"It's sure as hell not characteristic of the breed," said the sergeant in charge of the four-officer K-9 squad, frowning.
"He was trained to be a guard dog," Chris pointed out.
"I know. I've given this case a lot of thought. A guard dog is trained to warn off intruders by a display of aggression. Normally they won't attack unless given a direct command or threatened by the intruder. If they do attack, it's to disarm or disable the target, not kill."
"Yet here we have a situation where the dog clearly meant to kill. He went for the throat, which you say is not what they would normally do. And the victim was known to the dog. Not on familiar terms, but known. How do you account for that scenario?"
"Training. He would have to be trained to kill. On command."
"Could the dog's owner train him to do that?"
"The owner not being a professional dog trainer?"
"Let's assume that's the case."
"Unlikely. Very unlikely. I guess someone could get hold of a training manual and try a do-it-yourself course. But the end result is almost certain to be a ruined, dangerous animal that would have to be put down, or one badly mauled or dead owner."
"And in the hands of a qualified, professional trainer?"
"No problem. An animal like this Blitzkreig is already conditioned to be aggressive and to obey commands. It wouldn't be hard to turn him into a killer."
"Where would one find a trainer who could do that?"
The sergeant grimaced. "There's an outfit just west of Airdrie, K-9 Kennels—how do you like that for a name? They specialize in training guard dogs; they probably trained the dog we're talking about. We have reason to suspect they will take the training a step further if the price is right."
"Who would want an animal like that?"
"You'd be surprised. It's an ego trip for some of these bastards—bikers, gang members, wannabe toughs. They think owning a dog like that gives them status."
"Tell me more about this K-9 Kennels."
"It pisses me off every time I hear that name." The canine cop exhaled audibly. "Anyway it's not what you would call a kennel, where you would board your dog or buy a pup. It's a training school, and I've got to admit they do a good job. Very professional. But from time to time we hear rumours that they also run an undercover operation where they turn dogs into lethal weapons. We don't know where this is done, or even if it is done. All we hear are rumours."
"You've never looked into this?"
The sergeant shrugged. "No reason to. Besides, it's not in our jurisdiction." The sergeant's eyes quickened with interest. "You figure you're on to something, Crane?"
"I hope not. I really hope not. But I've got to check it out. Show me where the, er, kennel is located."
Unthinkable. That Melanie's death could have been murder. Murder by dog. Unthinkable or not, his line of work required him to follow the evidence wherever it might lead. He would soon find out whether the evidentiary trail that seemed to be opening up in this case would lead anywhere. Chris wasn't a member of the Ranchmen's Club, but his principal broker was. He'd give Jack Adams a call, tell him it was time they had lunch together, and mention how fond he was of the toasted lobster sandwiches the club was famous for.
It was Parade Day, the official kickoff for the ten days of Stampede, and the venerable Ranchmen's Club was alive with Stampede spirit. Everyone, including Chris and his host, wore Western attire, and a five-piece band, hired for the occasion, twanged out Western tunes. Drinks in hand, "cowboys" and "cowgirls" milled around the receptionist's desk inside the main entrance. Peering over the crush of white hats, and the odd black one, Chris spotted Maud Simpson's replacement, a woman somewhere in her mid-thirties, strands of blond hair escaping from under her Stetson.
"I'm impressed you were able to get a reservation on such short notice." Chris moved aside to make way for some new arrivals.
"I have lunch here two or three times a week, so they squeezed us in."
Someone in the crowd touched Chris on the elbow. Turning, he saw it was one of the ranchers he had met at the Bent Tree—the one who'd said he would soon catch the cattle mutilator if he was as good a detective as he was a rider. As they shook hands Chris asked him if he had watched the parade.
"Watched? I rode in it. Same as always. So did the Taylors. All three of them. There's been a Taylor in the parade ever since anyone can remember, and they weren't about to break with that tradition. No way. They decided not to attend this affair, though."
Before he could reply to this, Jack motioned that they should go upstairs to the dining room for lunch.
Chris put down his half-finished Virgin Caesar and followed him up the impressive staircase.
"Delicious. As always," Chris said as they ate. Halfway through the meal, he took a swallow of Chardonnay and said, "Excuse me for a minute, Jack, I've got to pay a visit."
The men's washroom was midway down a long hall, lined with framed photos of past presidents of the club. It was only a hunch on Chris's part, but someone of Cameron Taylor's stature in the ranching community was almost bound to have served as president at some time or other. There were a hundred or more photos, beginning with what looked like a daguerreotype of the first president, dated 1891, high up on the south wall. His hunch was right. Taylor had been president back in 2000–2001. His photo was on the opposite wall. That was a few years ago, but he still looked very much like his colour photo. And, by God, there was a photo of his father! That Cameron Taylor had been president in 1964–65. The family resemblance was strong. Almost uncanny. Talk about a dynasty! Pretending to admire the display, Chris waited while two couples, chatting animatedly, walked past on their way to the dining room, then took the miniature digital camera from his pocket and snapped off three exposures of the present-day Cameron Taylor. Mission accomplished. Now for the next step. A step that should tell the tale, one way or another.
Airdrie was outside his jurisdiction, and protocol normally would demand that he bring the "horsemen"—the media's favourite nickname for the RCMP—into the picture. But that would mean exposing Taylor as a suspect in the hideous murder of his daughter-in-law. Inevitably, word would get around the ranching community of which he was such a prominent member. And it wouldn't matter if he turned out to be completely innocent. There would always be that lingering taint. Chris needed a backup, someone to witness what went down. The presence of an officer in uniform was bound to attract the attention of the dog trainer, make him more inclined to cooperate. But, as always, the Stampede was straining the resources of the police. For one thing, the surveillance of the parks had been reduced to the occasional drive-by. Gwen was lending a hand to Crime Scenes on a break-and-enter case, trying to find a match for a partial footprint that she had managed to lift from the carpet. But her reaction and advice as things developed at the training kennel would be invaluable. The B&E could wait.
The entrance was suitably impressive, if deliberately menacing. Life-sized metal cutouts of two German shepherds, with jaws agape and teeth bared, surmounted brick gateposts. The gate itself was a metal grille, finished in matte black. It was necessary to get out of the car to activate the call button set into one of the gate posts.
There was a click followed by a metallic-sounding voice asking who was there and what they wanted.
"Detectives Crane and Staroski of the Calgary Police Service. We just want to ask you a few questions."
"Shit!" Then silence. Chris was about to press the button once again when the gate began to swing open. A narrow, gravelled road traversed empty sunbaked fields behind high steel mesh fences topped with barbed wire, then dipped down into a hollow where dog runs extended out from three low concrete-block buildings. All of the runs were empty, and an eerie silence greeted the two detectives when Chris switched off the engine. He and Gwen exchanged glances, then watched a heavyset man step out from behind one of the kennels and walk toward them. He was dressed rough in patched jeans and a soiled shirt stained with dark patches under the armpits.
"Good afternoon, sir." Chris got out of the car and showed his badge. Gwen came around the rear to stand beside him. "You are the owner of this establishment?"
"What if I am?" Up close, he was even less prepossessing. Stubble darkened florid, veined cheeks; a tuft of grey hair sprouted from his chin. Under unkempt brows, his eyes glared belligerently.
"Could we have your name, sir?"
"Jim. Jim Mercer." The words were spat out.
"Thank you, Mr. Mercer." Chris looked around the yard and remarked almost conversationally, "It's very quiet. No barking."
"They bark when they're told to. What in hell do you think you are doing on my property?"
"Looking for some help with an inquiry we're conducting."
A scornful grunt was the only response to this lowkey approach.
"All we're asking is for you to look at a photograph and tell us if you recognize the gentleman."
Mercer shook his head and handed the photo back without looking at it.
"You can do better than that. Take another look."
"Our relationship with our clients is confidential." The phrase was obviously rehearsed and trotted out with gusto. It was also bullshit, and Chris was pretty sure Mercer would know that. Chris could always fall back on the threat of obstruction of justice charges, subpoenas, and perjury, but first he would try a softer, gentler approach.
"You know, Mr. Mercer, we're in the same business, you and I. Security. Trying to make the world a safer place for the ordinary citizen. We're on the same side, Jim."
The dog trainer stared at Chris for a long moment, then held out his hand for the photograph. "Yeah, I recognize him."
"What was your connection with him?"
"He brought his dog here for training."
"Who else was with him?"
"Nobody."
"When was this?"
"A few months ago." Mercer paused as if to refresh his memory. "March."
"What kind of training did he want? Blitzkreig ... that was the dog, right?" Chris paused, noted that Mercer was becoming increasingly alarmed, and continued, "He was already trained as a guard dog. By you, I believe?"
"Yeah. This was kind of like an advanced course. Post-graduate, know what I mean?"
Briefly diverted by this turn of phrase, Chris said, "A post-graduate course in killing. Right? Okay," he added when the kennel owner remained silent, "you don't have to answer that. I can tell from your expression that's what you were doing. I hope you were well paid, Jim. Let's take a look at your records."
"I don't keep no records for things like that."
"Listen to me, Jim. You're in trouble and you know it. I can get a warrant and search this place, but things will go better for you if I don't have to. A lot better."
"What do you want?" This with a surly, resigned shrug.
"To see how and where you conducted this postgraduate course." Chris looked around the scrupulously clean yards and still silent kennels. "For starters, how do you keep things so quiet?"
"Muzzles."
"Round the clock?"
"No. A couple of hours in the afternoon. Like now. So they learn."
"What about staff? You can't run this place all by yourself."
"I have a helper."
"I want to meet him."
"It's not a him. It's a her. She's looking at us." Gwen pointed to a window near the front of the second building, where the slender outline of a young woman could be seen peering out.
"I'll talk to her later. Right now I want to see the kil—training ground."
The ATV was hidden behind a screen of evergreens. Mercer lifted off its concealing shroud of branches and piled them neatly to one side. A barely discernible track wound through the trees. "We don't come this way very often," Mercer volunteered as they jolted over a patch of rough ground ribbed with spreading tree roots. "No call to."
A wooden shack, so dilapidated it looked abandoned, stood in the middle of a small clearing. Some large rocks were scattered around its base, looking as if they had once formed part of its foundation. Mercer turned one over, picked up a key, and unlocked the door. Unexpectedly, the interior was neat and orderly. A narrow aisle separated a table, two kitchen chairs, and two padlocked closets from the caged enclosure on the other side. The set-up was clearly designed to handle one animal at a time. Not surprising.
"What do you use for a target?" asked Chris. "A dummy?"
"That wouldn't work." Mercer looked insulted. "Janet, the girl you saw." Taking a key down from behind the ledge running along the top of the wall, Mercer opened the door of the closet nearest the door. A suit of padded, protective clothing hung from a hook below a helmet that had once been a goalie's mask. Padded gloves lay on a shelf. Despite its makeshift appearance, the costume was irresistibly reminiscent of a medieval suit of armour.
"I see the throat has been specially reinforced," observed Chris, fingering the neck of the tunic. "That would be what Blitzkreig would be taught to aim for."
"Only on command."
"And what would that command be? Something like ‘kill'?"
Staring down at the concrete floor, the beleaguered dog trainer asked, "What's in it for me if I tell you?"
"As I'm sure you already know, you could be facing a very impressive array of charges. Some serious enough to involve jail time. If you confirm what we already know and close down this part of your operation, things will go a lot better for you. But you will have to testify in court. Now, Blitzkreig was trained to kill. That's correct?"
Looking as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, Mercer nodded almost eagerly.
"What was the command? It must have been more than a simple ‘kill.' That's too dangerous. It could be triggered accidentally."
"You have to send him on with your left hand. Like this." Mercer's arm moved in a wide downward sweeping arc. "It has to be the left."
Like TLC with his damn crosses. Shaking off the thought, Chris drove home the final point. "Mr. Taylor knew the command?"
"Yeah. He did."