Megan
We left the zoo, and soon my butt was back in the same fake-leather wing chair in the chief’s office where I had sat as he’d chewed me out for Tasering Derek. This time, the detective sat in a matching chair next to me. The oversized chief sat on the other side of his oversized desk in an oversized chair. A veritable zoo of animal heads stared over his shoulder with their unseeing glass eyes. Creepy and ironic. I averted my gaze from the chief’s collection of carnage.
“Good God a’mighty,” he muttered. “What’s that on your hands, Officer Luz?”
I cringed. “It’s a Valentine’s manicure, sir. I wasn’t supposed to be working today.”
“You expect to fight crime looking like a fairy princess?” Before I could respond, he barked. “What’s going on over at that zoo? And what’s with the people of this city? They’re as worked up over that monkey as they are when a child goes missing. And now we’ve got some kind of deer gone. Thank heavens Christmas is over or we’d be accused of letting one of Santa’s reindeer be kidnapped.”
Despite his hyperbole, and his incorrectly referring to the springbok as a deer rather than an antelope, he had a point. People had accused the department of not doing enough to find Sarki. As I’d been writing a woman a speeding ticket a few days ago, she’d hissed, “You’re out here giving innocent people a hard time when you should be looking for that monkey!” Innocent, my ass. Though I had to admit I would’ve much rather been looking for Sarki than working traffic duty. Another person had pulled to the curb at Forest Park as I’d let Brigit out to relieve herself. “When are y’all gonna find that poor monkey?” he’d demanded. As soon as my dog finishes taking her dump, I’d wanted to say. Instead, I’d said, “Soon, we hope.”
The public’s concern was the reason behind the press conference, which would begin as soon as we concluded our briefing. The chief needed to assure the public and the press that the department was doing all it could to bring the cuddly creatures back home.
The chief’s rant over, he looked to the detective. “Give me the poop, Hector.”
Detective Bustamente summarized our efforts and the evidence efficiently and effectively. “When the hyancinth macaws went missing, there wasn’t enough evidence to prove they’d been stolen. The zoo chalked it up to human error on the part of a custodian and didn’t file a report. When the monkey turned up gone, Officer Luz and I performed an inspection of the enclosure along with zoo staff. We found no obvious signs of a break-in. The most likely scenario seemed to be an inside job, with the monkey being sold to a private collection, circus, roadside zoo, or somewhere out of the country. Officer Luz spent a lot of time trying to track the animals down online, and personally contacted all of the wildlife parks and pet stores in the area but had no luck. I interviewed zoo staff extensively, and both Officer Luz and I paid a visit to the custodian, but we came up with nothing. Today, Officer Luz noticed that the secured gates had been cut with a welding torch. Brigit trailed the thieves to an outer fence that had also been cut and welded back together.”
The chief took it all in, his head bobbing as he thought. “So whoever did this knows something about welding?”
“Looks that way,” Bustamente said. “Of course we told the zoo staff not to mention that fact to anyone. We don’t want word getting out that we know how the job was done. The thieves might skip town if they know we’re on to them.”
“Got it,” the chief said. “But the welding, that’s your only lead at this point?”
“Yes,” Bustamente admitted.
The chief grunted. “We’re in the middle of the oil patch here, not to mention all those planes being built over at Lockheed and the cars at the GM plant. We’re up to our balls in welders. Is there some other angle you can explore?”
I looked up in thought and there, looking back at me, was a hairy javelina with tusklike bottom teeth. A bobcat not much bigger than Zoe. A pronghorn antelope that looked remarkably similar to the stolen springbok.
“Oh, no!” I sat bolt upright in my seat. We’d assumed that whoever stole Fabiana, Fernando, and Sarki intended to sell them to a collector or zoo, but what if the thief intended to sell the springbok for sport? Rather than living out a life of leisure with its herd at the zoo, it could be pursued and killed by hunters it wouldn’t know to be wary of. After all, as a zoo animal, Dinari was accustomed to humans, trusted them. “Maybe the thieves are planning to sell the springbok for hunting!”
The chief steepled his fingers and frowned. “You could be on to something. Trophy hunters pay upward of thirty grand to shoot an African bongo. About half that for a wildebeest. A little under ten thousand for an Arabian oryx.”
The hunters didn’t have to travel to Africa or Arabia to do it, either. Thanks to the proliferation of canned hunting ranches throughout the state, they could kill these rare species in their own backyard.
The chief pulled a pen and a legal pad from his desk, plunked the pad down on the desktop, and held his pen aloft. “Give me some talking points for the press conference.”
We gave him a quick list of bullet points he could cover. The crime had taken place overnight. Given the type of animal that was taken this time, we suspected more than one person was involved and that a large vehicle, a truck, or trailer would have been needed for transporting the springbok. Crime scene techs were currently on-site looking for fingerprints the thieves might have left behind.
He looked up at me. “What’s that monkey’s name again? Snarky?”
“Sarki,” I said. “No n.”
He jotted it down. “Got it.” He turned his eyes on me. “Whatever you do, make sure your fingernails don’t show on camera.”
I flinched. “Yes, sir.”
With that, we headed down to the first-floor briefing room where press conferences were held. Two dozen reporters from local newspapers, radio, and television stations filled the chairs. Several more who’d been unable to snag a seat stood along the back wall beside a number of camera operators with equipment perched on their shoulders. A tech from the department’s PR office sat behind a projector that displayed a rotating series of photos on the screen at the front of the room. Hyacinth macaws, a colobus monkey, a springbok.
Derek stood in the front corner of the room, ostensibly to keep order. But I knew why he was really here. Because he was the chief’s hunting buddy and golden boy, and because having both a female K-9 team and an alpha male cop on the case would make good optics. The chief hadn’t risen through the ranks on his law enforcement skills alone. He had public relations acumen, too.
The chief took his place at the podium, while Derek, Detective Bustamente, Brigit, and I lined up behind him as a show of force. I kept both of my hands tightly curled around Brigit’s leash to hide my manicure. My stomach fluttered as if filled with tiny parakeets from the zoo’s Parrot Paradise exhibit. Press conferences could go either way, helping us or hurting us. Sometimes the press was the police department’s best partner in fighting crime and maintaining accountability when officers went astray. Other times they were a thorn in our side, making us look inept or worse. We had a love/hate relationship.
The chief launched into a short monologue, informing the press that yes, despite our increased patrols around the zoo, another animal had been snatched from under our noses. “I’ve assigned a team of my best people to relentlessly pursue those who’d dared to take Sarki and the other beloved creatures from their homes at the zoo.”
Best people? Aw, shucks. I somehow managed to blush and beam at the same time.
Trish LeGrande, a cheesecake reporter from Dallas with a breathy voice, pumpkin-spice hair, and a Texas-sized bosom, shot her hand into the air and stood, teetering on her stilettos. “Do you have any clues as to who might have committed these crimes?”
The chief’s response was intentionally vague. “We’re working some angles.”
“What angles exactly?” Trish demanded.
“I can’t give you more details at this time,” the chief said. “But I feel confident we’ll close in on the thieves soon.”
He hadn’t seemed so confident a few minutes ago in his office, but I knew he had to put on a brave face out here, to give the people hope.
The grilling began, reporters badgering the chief with essentially the same question slightly rephrased, as if he’d somehow be tricked into giving away his secrets. Eventually, the reporters gave up, and turned their attention to my partner.
Trish pointed a pink-tipped finger at Brigit. “Is that the K-9 who was shot recently?”
The chief confirmed. “Yes, it is.”
Trish tilted her head in a coy manner. “I can see that the fur on her chest hasn’t fully grown back yet. Isn’t it soon for her to be back on the job?”
The insinuation that I’d force Brigit back to work before she was ready cut to my core. I loved this precocious pooch with all my heart.
The chief responded with, “The dog’s handler can best answer those questions.”
Uh-oh. Is he expecting me to address a room of reporters? On live TV? I could face violent creeps on the job and barely bat an eye but, thanks to my unpredictable stutter, public speaking scared the heck out of me.
Chief Garelik glanced back at me and held out a hand to invite me to the podium. “Officer Luz?”
There was nothing I could do. My heart pounded and I willed my stutter to stay at bay as I stepped forward. The chief eased aside as I led Brigit to the podium. When the dog realized she couldn’t see anything from behind the large lectern, she stood on her back legs, put her front paws up on the top, and, as if to respond to the question herself, woofed into the microphone.
I raised a hand to indicate my partner. “You have your answer.”
The reporters chuckled. No doubt my partner’s impromptu performance would become the day’s sound bite.
I leaned into the microphone, speaking slowly. “Brigit is not only my partner and packmate, but she’s my best friend. If I’d had any concerns whatsoever about her b-being ready to return to work, I would not have allowed her back on duty. She’s very smart and very driven to do her job, and she let me know she was ready to resume patrol.” It was true. She’d quickly become bored being cooped up at home. All there was to do at the house was guard the backyard against squirrels. Squirrel patrol was the petty duty of mere house dogs.
Trish was relentless. “The bullet struck her chest. It was a serious injury. Surely it’s slowed her down some.”
“Not a bit,” I replied. “She’s b-better than ever.” Yay! I’d gotten through my interview with only two little stutters.
I retreated and the chief resumed his place at the podium, responding to several more questions.
The final question, asked by a reporter from the local NPR radio station, was less forceful and more supportive. “What can the public do to help?”
“Several things,” the chief replied. “We ask anyone with security cameras who lives or runs a business in the vicinity of the zoo to share their footage from last night with us. They can also keep an eye out for these animals.” The chief pointed at the screen on which the springbok currently appeared. “Somebody out there has seen something, knows something. We ask that anyone with information call the number on the screen or 911. Thanks, folks.”
With that, he raised a hand in good-bye and left the podium. He passed us as he aimed for the door, commanding us under his breath, “Find those animals!”
As if we haven’t been putting enough pressure on ourselves. Now I felt like a pot roast in a pressure cooker. Lots of tension and lots of heat.
As Derek went to follow the chief, the detective grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. “You’re not just for show, Officer Mackey. Pay a visit to the businesses along University Drive near the zoo. Get their security tapes. Ditto for the houses on Winton Terrace. The thieves brought the springbok out of the back of the zoo where it borders the street. They must have parked there.”
As much as I despised Derek, adding a third person to the case would help us move the investigation along faster. For the sake of Fabiana, Fernando, Dinari, and sweet little Sarki, I’d suck it up and work with the jerk.
Detective Bustamente and I returned to his office at the station and holed up for a powwow. While we waited for Derek to round up the security camera footage, we needed to move ahead on the other two angles—the wildlife trafficking angle and the welding angle.
I’d already spent quite a bit of time working the wildlife trafficking angle to no success, but because Sarki and the birds would only be valuable alive, I had not contacted any of the trophy-hunting outfits. The missing sprinkbok was another matter. Dinari could be worth more dead than alive, especially to a wealthy trophy hunter looking to add to his collection. Trophy hunters liked tamer prey for a couple of reasons. One, they were easier to shoot because they were habituated to humans and didn’t fear hunters nearly as much as their wild-born counterparts. And two, because they’d been raised in artificial environments, they made more attractive trophies, not bearing the scars and shabby fur of truly wild animals.
Bustamente wagged his fingers at me. “Get on your laptop and find all of the trophy-hunting ranches in the area. We’ve got to move quick before that springbok’s head ends up hanging on someone’s wall.” He tossed me a pad of sticky notes. “Write the names and phone numbers on those notes and hand them to me as you go.”
I set my laptop up on the corner of his desk, logged in to the Internet, and ran a search. I started with ranches in Tarrant and surrounding counties, jotting down the names and phone numbers, and making a row of sticky notes in front of Bustamente. Meanwhile, he was on his phone, calling each of them.
“If anyone tells you they’ve got a single springbok for sale,” he said to the person on the other end of the line, “get their contact information and pass it along to me right away.” He gave the person both his office and cell numbers. “Any time, day or night.”
I continued my search, eventually cyber-venturing into the next counties and secretly wishing the station would hire an intern. While I was glad to be part of such an important case, my skills were being squandered simply searching for information online. A college kid could compile this list. But I supposed not all detective work was particularly challenging or exciting. Again, if I wanted to be a detective, I’d have to take the bad with the good.
When the list seemed to keep growing and growing, I ran a search to find out how many trophy-hunting ranches there were in Texas. Google told me that there were over five hundred. Sheesh. I, in turn, told Bustamente, “There’s more than five hundred in Texas alone. Thousands across the U.S.” This task could be never-ending.
He looked down at his desk, which was covered with sticky notes three deep. “I’ll call the local TV stations, see if they can prod those up the chain to get this story on the national news. Meanwhile, find out something about welding. Everything I know about it could fit in this cup.” He raised his coffee mug, sloshing stale coffee over the rim and onto a couple of the sticky notes.
“Same for me,” I said. “The only thing I know about welding is that they teach it in prison.”
“Did Danny Landis learn welding while he was in the joint?”
“No. He took the custodial program.”
While the detective phoned the local television offices, I schooled myself in basic welding. Evidently there were many different types of welding and welding torches. Stick. MIG. TIG. Arc. Oxy-fuel. Fixed-position. Gas metal arc. Solid core. Flux core. The latter sounded like something from Back to the Future.
One article noted that an acetylene torch gives off a smell similar to garlic. Aha! When the detective was between calls, I mentioned this intriguing fact to him.
“What do you know,” he said. “The CSO’s ‘useless tidbit’ about his team member smelling garlic wasn’t so useless after all.”
On the contrary, it told us what type of tool the thieves had used to cut through the metal. Now, we just needed to get our hands on that particular tool, seize it as evidence. Armed with general information about welding, my next step would be to figure out where in the area a welder might be found.
While he waited on hold for a station manager, Bustamente gave me a suggestion. “Search job listings for welders. That’ll tell us who hires them.”
“Good idea.”
I searched several job-hunting Web sites. Indeed. Monster. Career Builder. Several large companies in the area had listings for welders, including the ones the chief had mentioned earlier. Lockheed Martin, the aerospace company in west Fort Worth. The General Motors plant in nearby Arlington, where my father worked. Oil and gas companies. Outfits that installed pipes, tanks, and sprinkler systems. Sheet-metal businesses. Of course there were smaller companies that did fence work. Collision-repair shops employed welders, too.
While searching online, I discovered the local community college offered a two-year welding program that would result in a Level 1 certification upon completion. Welding instruction was offered as part of the art curriculum at several area universities and art schools, allowing students to explore metal sculpture. Welding was even offered at some local high schools, including Trimble Technical High School, which sat within my beat. The Texas Workforce Commission also offered welding instruction through community learning centers.
To make sure I’d covered all the bases, I ran a search of recent arrests to see if anyone had been caught stealing animals or using welding equipment to access a building in a burglary. After I typed in key terms, an arrest report popped up. The report had been filed recently by one of the officers who worked in the westernmost division. He’d arrested a supervisor at an oil and gas company after hidden surveillance video showed the man stealing welding tools and equipment from a job site. The list of items stolen included three acetylene torches.
I connected to the detective’s wireless printer, circled my finger on my computer mouse pad, and clicked. His printer sprang to life, spitting out a copy of the report.
Bustamente completed his calls and hung up the phone. “School me.”
I gave him a quick rundown of the information I’d found. There were many businesses in the area that employed large numbers of welders, but there were small outfits and freelancers, too. Many different types of educational facilities offered welding instruction in the city. “I also found something interesting. Take a look at this.” I retrieved the printout from the tray and handed it to him.
He read it over and looked back up at me. “Is this guy still in custody?”
“I haven’t checked, but I doubt it.”
The chances were slim. Bail for most people who committed property crimes was generally set low enough that they could bond out.
Bustamente tapped some keys on his keyboard, maneuvered his mouse, and performed a few clicks before leaning in to look more closely at the screen. “He was released the next day. No attorney of record.”
The guy had represented himself. Not a smart move. If he were poor enough, an attorney would have been appointed to represent him. Presumably, he didn’t qualify for free representation. Of course some people who didn’t qualify nevertheless had a difficult time scraping together the money for a retainer. That could be the case here. There were also people who were too arrogant to hire legal counsel, who thought they could fight the system on their own. Those people were stupid. The procedures were complicated and the prosecutors were clever.
“Where should we start?” I asked.
“With the man who was arrested.”
“And then?”
After some discussion, we both agreed that a welder who was gainfully employed by a large company seemed least likely to need the money from the sale of stolen zoo animals. A starving student or freelance welder without a stable income seemed a better bet. Of course there was also the possibility that someone had bought an acetylene torch, a welding mask, and the other necessary gear and learned basic metal cutting and welding from a video on YouTube. After all, we couldn’t be certain the job was sloppy only because the thieves had been in a hurry. Maybe it was due to a lack of training.
I shared my concerns with the detective. “The thief might not be a professional welder. He could be self-taught.”
He grunted. “A few online tutorials and everyone thinks they’re an expert.”
I’d used online tutorials myself. But despite watching three makeup lessons, I’d yet to master the smoky eye.
Given all the time in the world and no other duties, we could visit every welder in the county. But with limited staff and all of us with other work responsibilities, we had to prioritize. I’d visit several of the schools where welding instruction was offered, and Detective Bustamente would visit the others. Maybe one of the teachers could tell us if anyone in their class was a viable suspect. I’d also visit some of the smaller freelance welding businesses, and anyone who appeared to be working solo.
The detective pushed back from his desk and stood. “Let’s go pay the thief a visit.”
Rising from my seat, I speculated. “I wonder if Danny Landis owns an acetylene torch. He could have learned basic welding from a buddy in prison, right?” After all, he’d expressed an interest in learning the trade.
“Let’s pay him another visit, too,” Bustamente said. “But we need to be careful. We don’t want to get tunnel vision.”
The detective made a valid point. Wrong conclusions could be reached when an investigator focused too much on one potential suspect rather than keeping an open mind. Still, we hadn’t been able to definitively rule Landis out. He could be behind the animal thefts, after all.
The detective grabbed his coat, I rousted my dozing partner, and off we went.
We parked at the curb in front of the large suburban brick home belonging to the former supervisor at the oil and gas company. In the drive sat a four-wheel-drive Chevy Silverado High Country crew cab pickup in a deep blue color. This model came with heated and cooled seats, and lots of sparkly chrome accents, you know, for tough guys. I peeked in the window as we made our way to the door. Yep, leather interior, too. With its Blu-ray entertainment and Bose sound systems, the truck would’ve set the guy back around sixty grand. The guy had certainly splurged. But pickups were a status symbol among men in the state of Texas. Heck, among women, too.
We made our way up to the porch and knocked. When the man answered, he said nothing, waiting for us to take the lead. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and tucked his hands into his armpits, a smug grin on his face as the scent of his $130-a-bottle Acqua di Giò cologne wafted up my nose.
I looked past the man into the house. On a hook inside the door hung a stylish men’s leather jacket. Beyond that, in the living room, sat a leather couch and a big-screen television nearly as wide as I was tall. It was tuned to a movie on a premium cable channel. My observations told me that, in addition to being arrogant and stupid, this man had expensive tastes and was prone to indulge himself. My guess was that his salary as the welding foreman didn’t provide sufficient funds to keep him in the luxurious manner to which he aspired, hence he’d stolen the equipment for resale.
Bustamente introduced us, not bothering to offer the man a hand. It was just as well. I wouldn’t want to get any of his underarm sweat on me. “We’re aware you were arrested on suspicion of stealing welding equipment.”
“I know my rights,” the man spat. “I don’t have to talk. The First Amendment says so.”
His smug grin grew even smuger. My presumption had been right. This man was both arrogant and stupid. The First Amendment addressed free speech. It was the Fifth Amendment that protected individuals from being forced to incriminate themselves. But no point in giving him a civics lesson.
Undeterred, the detective asked, “We’re wondering if you also took the springbok.”
The man’s face clouded in confusion. “Spring box?” he said, apparently forgetting he didn’t have to talk to us. “What’s that? Some kind of tool?”
“Springbok.” The detective enunciated more clearly this time. “It’s a type of antelope. It was taken from the zoo last night.”
“An antelope?” The man scoffed and raised both his hands and his voice. “What in the world would I want with an antelope?”
“Do you hunt?” I asked.
“Hell, no,” the man said. “I’m not getting up before dawn to cover myself in doe piss and sit in a freezing-cold stand in the woods.”
Another glance over his shoulder told me he was more likely to find his entertainment on the enormous TV in his living room.
Bustamente cut me a look that said, It’s not him.
I cut him one back that said, I don’t think so, either.
“Thanks for your time,” the detective said, to which the man responded by slamming his door in our faces.
“That was fun,” Bustamente said.
“Oodles,” I agreed.
We headed back to my cruiser and, twenty minutes later, pulled up to Danny Landis’s home once again. He was outside, wrangling a long extension ladder from the luggage rack atop his SUV. His wife stood on the lawn nearby, their son on her hip. Danny’s face clouded when he saw my squad car stop at the curb. So did his wife’s. Their son seemed happier to see us. He raised his small hand and waved. The detective and I waved back, offering the little boy smiles as well. His dad might be an ex-con, but that tiny tyke sure is a cutie.
Bustamente levered himself out of the car and addressed Landis. “Let me give you a hand with that ladder.”
While I retrieved Brigit from the back, the detective helped Landis ease the ladder off the vehicle and lean it against the rusty shed out back.
I stepped up next to his wife and gestured at the ladder. “Your husband found work?”
“Guess you could say that.” She shifted the boy to her other hip. “Danny put up flyers and got paid to hang peoples’ Christmas lights. Now that the holidays are over, he’s getting paid to take them down. I don’t much like it. All those rich wives hiring my husband to get up on that tall ladder. They don’t want their own husbands doing it, but it’s okay for my husband to climb up there and maybe break his neck.”
I felt for her. “I wouldn’t like that, either. My boyfriend’s a firefighter and I worry about him all the time.”
She issued a hm that said she felt for me, too. Surprising what people can have in common, huh?
The ladder dispensed with, the men returned to the front yard where Landis turned to us. Unlike the last guy we’d interrogated, he was neither arrogant nor stupid. He was simply uneducated, unskilled, and overburdened.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Bustamente filled him in. “There’s another animal missing from the zoo. A male springbok.”
No point in trying to keep the animal’s identity a secret this time. The information had already been provided to news outlets and presumably reported on the radio and TV.
“Why are you back here?” Landis demanded. “You looked around last time and didn’t find nothin’.”
Bustamente didn’t beat around the bush. “We’d like to look again.”
Landis stiffened. “You got a search warrant?”
“No,” the detective admitted. He cut me a discreet look. There might not be enough evidence to support a search warrant, especially given that we’d found nothing to incriminate Landis on our earlier visit.
Landis frowned. “Maybe you should go get one. I’m tired of being wrongfully accused, everybody pushing me around all the time.”
“I don’t blame you,” Bustamente said. “But put yourself in our shoes. You were there when the birds went missing and you know your way around the zoo. That makes it seem like you could be the one who took the animals. To be honest, we don’t think there’s much chance you did it, but we’ve got to check out all possible leads. Otherwise, it makes us look bad, like we didn’t do our jobs. I need to work. Like you, I’ve got a family to take care of.”
Landis’s frown loosened a bit, but didn’t entirely disappear. When he spoke, though, he sounded far less convicted. “I still think maybe I should get a lawyer and fight back.”
Rather than threaten Landis, the detective seemed to realize, as had I, that the man only wanted a sense of control over things, some sign of respect. “You could hire a lawyer,” Bustamente acknowledged. “But I’m hoping you’ll work with us on this. We’re hoping to eliminate you as a suspect. Then we can move on to finding whoever actually took Dinari.”
Landis’s frown melted away entirely, and he gazed wistfully off into the distance, as if picturing Dinari in his mind. “Those animals are pretty. Funny, too. Sometimes they’d get to bouncing around like the broncs at the rodeo.” He turned back to us and cocked his head. “All right. Have at it.” He circled his hand in the air to indicate the house and yard.
Again, we searched his SUV, the house, the attic, and the shed. Again, we found nothing, no welding torch, mask, or other clue pointing to his guilt. And again, we harbored a tiny residual doubt that, nonetheless, Danny Landis could be our guy.