of her neck while she was fighting it and wailing. Shaking with anger and terror for her dog, Dallas tried to take aim but was afraid of hitting Storm.

  If she was going to save Storm, she had no choice.

  Gnarly’s growl filled the air as he tore out of the darkness. All Dallas saw was a flash of movement.

  The mountain lion had only enough time to leap off of his victim before Gnarly body-slammed him with a hundred pounds of fur, teeth, and claws. The force of the impact made the two animals seem to bounce off of each other, but they reconnected instantly in an all-out battle.

  Unable to shoot the mountain lion for fear of hitting Gnarly, Dallas fired her gun into the air, which sent the mountain lion running off into the darkness—with Gnarly hot on his trail.

  Dallas ran to Storm, who was lying where the mountain lion had left her and bleeding from the wounds on her neck and back.

  “You’re okay, baby,” Dallas said, sobbing into Storm’s sable fur.

  Covered in blood, the dog whimpered.

  Gently, she picked up the trembling dog and carried her toward the house. When she heard the mountain cat’s screeches and Gnarly’s snarling barks, she stopped and peered into the darkness—praying that Gnarly would be okay.