fished a cellphone and flipped it open. “Dispatch,” she snapped, and I heard the cellphone play a tune of dial tones as it obliged. “This is Dr. Carter,” she said. “You got one for me?” As she listened, she winced and shook her head. “Shit. What time was the call?…Okay, I’ll be there in an hour. Tell ’em to cordon off the park, keep the TV cameras out, and don’t touch anything.” She flipped the phone closed and began scooping up her bags. “A murder in Riverfront Park.”
“That’s the park that stretches along the Tennessee from downtown all the way up to Chickamauga Dam?”
“Yeah. Seven or eight miles. This was right near the downtown end, a stone’s throw from the aquarium and the art museum.”
“What happened? A tourist mugging that turned violent?”
“No. A local. A runner with a dog. Dog’s dead, too.” She got an odd look on her face. “I think maybe I’ve been in this job too long, Bill. I’m upset about this.”
I touched her arm. “That just shows you’re not jaded.”
She shook her head. “No. What I’m upset about is the dog.”
She turned to go, then veered back and gave me a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry to cut and run,” she said. “I was looking forward to dinner. And dessert.”
She clomped back through the entryway and out the front door. As it latched shut behind her, the timer on my microwave beeped to tell me the charcoal was ready. I picked up the plate of steaks and headed for the back porch.
CHAPTER 7
THE RINGING PHONE SOUNDED far away, and I felt myself swimming up from a deep and viscous sleep to answer it.
“Bill? It’s Jess.”
Her voice and her name jolted me awake. “Jess? What time is it? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“It’s about four. I just got home from the scene. Bill, could you…could you just talk to me for a few minutes? Talk me down a ways?” Her voice shook and her nose sounded stopped up, as if she’d already done some crying.
“Sure, Jess. Of course. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I might have to work up to it,” she said. Her breathing started to run away with her; I could hear her struggling to rein it back in. “It was a bad scene. Brutal. Like some biblical retribution. Blood everywhere. Stab wounds all over the victim. Multiple dog bites. Two slaughtered dogs.”
“Two?”
“Two. One was the victim’s; other belonged to one of the killers.”
“Was it a dogfight that spread to the people?”
“No. Other way around. We got the story from a couple of witnesses. A homeless guy who spends a lot of time sleeping under this bridge where it happened, and a bike rider who was just up the hill. Apparently there was some history between the victim and this handful of punks who liked to hang out in the park under the bridge. The victim was a runner; they’d been hassling him for a while. If he’d had any sense, he’d’ve found some other place to run his dog.”
“People don’t always do what’s in their own best interest,” I said. It sounded stupid as I said it, but I didn’t know what else to offer. Didn’t know what she needed to hear.
“The detectives talked to his girlfriend. Guy was a science teacher, turns out. Early thirties. Idealistic. Just started teaching last fall at one of the inner-city magnet schools. Gonna save the world—or at least inner-city kids—through education. He’d moved in from Meigs County to take the job. Used to have a place out in the country, with a big yard for the dog, the girlfriend says. Australian shepherd. He felt bad about keeping it cooped up in an apartment. Figured he owed it a run somewhere every day with grass and trees to make amends.”
“And that got him killed? That is sad,” I said.
“It gets sadder,” she said. “The girlfriend says when these punks first started hassling him—a week or so ago, she thinks—he tried to reason with them. I mean, these are the big brothers of the kids he’s teaching every day. But they
“That’s the park that stretches along the Tennessee from downtown all the way up to Chickamauga Dam?”
“Yeah. Seven or eight miles. This was right near the downtown end, a stone’s throw from the aquarium and the art museum.”
“What happened? A tourist mugging that turned violent?”
“No. A local. A runner with a dog. Dog’s dead, too.” She got an odd look on her face. “I think maybe I’ve been in this job too long, Bill. I’m upset about this.”
I touched her arm. “That just shows you’re not jaded.”
She shook her head. “No. What I’m upset about is the dog.”
She turned to go, then veered back and gave me a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry to cut and run,” she said. “I was looking forward to dinner. And dessert.”
She clomped back through the entryway and out the front door. As it latched shut behind her, the timer on my microwave beeped to tell me the charcoal was ready. I picked up the plate of steaks and headed for the back porch.
CHAPTER 7
THE RINGING PHONE SOUNDED far away, and I felt myself swimming up from a deep and viscous sleep to answer it.
“Bill? It’s Jess.”
Her voice and her name jolted me awake. “Jess? What time is it? Where are you? Are you okay?”
“It’s about four. I just got home from the scene. Bill, could you…could you just talk to me for a few minutes? Talk me down a ways?” Her voice shook and her nose sounded stopped up, as if she’d already done some crying.
“Sure, Jess. Of course. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I might have to work up to it,” she said. Her breathing started to run away with her; I could hear her struggling to rein it back in. “It was a bad scene. Brutal. Like some biblical retribution. Blood everywhere. Stab wounds all over the victim. Multiple dog bites. Two slaughtered dogs.”
“Two?”
“Two. One was the victim’s; other belonged to one of the killers.”
“Was it a dogfight that spread to the people?”
“No. Other way around. We got the story from a couple of witnesses. A homeless guy who spends a lot of time sleeping under this bridge where it happened, and a bike rider who was just up the hill. Apparently there was some history between the victim and this handful of punks who liked to hang out in the park under the bridge. The victim was a runner; they’d been hassling him for a while. If he’d had any sense, he’d’ve found some other place to run his dog.”
“People don’t always do what’s in their own best interest,” I said. It sounded stupid as I said it, but I didn’t know what else to offer. Didn’t know what she needed to hear.
“The detectives talked to his girlfriend. Guy was a science teacher, turns out. Early thirties. Idealistic. Just started teaching last fall at one of the inner-city magnet schools. Gonna save the world—or at least inner-city kids—through education. He’d moved in from Meigs County to take the job. Used to have a place out in the country, with a big yard for the dog, the girlfriend says. Australian shepherd. He felt bad about keeping it cooped up in an apartment. Figured he owed it a run somewhere every day with grass and trees to make amends.”
“And that got him killed? That is sad,” I said.
“It gets sadder,” she said. “The girlfriend says when these punks first started hassling him—a week or so ago, she thinks—he tried to reason with them. I mean, these are the big brothers of the kids he’s teaching every day. But they
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