Hounded To Death

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?”

“Occasionally.”

“What is the research?”

Mitch, hand still on the door latch, thought how to put this in simple English. “My work involves the amount of fat surrounding major organs. One of the causes of death at the end of certain kinds of cancers, and a contributing factor to death in famine-cursed countries, is the lack of fat around organs. It’s fascinating, really. On the one hand, we have an obesity epidemic, and on the other, people can’t keep warm because they don’t have sufficient body fat.”

“So you starved them, killed them, and then operated to study the organs.”

Stunned at how quick Ben’s mind was, Mitch swallowed. “Yes.”

“Again, thank you.” Ben left.

As Ben drove out, he passed a tidy two-story dependency, taupe clapboard with maroon shutters. Stepping out into the cooling evening air was Barry Baker, all spiffed up. Barry waved.

Ben stopped the car. “Going to be a long weekend here for you?”

“Love it here. Just love it. Quite a hunt today.”

“Yes, it was. No one will ever forget it.”

“You and I have both seen the worst of human behavior,” said Barry. “I was in Korea, and I’ll tell you, Ben, individual crime is worse. War isn’t personal, if you know what I mean.”

“I do. We found out who that skull used to be. It was a lab tech Mitch fired. Alcoholic.”

“That’s a sad end. Ever see Hogarth’s drawing Gin Lane?”

“Have.”

“Accurate then. Accurate now.”

“Sure is. Say, you look ready for action.”

“You never know. It’s the vest, isn’t it?”

Judge Baker wore a handsome tweed herringbone jacket, a red vest, and a white shirt with a forest green tie embroidered with foxes. Pinwale tan cords and expensive handmade calf shoes completed his attire. Of course, he wore his platinum watch.

“I’d be chicken to wear a red vest. I’ve got to hand it to you.”

“Take a lesson from an old man: Women notice clothes. In fact, women notice everything; they can recall a pinstripe shirt you wore three years ago at a cocktail party. Money spent on good clothing is never wasted. Of course”—he smiled rakishly—“time spent with women is never wasted either.”

“I’ll remember that.” Ben waved and drove off.

Two hours later, Judge Baker and his red vest were relaxing in the perfectly proportioned living room at Roughneck Farm.

Sister had had the entire interior of the house repainted two years ago. The living room walls had been freshened with a creamy eggshell; the trim was sparkling white. Now she was glad she’d endured the upheaval because the room looked spectacular.

Val, Tootie, Gray, Barry, and Sister glowed as people tend to do after a wonderful meal. The men sipped at brandy; the girls drank iced tea, as did Sister.

Val, as usual, proved entertaining. “Felicity waddles!”

“She’s due next week,” Sister informed the men, although Gray already knew. “In my last weeks of pregnancy I felt a strange kinship with hippos.”

“You. Never?” Judge Baker roared with laughter. “I remember when you were pregnant, and you carried it off with your usual aplomb.”

“That’s base flattery.” Sister smiled.

Val devilishly taunted the men. “Didn’t you feel guilty when your wives were pregnant?”

Gray, holding his brandy snifter, sighed. “I did. I confess I did. She had a hard time of it. Sick from the beginning.”

“We didn’t have that problem.” Barry said we, which spoke volumes about his relationship with his deceased wife. “I wondered how I was going to pay for it all. Then I thought about college and, if it was a girl, the wedding. I allowed myself an overactive imagination. Well, the first one was a girl and the second, too. We managed.”

“I still think Felicity is throwing her life away.” Val lapsed into her old complaint, one she’d been harping on since Felicity had first revealed her pregnancy.

“Val, she’s happy.” Tootie had been disagreeing with Val since then, too.

“Happy? How can she be happy when she’s a blimp? She can’t bend over. If she sits down, she can’t get up without help. How can she be happy?”

“She is.” Tootie turned her attention to the others. “She really is. She wants to get it over with, but she’s so excited.”

“It is exciting.” Sister smiled. “Val, I don’t know if you will ever become pregnant, but if you do and if it’s what you desire, you truly will forget the pain and remember the joy. And what is more exciting than giving life? I get giddy every time I whelp puppies.”

The corners of Gray’s mouth turned up. “You like whelping pups better than giving birth yourself. I’d bet on that.”

“I would, too. Janie loves her hounds better than people.” Barry lifted his glass to her.

“Oh,” Sister mused, “half and half. Or how about even-steven. I like them both, but there is something to be said for not having to produce the child yourself.”

“Men have been saying that for years.” Barry laughed again. “Say, to change the subject—or to expand on it—is a puppy’s life as valuable as a human’s?”

“Is this a trick question?” Val’s response was swift.

“You’re going into politics, aren’t you?” Barry began to feel his vest was too warm.

“Maybe.” Val proved his point right there.

Tootie looked to Sister, since she felt the master should answer first.

Sister, sensitive to Tootie as to few others, said, “Go on. I’ll go last, how’s that?”

Tootie stated her belief concisely. “I think all life is sacred.”

“Sacred, yes. But are those lives equal ?” Barry pressed.

“Yes.” Tootie didn’t hesitate.

Gray, relaxed, his sleeves rolled up, replied. “Much as I love the hounds, the horses, and, of course, Golly,”—he had to say that when she jumped on his lap—“I believe human life is more valuable.”

“Even someone like Mo Schneider?” Barry prodded.

“I suppose if you take it on a case-by-case basis, some animal lives are more worthy than some human lives, but on the whole I value human life more,” Gray responded.

“Me, too. That doesn’t mean there aren’t people I wouldn’t like to kill,” Val chimed in.

“Really?” Barry’s eyebrows shot upward.

“Sure. Haven’t you ever been mad enough to kill?” Val boldly questioned him.

“Many times.”

“Sister, haven’t you been mad enough to kill?” Val turned to her master.

“I have, and it was usually my late husband who provoked that combustible emotion.”

Gray and Barry laughed.

“Back to life.” Val directed this to Sister. “You didn’t tell us what you think.”

“I think my hounds’ lives are as important as human lives. My horses. Raleigh. Rooster. Golly. I can’t distinguish because my love for them is so great.” She pursed her lips to say something; then her eyes lit up. “Funny, must be a year ago now, Hope Rogers and I were talking about this very thing. I know you-all are bored with my not accepting that Hope killed herself, but this discussion just reminded me that Hope must have stumbled upon some kind of cruelty. She wouldn’t say what it was, exactly. But we did talk about the slaughterhouses closing and people who were letting unwanted horses starve to death. She was on overload from overwork. She told me horror stories about people loading unwanted horses onto rickety vans and crossing the line into Mexico to go to those filthy slaughterhouses. The Thoroughbred Retirement Foundation was Hope’s true passion. I think she lifted up a very big rock and the snake underneath bit her. If you think about it—Mo, Grant, even that homeless man, Jake—all of them were considered cruel to animals in some fashion, except Hope. Maybe that’s what these deaths have in common.”

A silence followed.

Barry, finally unbuttoning his vest, answered softly. “You think like a fox. You feel things—or sense things—the rest of us can’t. It’s not circumventing logic as much as surmounting logic. Your mind works in ways ours do not.” There was a pause, followed by a long draft. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find you’re right.