Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

I don’t keep magazines in my office. I’m not a doctor or a dentist so what’s the point? Someone comes to see me and I’m here, we sit down and talk. If I’m not here, the door’s locked and they have to wait. Sutton didn’t seem any better equipped than I was for chitchat. I’d known the guy one day, and now that we’d gotten the potty question and the mint behind us, conversationally speaking, we had nothing to say to each other. I’m deficient when it comes to small talk, which is probably why I have so few friends.

I sat in my swivel chair, willing the phone to ring, and when it did I jumped.

It was Cheney. “ Roosevelt says we can take a couple of crime-scene techs and a K-9 unit out to the site. We’re rounding people up now and should be ready to roll within the hour.”

“Great. That’s great.”

I gave him the address and we spent a few minutes chatting about the logistics. Alita Lane was too narrow to accommodate vehicles and miscellaneous police personnel, so we agreed to meet at the roadside parking strip near the polo field on Via Juliana. That settled, I dropped Sutton off at his house so he could pick up his car.

On the way back to Horton Ravine, I stopped at McDonald’s and scarfed down a Quarter Pounder and fries. I wasn’t sure how long the excavation would take and I wanted to make sure I had a wholesome meal under my belt. The soft drink I ordered was a small one. No point in taxing my bladder when relief wouldn’t be in range.

I arrived before Cheney did and used the time to change into an old pair of running shoes I kept in the trunk of my car. I hauled out my navy windbreaker and shrugged into that as well. The light was still good, but the sun was sinking, taking the pleasant daytime temperatures with it.

Sutton arrived in his MG and parked beside my Mustang. He had the top down and Madaline, the ex-addict, was in the car with him, which annoyed me no end. This wasn’t date night and it wasn’t a public spectacle. We were dealing with life and death and I didn’t want her hanging around like she was part of the scene. Goldie Hawn, Madaline’s golden retriever, sat on her lap, with her chin resting on the lowered window. I’d swear the dog knew who I was and sent me a loopy doggie smile by way of recognition. Madaline’s circulation must have taken a beating with eighty pounds of dog planted on her thighs. As I watched, she lifted a beer can to her lips and treated herself to a sip. So much for open-container laws.

Cheney finally showed up. The K-9 handler and cadaver dog were in a separate black-and-white that pulled in beside his car. Two minutes later one of the two evidence techs arrived, followed by the mobile crime lab with the second tech riding in the back. It looked like a circus arriving in town, men and equipment being set up for all the folderol to come. We had to wait for the photographer, but that gave Cheney the opportunity to approach the house on the property where they intended to dig. He was gone for ten minutes, talking to the couple whose hillside they wanted to invade.

The rest of us had emerged from our respective vehicles and we stood on the parking strip like extras on a movie set. We had nothing to do, but most people there were being paid for doing it. Sutton walked Cheney and the techs out to the burial site. Madaline and I were relegated to the sidelines while the professionals went to work. Two officers returned to the car to pick up traffic cones and the yellow plastic tape that would define the area. I wouldn’t be allowed within a fifty-yard radius, so I occupied my time chatting with the canine officer I knew from times past. Gerald Pettigrew had been a beat cop in my neighborhood some six years before. In those days, he’d been hefty, a black guy in his thirties with beefy shoulders and a gut on him that would be a liability in a foot chase. By the same token, if he managed to overtake you, you’d wish you’d run a lot faster because the guy could hand out punishment. He’d lost weight since I’d seen him last, a side effect of his working with the golden Lab he introduced as Belle.

Madaline took the occasion to let Goldie Hawn hop out of the car. The two dogs went through the usual heinie-smelling nice-meeting-you routine. Anyone who knows me will testify I’m not a fan of dogs, but I hadn’t felt at all hostile to these two. I took this as a sure sign I was getting old. Far from becoming set in my ways, my defenses were breaking down. At this rate, in another few years, the whole world would come rushing in and smother me with kindness.

I let Belle sniff my hand, which is something I’d seen other people do in the company of cats and dogs. I hoped the gesture would stave off a sudden snarling attack that would remove half my arm. I looked up at Gerald. “I pictured a bloodhound or a German shepherd.”

“A lot of breeds are good for search-and-rescue, which is what they’re usually trained for first. They learn to locate lost hikers or kids who wander off on a camping trip. You need a dog with a powerful retrieval instinct, a keen sense of smell, and a strong work drive. Even then, some are better than others. The last dog I worked with was a shepherd. He was good but high-strung, and he had a tendency to mope. Great nose, but it was clear the work upset him. I finally retired him because I couldn’t bear the accusatory look in his eyes.”

“What happened to him?”

“He’s now the family watchdog, which suits him better than sniffing for dead bodies in the underbrush. I heard about Belle through a friend of a friend, who’d been breeding Labs for years. She was just a little fur ball when I got her, but smart as they come. Labs are easy to train and they’re physically strong. They’re also good-natured, which is great for PR purposes. I can take her into schools and nursing homes and everybody falls in love with her.”

By then, Belle was lying on the grass at his feet, her gaze flicking across his face as he spoke. He smiled at her. “Look at that. She knows I’m bragging about her.”

“Does she work on a leash or off?”

“That depends on the terrain. Here I’ll take her off the leash and let her go about her business. If she finds something, she’ll come get me and take me back with her.”

Cheney reappeared and headed in our direction. Gerald signaled to Belle and the two walked out to meet him. A portable generator had been hauled out on the site, along with the big lamps that would make it possible to continue working when the daylight waned. I knew without even being present what the scene would look like. The digging would be done by hand. Two officers would run the loose dirt through a two-man sieve, hoping to capture any physical evidence left behind. The chances seemed slim to me, but these guys knew what they were doing and who was I to say? The entire process would be photographed and sketched, with relevant landmarks noted and measurements taken to ensure that a thorough record of the scene was kept.

The rest of us were left to amuse ourselves as best we could. A number of cars slowed and then moved on. As is usual, bystanders had begun to assemble. I assumed some were neighbors and others driving past the scene on the way home from work who had spotted the police cars and pulled in to see what was going on. There was nothing to do and not much to say after the first scanty explanations were passed along to new arrivals. People lingered, unwilling to leave before the final moments had played out. It was like being in a waiting room while someone else is giving birth. There was no drama in our immediate vicinity, but we all knew something important was going on. Such gatherings are often written off as morbid curiosity, looky-loos hoping for a glimpse of the injured or the dead. I prefer to attribute the behavior to a sense of community, people drawn together in the face of inconceivable tragedy.