Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 18

The constant drumming on the roof of Westlake Equine Clinic added to Sheriff Ben Sidell’s dismal task. Three hours after arriving, Ben, along with his best officer, Eli Mason, stood at Penny’s desk one more time.

Eli reviewed what they found. “The force of the shot rolled it forward just a bit.” He kneeled down to point out the tracks in the rug.

“Right.” Ben stood beside the chair. “She was working at her computer, not worried, bam, she slides forward slightly, slumps over, head on the keyboard. Since the bullet wound was in her back, she had to have been forward a bit in her seat. Whoever killed her had a clear shot, stood close to her.”

“The bullet didn’t exit, so my guess is it’s flattened on a rib.”

Penny’s body had been removed but both men had been able to intensely focus on the scene and the victim before the ambulance took her away.

“Save your guesses, Eli. The autopsy will tell us that. And I guarantee you the gun isn’t registered.”

“Everything in here is neat. No drawers rifled through. The petty cash is undisturbed.” Sporting a fashionable three-day-old stubble, Eli rubbed his cheek. “Her guard wasn’t up. She knew her killer.”

“Most likely. The question is, what else did she know?”

“Vets cast a wide net. She works on horses, sees the barns and owners everywhere. No telling what she stumbled into if she did.”

“There’s always that, the odd moment when the wrong person notices something at the wrong time, but veterinarians deal in drugs. There is a black market for equine drugs, just as there is for human drugs.”

Knowing next to nothing about horses, Eli raised his eyebrows.

“There are the obvious drugs,” explained Ben. “The painkillers, some of which people take, but there are also far more lucrative drugs for an enterprising person: steroids, any performance enhancing drug, even growth hormone. Some of these substances can be cooked up in labs here, some in other countries and smuggled into the U.S. like any other contraband. It’s an enormous market.”

“But surely there are ways to detect illegal substances, just like for human athletes,” Eli asked.

“A clever distributor, someone who comes and goes without attracting attention, could easily sell, deliver the goods. Could be a vet, a trainer, anyone others are used to seeing. There isn’t the societal pressure to test animals that there is for people, with some exceptions.”

“What exceptions?” Eli cracked his knuckles.

“Show jumping. Racing, especially racing. A crooked track vet could be useful. I can’t imagine Penny being part of a drug ring, distributing stuff. Then again, Eli, you never really know, do you?”

“That’s the truth. So let me get this straight. You pay for the drugs. They are delivered. But there has to be someone on the take who does the testing at the track.”

“Pretty much, but there’s a market besides the track. Anyone breeding horses who wants them to muscle up early might use steroids or growth hormone—both of them controlled substances. The horse looks mature, looks well muscled and impressive early. The muscle gains stick but the downside is the joints aren’t fully developed. Easier to sell a well-muscled youngster. Many kinds of equine discipline might benefit from steroid use. Rodeos don’t perform drug testing. Nor do most jumper shows or cross-country shows. Now some of those have vet checks, like endurance rides, to make sure the animal is okay, but that’s not the same as testing for steroids. There’s money to be made, a lot of money, but especially on the tracks.”

“Would a clinic legally carry them?”

“Most will have some controlled substances because they do have useful applications. Just like for people.”

“So this clinic would have, say, steroids?”

“Yes. When we talk to her senior partner, we’ll ask him to unlock cabinets, show us their supply and the tracking system.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest and looked out the window. “This rain just won’t let up.” Then he focused on Eli, now standing on the other side of the chair. “Westlake serves a few breeding Thoroughbred barns, dressage, jumper barns—everything from a big operation like Broad Creek Stables to someone like me, who owns one horse and loves that horse like crazy.”

“So your horse might be prescribed steroids?”

Ben nodded. “Maybe for an unusual illness. Foxhunters wind up with leg injuries, a tendon problem, an abscess in the hoof, maybe even an abscess in a tooth. Or we might see West Nile virus, things that call for specific medicines. Unfortunately, there are many problems for which there really aren’t good medicines. But a hunt horse would rarely be put on a controlled substance. Penny gave me joint supplements for Nonni, a little equine aspirin when Nonni needed it.”

Eli smiled. “I have a lot to learn.”

“We all do,” said Ben. “Like you, I have my hunches. I leave the medical investigation to those with that skill, but you and I have to think of all manner of things, no matter how odd. The only clue we have right now is that Penny probably knew her killer and trusted him or her.”

“We have her computer.” Eli cocked his head in its direction. It was still turned on, a letter to a magazine on the screen.

“She’d been reading The Blood Horse, Mercer Laprade’s letter. When our team goes through the computer, they’ll find accounts, all manner of barn calls, patient notes, magazines, professional newsletters. Getting back to hunches, my hunch is that Penny stumbled onto something.”

“Could be it has nothing to do with being a vet.”

“True.” Ben sighed deeply. “She was a good woman and a good vet. You didn’t know her but those of us who did trusted her with the lives of our horses, which is like trusting someone with the life of a family member.” He held up his hand. “I know that sounds silly to someone who doesn’t own a horse.”

“I have Joker, that counts.” Eli smiled.

Joker was a cat so fat he should have been named Two Ton.

“Counts.” Ben looked around. “Let’s go through each room one more time. We could have overlooked something, especially me, since I know the victim. No matter how experienced you are, when someone you like is murdered, it gets you.”

They opened the closet door in Penny’s office. Clean overalls hung on a hook, along with two lab coats. A pair of work boots and a pair of Wellies sat on newspaper, caked with mud. Leaving her personal office, the two men walked down the hall, turning into each partner’s room. There were three, counting Penny. They opened a supply room. The drug closet was locked. When her senior partner arrived, they’d tackle that.

Penny’s unlocked truck had been searched by the first team on the scene. Very neat, Penny even had a tray in her truck where small items like pens, notepads, and Scotch tape were organized in the center console. The large medicine cabinet on the back of the truck was locked, but the keys were in the truck so that was investigated, too. Pretty much, she carried what every equine vet would carry on a call: lots of elbow-length, thin rubber gloves, syringes, clenbuterol, magnesium-based drugs for joints, horse tranquilizer, and a metal box with scalpel and other tools. Occasionally, Penny had to operate on the spot. For this she carried a large canvas sheet and a plastic one, also. She had items for bacterial infections, vials with antiviral meds, many of them new to the market. She had thread to sew up wounds, needles for same, and she even carried a small steamer, which she used before she would operate. She’d wipe her scalpel with antibacterial fluid, then steam it for a second. Penny was nothing if not thorough. Her X-ray equipment, plates, and heavy lead-lined gloves—all very, very expensive equipment—were neatly tucked into the truckbed medicine cabinet.

Establishing a veterinary practice wasn’t cheap, nor was maintaining it to the highest standards. To Ben, it was clear that Penny cut no corners.

The two men walked back down the hall to the inviting lobby and receptionist’s long desk.

As they watched the deluge, waiting for Westlake’s senior partner, Ben softly said, “Had she lived, I think she might have gotten elected to national office in her profession. She was so bright, so forward thinking and she truly cared about horses. You know, Eli, the media harps on all the bad actors out there regardless of profession. There are so many good people doing their job, helping others, helping animals. Educators, doctors, carpenters, you name it. Good people. She was one of them.”

Eli thought. “You are, too, Sheriff.”

Sister, Gray, and Tootie, along with Raleigh, Rooster, and Golly, felt the warmth from the library’s fire. Sister’s favorite room, the library always felt peaceful, but especially on a difficult day. Photographs, some from the 1880s, reposed in polished silver frames. Sister was surrounded by her family, most gone. Sometimes she’d look at a photo of herself at thirty and wonder, “Was I ever that young?”

A wonderful photo of Sister—in a white evening gown dancing with Gray in his evening scarlet—sat on the corner of the desk, a testimony to the present.

They’d eaten a light dinner, discussing what had happened to Penny with surprise and sorrow. Now they listened to the crackle of the fire, inhaled the fragrance of the applewood burning with seasoned oak.

Gray read the paper: “The western bypass is like malaria. It keeps returning with exaggerated symptoms.”

A proposal for a western bypass around the heavily traveled north/south 29 corridor had been batted about for thirty years plus. With it came studies, meetings, outrage, presentations from those in charge at the state level, and innumerable environmental studies. It went on and on. So far, the public had been able to stop the bypass from being constructed.

“Gray, this will be going on into the twenty-second century, I swear. Tootie, your grandchildren will be fighting it.”

Tootie looked up from her book and smiled, but tears filled her eyes.

Gray noticed, rose, going over to her. He sat on the edge of her chair. “Honey, I’m so sorry. It was just a terrible shock.”

Tootie cried harder now, so Sister fetched a box of tissues and sat on the other chair arm.

“How could something like this happen?” the young woman sputtered.

“I don’t know.” Sister handed her a tissue.

“I expect Ben Sidell will eventually root it all out,” said Gray. “He adored her. Well, we all did.” His voice carried his own sorrow.

“Is it always like this?” Tootie’s voice wavered.

“Like what?” Sister asked.

“Is life so sad?”

“Sometimes, yes, but you get through it,” Sister said.

Raleigh came over, putting his head under Tootie’s hand.

“They know. Animals always know.” Tootie cried a bit more.

“They do,” Gray agreed.

“I bet there’s an animal that knows who killed Dr. Hinson.” Tootie dabbed her nose.

The rain streaked across the windowpanes.

“Maybe so.” Sister put her palm on Tootie’s smooth cheek.

Tootie looked up. “Maybe this is about an animal.”

Gray and Sister looked at each other, then Tootie.

Sister said, “It’s possible. Let a little time pass, perhaps things will fall into place.”