Reggie.
“Oh, my God,” she says. She looks as if she’d seen a ghost, and in a way she has. “That can’t be…”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
She’s not getting it. “Those cut marks… He’s supposed to be dead.”
I nod. “And someday he will be, but not yet.”
I explain that the reason we are here is to find out if there is anything in Reggie’s five-year-old records that would help identify him today.
“Is he the dog who was on the news the other day? The one you went to court about?”
“Yes. He’s had his fifteen minutes of fame, but if he’s Richard Evans’s dog, he’s going to get another dose.”
Dr. Ruff goes over and pets Reggie, who wags his tail in appreciation. She gently lifts his head and looks to see if the marks are also under his chin, which, of course, they are. “It’s as I remember it,” she says.
I ask her if there are other factors she can point to that can help identify him, and she starts to look through his records. “We’re in luck,” she says. “When Richard rescued him, he had three bad teeth, probably from chewing on rocks. I extracted them.”
She walks over to Reggie and opens his mouth. He obliges, probably because he thinks she’ll fill that mouth with a biscuit. She looks into the mouth, then looks at the records again, then back in his mouth.
“This is Reggie,” she says. “There’s another thing I want to check—with an X-ray—but this is him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, it’s not DNA, but there’s no doubt in my mind. The cut marks, the same three teeth missing… The coincidence would be overwhelming. But Reggie had a broken leg, and a surgeon put a metal plate in it. If that’s in the X-ray, then you can be absolutely certain.”
She takes Reggie to be x-rayed and brings him back about fifteen minutes later. “It’s there,” she says. “Between the cut marks, the teeth, and the X-ray, it’s one hundred percent.”
“You’d testify to that?”
“With pleasure.”
She still has a bunch of questions about how Reggie survived whatever his ordeal had been, but I don’t have the answers. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I PLACE A call to Sam Willis as soon as I get home.
Sam is my accountant, a role that took on an increased importance when I inherited my money. He’s also a computer hacking genius, able to get pretty much any information at any time from anywhere. He sometimes crosses the cyber-line between legal and illegal information gathering, and I once helped him when he was caught doing so.
Sam has become a key investigator for me, using his computer prowess to get me answers that I might never be able to get on my own. It is in that role that I’m calling on him now; I need more answers than I have questions.
I call him on his cell phone, since that is the only phone he owns and uses. He cannot believe that I still use a landline in my home and office, likening it to someone tooling around Paterson in a horse and buggy. Wireless is everything, according to Sam, but the truth is, I’m barely starting to get comfortable with cord less.
I can hear a loud public address announcer as Sam is talking, and he explains that he’s at Logan Airport in Boston. He’s a Red Sox fanatic, a rarity in the New York area, and he goes up there about five times a year to see games. This time he’s been there for almost a week.
His flight lands in an hour and a half, and I tell him that I’ll pick him up at the airport because I want to talk to him about a job.
“On a case?” he asks, hopefully, since he loves this kind of investigatory work.
“On a case.”
For some reason, I’ve always been a person who picks other people up at airports. I know that when I land I like someone to be there, even if it’s just a driver. It’s depressing to arrive and see all these people holding up signs with names on them, and none says “Carpenter.” It makes me feel as if I have my own sign on my
“Oh, my God,” she says. She looks as if she’d seen a ghost, and in a way she has. “That can’t be…”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
She’s not getting it. “Those cut marks… He’s supposed to be dead.”
I nod. “And someday he will be, but not yet.”
I explain that the reason we are here is to find out if there is anything in Reggie’s five-year-old records that would help identify him today.
“Is he the dog who was on the news the other day? The one you went to court about?”
“Yes. He’s had his fifteen minutes of fame, but if he’s Richard Evans’s dog, he’s going to get another dose.”
Dr. Ruff goes over and pets Reggie, who wags his tail in appreciation. She gently lifts his head and looks to see if the marks are also under his chin, which, of course, they are. “It’s as I remember it,” she says.
I ask her if there are other factors she can point to that can help identify him, and she starts to look through his records. “We’re in luck,” she says. “When Richard rescued him, he had three bad teeth, probably from chewing on rocks. I extracted them.”
She walks over to Reggie and opens his mouth. He obliges, probably because he thinks she’ll fill that mouth with a biscuit. She looks into the mouth, then looks at the records again, then back in his mouth.
“This is Reggie,” she says. “There’s another thing I want to check—with an X-ray—but this is him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, it’s not DNA, but there’s no doubt in my mind. The cut marks, the same three teeth missing… The coincidence would be overwhelming. But Reggie had a broken leg, and a surgeon put a metal plate in it. If that’s in the X-ray, then you can be absolutely certain.”
She takes Reggie to be x-rayed and brings him back about fifteen minutes later. “It’s there,” she says. “Between the cut marks, the teeth, and the X-ray, it’s one hundred percent.”
“You’d testify to that?”
“With pleasure.”
She still has a bunch of questions about how Reggie survived whatever his ordeal had been, but I don’t have the answers. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I PLACE A call to Sam Willis as soon as I get home.
Sam is my accountant, a role that took on an increased importance when I inherited my money. He’s also a computer hacking genius, able to get pretty much any information at any time from anywhere. He sometimes crosses the cyber-line between legal and illegal information gathering, and I once helped him when he was caught doing so.
Sam has become a key investigator for me, using his computer prowess to get me answers that I might never be able to get on my own. It is in that role that I’m calling on him now; I need more answers than I have questions.
I call him on his cell phone, since that is the only phone he owns and uses. He cannot believe that I still use a landline in my home and office, likening it to someone tooling around Paterson in a horse and buggy. Wireless is everything, according to Sam, but the truth is, I’m barely starting to get comfortable with cord less.
I can hear a loud public address announcer as Sam is talking, and he explains that he’s at Logan Airport in Boston. He’s a Red Sox fanatic, a rarity in the New York area, and he goes up there about five times a year to see games. This time he’s been there for almost a week.
His flight lands in an hour and a half, and I tell him that I’ll pick him up at the airport because I want to talk to him about a job.
“On a case?” he asks, hopefully, since he loves this kind of investigatory work.
“On a case.”
For some reason, I’ve always been a person who picks other people up at airports. I know that when I land I like someone to be there, even if it’s just a driver. It’s depressing to arrive and see all these people holding up signs with names on them, and none says “Carpenter.” It makes me feel as if I have my own sign on my
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