The Hand That Feeds You

11

The odds of being struck by lightning in the United States are one in six hundred thousand. You are six times more likely to be struck by lightning than you are to be killed by a dog of any breed. And four times more likely to be killed by a cow than any dog.

I stood outside what looked like a horse show ring on Staten Island. I was waiting for the handler to bring out Cloud for the first part of her temperament test when I saw Billie walking across the parking lot. I called her a couple of times to ask about my dogs.

She waved to me.

“Are you part of this?” I asked.

“I couldn’t let these pups be tested without being here to root for them.”

Something in me recoiled from her breezy greeting. Was she one of those people who fed on other people’s dramas?

Having only seen her in the sensory-overloading shelter, I hadn’t realized how attractive and athletic she was. She wore pegged jeans and toffee-colored ankle boots. Despite the first chill of fall, her linen jacket was open over a tight-fitting T-shirt that I recognized from a rescue organization; it said SHOW ME YOUR PITS. I had one just like it, but never had the nerve to wear it.

“I can’t believe you came,” I said.

“I’ve watched a lot of these. I wish they had temperament tests for men.”

She led me behind a small outcropping where we could watch without being seen. She said our presence would distract Cloud.

“I have a surprise for you,” she whispered, as a female handler entered the ring with Cloud on a short lead. “You’ll see.”

Cloud and her handler faced the four judges, three of whom were middle-aged women, and the fourth, a man who looked to be in his thirties. Cloud looked so happy to be outside, I feared the fresh air and sunlight would distract her!

Billie explained that the first part of the test would measure the dog’s reaction to strangers. First we watched the “neutral” stranger approach Cloud, stop, and tell the handler to have a nice day. Cloud did not react. The “friendly” stranger approached happily and briskly, sweet-talked Cloud, and patted her head. Cloud wagged her tail and licked the stranger’s hand. The third stranger careened, swinging his arms and speaking in a loud, agitated voice.

Billie leaned over. “They are going to judge her on provoked aggression, strong avoidance, or panic.”

“If I were Cloud, I’d exhibit all three.”

“After what you’ve been through, so would I.”

But Cloud aced it. She didn’t take the bait.

As the handler walked Cloud slowly around the ring, they passed small stations that looked like duck blinds. From behind each one came a variety of provocations: the jarring noise of coins being shaken in a metal box, the sudden opening of a large umbrella. Cloud startled and hid behind the handler.

“The umbrella test cashiers more dogs than any other. The response they’re looking for is curiosity, then continuing past,” Billie said.

“But she’s always been afraid of umbrellas. Will they take that into consideration?”

“It’s not a deal-breaker if she passes everything else. And hiding is better than showing aggression.”

After Cloud passed the gunshot test — a blank was fired near her — the judges gave her the thumbs-up. Vicki Hearne, the late philosopher and dog trainer, had written about “what the illusion of viciousness is obscuring.” Cloud was a huge dog with big jowls and, covered in blood, had appeared to be a vicious dog, but it was an illusion, and what it obscured was fear.

I had been told that I would not be allowed to visit Cloud after the test, so I gathered my purse and coat, and as I turned to say good-bye to Billie, I saw the same handler walk George into the ring.

I looked at Billie and she was smiling. “Surprise.”

“Who gave you permission to have George tested?”

“I just don’t think he’s a killer.”

“This wasn’t your call.”

In the ring, the handler put George into a sit-stay. He then aced every test that Cloud did — the normal, friendly, and crazy strangers, shaken coins, even the umbrella test. Nothing distracted him from obeying the handler. I remembered how eager he was to please. With that recollection, came another: that Bennett had pushed a woman out a window. What might he have done to this dog? George now looked ribby, the way he did when I first saw him — you are supposed to be able to feel a dog’s ribs, not see them. It was part of what prompted me to foster him. It is such a pleasure simply to feed a hungry dog.

But the gunshot test terrified him.

He rushed behind the handler and tried to keep going, but the handler pulled hard on the leash and brought him back to her side.

“He heard Chester get shot,” I said. “Should I tell the judges?”

“It’s not that uncommon a response,” Billie said. “More dogs run away during Fourth of July fireworks than any other time of year.”

It took the handler a minute or two to reassure George. She finally got him into a sit and told him he was a good boy. Even from this distance, I saw him lick the handler’s hand. But after walking comfortably across the sheet of crinkling plastic, he balked at walking across the metal grate. He planted himself, deadweight, and went on strike. The handler pulled on his lead, and we could hear George growl.

“Shit,” I said. “His paws are tender from years in a damp cage. Don’t these people understand there are contingencies?” Instantly I was in tears from the impossible situation — I was standing up for my dog, a dog that had killed. Did Bennett try to pull George over the heat grating in the floor of my apartment? I was looking for any way to account for what had happened.

Billie responded to my distress by putting an arm around my shoulder for just a moment. “It’s not over till it’s over.”

When it was over, the judges announced that they would be willing to retest George at a later date. The anxiety of watching the two tests left me exhausted and despairing. Billie asked if I’d eaten anything that morning, and when I told her I had not, she said a diner with lousy coffee and great pancakes was a couple of blocks from here. She offered to drive me.

The leather seats of her Volvo were surprisingly free of dog hair given the time she spent with the shelter dogs — unlike the leather couch that Steven had given me, which I had to cover with a throw before Bennett came over.

“Thank you for bringing George,” I said.

The diner was nothing like Champs. The tattoos we saw on the patrons of this diner were standard-issue armed services and MOM-in-a-heart tats. The pancakes here were not gluten-free. I ordered a stack of chocolate chip with whipped cream, and Billie had the lousy coffee.

I had not confided in a girlfriend since Kathy’s death. Though I barely knew this Billie, I found myself telling her about Bennett and his deception. The more I talked, the more I talked. In a headlong rush, I told her the crazy-making story, with its blind spots and question marks, how we met online while I was conducting research on sociopaths and victims, clear on up to the fake address in Montreal and the key to it he had given me. Billie said he reminded her of a guy she used to see, a guy who had lied to her continuously and said, when she confronted him about the lying, that he was just trying to entertain her.

“ ‘I lie to myself all the time,’ ” Billie quoted.

“ ‘But I never believe me,’ ” I finished.

“The Outsiders,” we said together. “S. E. Hinton.”

Turned out we had both seen the film of this novel many times, about greasers in Tulsa, Johnny and Ponyboy, one of whom kills a member of a rival gang. Matt Dillon, Patrick Swayze, Rob Lowe, and Tom Cruise were in it before they were stars.

“Bennett’s story also has a murder.” I told her about Susan Rorke.

“Do you think Bennett killed her?”

“The police do.”

“Why do the police think he did it?” Billie asked.

“They always suspect the husband or fiancé.”

“Bennett was engaged to her, too?”

“He gave her the same ring he gave me.”

“That would be the suffer-ring? I hope it was expensive.”

“I thought it was.” God, I had missed this. “Can I ask you something personal? You’re always at the shelter, you take a day off for this — how do you support yourself?”

“I’m a trustafarian. Under close supervision. My grandmother doesn’t trust me.”

The waitress finally set down the pancakes in front of me.

“So what do the police do when their prime suspect is dead? They can’t exactly try him,” Billie said.

“I don’t think Susan Rorke and I were the only women Bennett deceived. I think I’ve heard from a third.”

“Reportyourex.com?”

“Lovefraud.com. She said she wanted to meet me in person but she didn’t show up.”

“There are many reasons why she might not have shown up.”

“She pretended to be Susan Rorke. Maybe she didn’t know Susan Rorke was dead.”

“Maybe she did.”

When the check came, Billie reached for it even though she had only ordered coffee.

In the car heading back to the city, I said, “He used a different name with her. He called himself Peter. But it was him. I showed the detective a picture and he confirmed it.”

“So who is the third woman?”

“Maybe she’s the tenth.”

“Maybe the dogs did you a favor.”

“Nothing I didn’t already think.”

“I mean, he pushed her out a window.”

“He was never violent with me. But how could I not know?”

“The dogs knew.”

• • •

I asked Billie to drop me off on Delancey Street so I could walk across the Williamsburg Bridge. I needed to do something physical and mindless. The view was of downtown Manhattan, with the two stately bridges — the Manhattan and the Brooklyn — spanning the lower East River. The Brooklyn Bridge was the first to be built — the longest suspension bridge of its time, and one of the most beautiful. The Manhattan was third, a gridwork of metal struts. In between came the Williamsburg, said to be the ugliest design on the river. But it’s not what you see when you’re walking across it. The view trumps the noise of trucks, cars, and subways flanking the hardy pedestrians and cyclists. Even Edward Hopper painted a view titled From Williamsburg Bridge. The walkway ends in the Hasidic neighborhood where women still wear wigs and the men grow side-curls and beards. Even in the heat of summer, come the Sabbath, the men wear the large fur hats known as shtreimel. Within the space of ten blocks, you hear conversations in Yiddish, then Spanish, then Chinese, then Italian. It’s part of why I moved here.

I climbed the five flights to my apartment and found a phone message from the Boston detective. It wasn’t yet five so I called him right away.

“Ms. Prager, I have a few questions for you in the investigation of Susan Rorke’s murder. Is this a good time to talk?”

“As good as any.”

“I’d like to ask you about the weekend she was killed when you met the man you knew as Bennett in Maine.”

“What can I tell you?”

“You said he drove from Montreal to Old Orchard Beach. What time did he arrive?”

“He arrived an hour after I did, around four, but I don’t know if he drove from Montreal.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior or appearance?”

“He was his usual self, but later I saw a large bruise on his shin. He said he got it moving one of his bands’ equipment, but that was a lie. He didn’t represent any bands.”

“And when did you find out that he lied about his job?”

“And everything else. A few weeks after he died. Have you had any luck finding out who he is?”

“We have a protocol to follow in a murder investigation. Have you been contacted again by the woman posing as Susan Rorke?”

“No, but who was she? That’s my question for you. And how did she know about Bennett and Susan and me?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“What have you found out? Do you know who Bennett was?”

“I’ll tell you when I know.”

“But you think he’s guilty?”

“Only a judge and jury can find him guilty,” the detective said, “and the dead can’t be tried.”