It’s hopeless, Herman groaned. I’m held prisoner in this pigpen called a kitchen, chained to a filthy stove. He surveyed his grim surroundings with a shudder. A single, bare light bulb swung from a frayed cord overhead. Greasy dishes teetered high above the stained porcelain sink. A smelly red and white-checkered oilcloth covered a rickety white table, badly in need of paint.
Herman crouched as far from Alex as his chain would allow, expecting the blows to come raining down on his head any second.
“If you want to see another meal, you better talk for me, you stupid beast.” Alex’s shaking hand clutched an empty whisky bottle retrieved from the pile of empties littering the linoleum floor. Alex took careful aim at Herman’s head ready to strike, but changed his mind. Something in the animal’s unflinching gaze made Alex stop.
In the far reaches of his memory, Alex recalled faithful Sam, the golden retriever he owned as a kid. Sam had that same penetrating look until he died in the fire that destroyed Alex’s house, carelessly set by Alex’s drunken stepfather. Alex never recovered from Sam’s death. From that day on, Alex refused to speak to the old man.
The next morning Alex, more inebriated than the day before, dangled a tender, juicy T-bone steak inches from Herman’s snout. Heavenly molecules invaded Herman’s sensitive nose. It was as if a strong rope was drawing him to the source of the delicious aroma against his will.
“Come on. I know you must be starving, you lousy dog. All you hafta do is talk and the steak’s yours.”
Herman didn’t bother to raise his head. Alex hounded the dog determined to break him, with no success.
Weary of Alex, Herman mustered enough courage to utter a few raspy words. “I will never do what you ask because you’re a selfish man.”
A fit of coughing interrupted Herman’s speech, but only for a moment. “Thomas, the best friend I ever had, told me that some things are more important than eating and sleeping—even life itself. If I have to die, at least I know I did the right thing. You can eat the stupid steak yourself.” With that, Herman turned his back.
Down at police headquarters, Detective Kelly outlined his plan of action to his hardheaded boss. Police Chief Meredith Morris couldn’t understand why this simple case was taking so long.
“Tomorrow,” Kelly said, sounding more confident than he felt, “I’m going to get a statement from Victoria Vickers. It was fishy her turning up at the scene of the crime and Rocky pumping me for information.”
Morris leafed through the pages of Kelly’s report. “So what’s the deal with the victim, this Thomas Thomas?” asked Police Chief Morris, slightly irritated.
“We’ve turned up zilch,” answered Kelly. “Looks like the guy never got into trouble—at least anything we can find.”
“You’d better watch yourself, Kelly. Victoria Vickers has a list of important friends in this town that will come to her aid like an army if she’s in trouble.”
Police Chief Morris slapped the file on Kelly’s desk. “If anything happens to her, it’s not just your neck that’s on the line, it’s mine too.”
At last Kelly reached Victoria by phone. He explained the reason for his call. “Miss Vickers, is there anything you can tell us that might have a bearing on this case?”
“Not that I can think of…except possibly one thing,” she answered hesitantly. “This may sound kind of strange, but was there a dog on the premises? Thomas mentioned something about a dog in his letter and I spotted one at the crime scene.”
“Funny you should ask,” said Detective Kelly. “We turned a small dog over to animal control the night his owner, Thomas Thomas, was killed.”
Victoria answered with sudden firmness, “I want to see that dog.”
“OK,” said Kelly. “How soon can you be ready?”
“Pick me up in twenty minutes at my TV station.”