Рита Браун - Hounded To Death

Gray’s phone rang. “Better be good,” Gray said. “Third quarter, Syracuse up by six.”

“It is,” said Sam. “Jake Ingram hasn’t been seen since the end of March. Got to the point where he’d drink anything, even Sterno. Everyone figured he wandered off or died.”

“No one reported it.”

“Of course not. Sometimes people go back home or get smart and go into rehab. They don’t want to see any of the old gang. Makes sense, if you think about it.”

“Did anyone go to wherever Jake lived?”

“He lived on the street. Used to live down by the train station, but you can’t do that anymore, now they’ve built those apartments across the tracks. The guys hang around the parks or the Greyhound station or they move farther out. These days they move a lot.”

Gray called Ben Sidell, who thanked him. Then he tore himself away from the game because he knew Sister would kill him if he didn’t tell her straightaway.

After hearing the news, she looked up from under the straw cowboy hat. “Jake Ingram. Never heard of him. Well, Ben can track down his dental records. Might make for a fast matchup, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“If you don’t need me, I’ll go back to the game.”

She waved him off—for Gray, football took precedence over everything else—and said to Golly, “I hope I never have a heart attack during a Syracuse game. He’d wait until after the game to call the ambulance.”

“I’ll revive you.” Golly felt she had great powers.

“Right.” Rooster opened one eye. “She’ll smell that tuna breath and gag.”

Golly puffed up, shot out of the garden, raced to the Japanese maple, and hit Rooster with all four paws as she shouted, “Death to dogs!”

Then she prudently climbed the graceful tree as Rooster threatened from below.

Sister wiped her brow. “What in God’s name gets into her?”

CHAPTER 23

The name Jake Ingram rang a bell so loud for Mitch Fisher that he nearly went deaf.

Ben Sidell sat across from the doctor in the living room at seven-thirty in the evening. Thanks to Sam Lorillard’s tip, Ben asked Larry Hund, one of the area’s leading dentists, if Ingram was a patient. He was not, but Larry remembered that Dr. Sandra Yarbrough often performed work on the indigent and victims of violence as a community service. Both she and her husband, Nelson, also a dentist, took care of the unfortunates with no fanfare. Sandra, home when Ben called, dropped everything, drove back to the office, and met him at the morgue within an hour of the call. The records matched up. Also, there was evidence of periodontal disease, not uncommon among alcoholics and especially among people hooked on crank.

Lutrell, Mitch’s wife, looked in on them. Noticing Mitch’s ashen face, she left right after ascertaining no libations were needed.

“How did he die?” Mitch had liked Jake as best as one can like a person in the grips of addiction.

“We don’t know.”

“If his head was severed from the body, it must have been horrible.”

“No clean cut of the neck vertebra. His head was torn off by an animal. We haven’t found the rest of his body. Probably won’t, since he was somebody’s lunch.

“When did you fire Jake?” Ben asked.

“A year ago. Came in late and smelled of liquor—you know, sweating it out of his system.” Mitch folded and unfolded his hands, a nervous gesture. “I knew for years that he went on benders on the weekends, but until it affected his work it was none of my business.”

“How many years did you work together?”

“Four. He had good skills, and he was responsible. Lab techs, good ones, are hard to find.”

“I can imagine. Was there an outstanding incident that forced you to fire him?” Ben asked.

“Not so much that as an accumulation of late mornings, especially in the last six months that he worked for me. If I was operating, he was still good.”

“Was he angry when you fired him?”

“No. Defeated.”

“I see.” Ben folded his hands together and leaned back in the cavernous club chair. “Did you ever see or hear of his having major problems with anyone?”

“Hope Rogers.”

“What happened?”

“Sheriff, I only got this from Jake, so the story is highly colored, but he said she accosted him in the Food Lion parking lot and accused him of animal torture: stealing dogs and horses. According to Jake, she was one hysterical bitch.”

“Doesn’t sound like Hope, does it?”

Mitch shook his head. “No, but people get very emotional about animals. Children and animals. Possible. Not likely, though.”

Ben looked Mitch directly in the eye. “How much did you pay for dogs?”

Mitch hesitated, then replied. “Used to be five bucks a dog, but now it’s twenty-five. Or I should say that was what I last paid. Research using dogs shut down in this area four months ago, thanks to all the bad press. Public outrage built, and this year it finally hit the red zone.” He paused and removed his tortoiseshell glasses. “I understand the outrage, but many advances have come at the cost of the suffering of animals, to put it bluntly.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ben remained noncommittal. “Were you shocked when you heard Hope Rogers shot herself ?”

“I was.”

“Was she your equine vet?”

“No. She wouldn’t work for me because she was so adamantly opposed to research using animals, even rats. Again, I understood her position and it was not discussed between us.”

“Certainly seems to have been discussed between her and Jake.”

“Again, I took his version with a grain of salt. Jake wasn’t a confrontational guy but, as his deterioration accelerated, let’s just say there were copious misunderstandings.”

“Did you think, after you’d fired him, that he might seek revenge in some way?”

“No. He wasn’t unreasonable. When his mind was clear he knew he was a liability.”

“But that’s it, isn’t it? His mind wasn’t clear. Did he ever threaten you?”

“No.”

Ben unclasped his hands, thinking, then said quietly, “Did you ever see him after you’d fired him?”

“Once at the shopping center. That was—oh, Christmas. I remember it was snowing a bit. I was shocked at his appearance.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Yes. He was embarrassed to see me. I gave him fifty dollars. I guess that was stupid. He probably went right into the ABC store and loaded up on good liquor. I can’t imagine what he’d been drinking without money.”

“Let’s just say folks can be imaginative in trying to extract liquor—even from Listerine.”

Mitch grimaced. “He couldn’t beat it. Maybe he’s better off dead. That’s a terrible thing to say, I guess, but it’s what I think.”

“Back to Hope Rogers for a moment. Did you get a feeling, even if fleeting, that Jake would get even with her?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve been helpful and I’m sorry to break the news to you. Even though you’d let him go, I can tell that you harbored some good feelings for the man.” Ben stood up to leave. “If you think of anything, anything at all, please call me.”

“I will.” Mitch walked Ben to the front door, the hallway lined with nineteenth-century colored plates of military men from the English publication Vanity Fair.

Ben walked slowly, admiring the prints. “Guess appearing in Vanity Fair in those days was like People today.”

“Higher class of reader,” Mitch commented dryly.

“Yes, I suppose.” As Mitch opened the door, Ben stepped out, turned, and said, “One more thing. Has anyone ever threatened you about your research?”