Red Dog Saloon (9 page)

For
the third day in the row the sun had scarcely broke the horizon before Sam’s
phone rang.

“You
need to get over to Foster Motors,” came the monotone voice of Kendal Parks.

The
all-business detective dispensed with the pleasantries most people feel
they must exchange when waking someone from a sound sleep.

Wiping
the sleep from his eyes, reality set in.

“Is
it Bart?” Sam asked.

The
sheriff, even in his semi-conscious state, wondered if their killer had taken
out the ringleader. He wasn't sure whether he felt dread or relief when it
came to Bart falling victim to the killer.

“No,
he’s very much alive,” Kendal replied.

The
detective's answer was confusing since he was telling the sheriff to meet him
at Foster Motors. If Bart was still among the living, why was he being summoned
to the car lot?

“Who’s
dead then?” Sam asked. “Is it Stevie?”

“Well
sheriff, to be honest, we don’t know,” Kendal replied. “I’ll brief you once you
get here. Let’s just say it’s ... complicated.”

While
Sam had hoped Castle County would go an evening without another slaying, he was
realistic. The killer was becoming more brazen with each murder. With that
in mind, Sam usurped the garage from his wife the night before and parked his
cruiser inside the relative warmth of their two-car garage. The couple found
out after buying the home several years ago that “two-car garage” is code for a
garage which will barely hold one car and your junk.

Quickly
making his way across town, it didn’t take long for Sam to see the reason for
his third consecutive morning wake-up call as he pulled into the sales lot of
Foster Motors. Sitting in front of the office was one of Bart’s favorite cars,
his beautifully-restored yellow Corvette, a Stingray to be exact.
Bart could be seen tooling about the town on most days. He liked showing
off his toys and the 'Vette was his favorite plaything. 

From
what Sam had heard, Bart restored the car a couple of months ago
along with his old friend, Stevie Grissom, who was somewhat of an expert when
it came to classic vehicles. The pair were one of the few long-term
friendships, from what Sam knew, which remained from the Red Dog days. The immaculately-restored
Corvette was Bart’s pride and joy.

That
was why Sam couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the shiny yellow classic with
large red letters on its hood reading … Red Dog. So much for keeping it quiet,
Sam thought as he got out of his cruiser. Several people were milling around
looking at the spectacle. The number of gawkers included Cliff Chapman who
was busy snapping pictures of the vandalism.

“I
guess it’s on the record now huh?” the old newsman said as he walked up to meet
the sheriff. “I’m pretty sure that’s not red paint on there.”

“I
suppose not,” Sam sighed as he eyed the size of the letters which covered most
of the long, shapely hood of the Corvette.

The
reporter was right. The public appearance of the killer’s bloody signature
message meant there was no more keeping it something only law enforcement knew.
It was now public domain. The Red Dog Killer had announced his presence to the
world.

“Thought
of that girl’s name yet?” Sam asked. "I really need that name."

Sam
figured the old reporter hadn't recalled the name but decided to ask anyway.
Instead he was more captivated by the scene before him. The amount of
blood needed to paint the car, if it were blood, meant whoever donated the
crimson fluid was likely not still alive.

“I’m
trying sheriff, honest, it just isn’t coming,” Cliff sheepishly responded.

Cliff was
embarrassed by his sketchy memory. He had tried his hardest to pluck the name
from the back of his brain. He went so far as to drink a six-pack the night
before. He hoped the beer would relax him and allow him to recall the forgotten
name. In the end, however, all the beer served to do was give him a buzz and
leave him with a dull headache this morning.

“Well
keep trying,” Sam said. “It’s important.”

Walking
over to the car, the sheriff hailed Kendal who was taking statements from some
bystanders.

“Before
you ask, sheriff, the red on the car has field-tested positive for blood,”
Kendal said.

“Do
we have any idea who it belongs to?” Sam asked as he saw Bart standing at the
door of his dealership watching him and his investigator talk. “I mean I don’t
think you can go to the paint store and buy a bucket of blood.”

Rolling
his eyes at the sheriff’s off-the-cuff comment, the ever by-the-book detective
continued his briefing.

“Not
for sure, but we have a good idea,” Kendal responded. “It seems Stevie Grissom
went out for milk and eggs last night and never came home.”

Sam
already assumed Stevie was the donor of the crimson paint.  The sheriff
kicked himself for not being aggressive enough during his meeting at Stevie's
home. Had he pushed the nervous suspect harder the day before or at least
brought him in for questioning, he may have gotten him to give in. With a
little more prodding Stevie may have come clean and, in turn, still been alive.

“It
looks like our killer decided to go public,” Kendal declared.

“Agreed,”
Sam replied.

The
sheriff's attention was drawn to the numerous bystanders watching what was
going on at the car lot. Sam couldn't help but wonder if their killer
was standing nearby. Perhaps the killer had returned to the scene of the crime.

“Any
idea what time this happened?” Sam asked.

“Someone
found it when the sun came up this morning,” the investigator replied. “Now, how
long it was here before that is a mystery. I suppose it could have been anytime
last night since they closed the lot at eight.”

Leaning
in toward his detective, Sam quietly issued his orders.

“I
want you to get someone with a video camera to film the scene here and make
sure the person working the camera films the people milling around,”
Sam directed the investigator. “Make sure to be smooth about it. If our killer
is standing around, I don’t want to scare him off.”

Nodding
to the sheriff, the detective walked over to his patrol car and pulled out
the video camera he kept in his trunk.

“Hey
kid, come here,” Kendal said, hailing Deputy Faulkner who was working crowd
control trying to keep motorists moving along.

Some
of the rubberneckers were causing a traffic hazard as they slowed while
passing in front of the dealership to see what was going on. .

Explaining
his assignment and warning him to be low key, Kendal handed the young officer
the camera and walked back to the sheriff.

“Word’s
got out,” Kendal surmised. “Rumor is already on the street this has to do with
the last two murders. They’re saying it’s a serial killer.”

Sam
realized common knowledge was wrong in this case. He understood what they were
dealing with was not a deranged serial killer but was instead a revenge killer.
Their murderer wasn't a thrill-killer nor was he doing it for
fun. The killer, Sam believed, was out to set the score straight. For all he
knew, the murders could have been planned for years.

For
Sam the motive was obvious. It was the remaining targets that were unclear.
Were there one or five? The one thing Sam knew for sure was that Bart was in
the thick of what was going on. The question in his mind was whether Bart would
be the next victim or if he was behind the string of murders. Frankly, Sam
wouldn’t put it past him although bringing focus onto his front door step, so
to speak, didn’t make sense if the businessman was involved in the slayings.
Regardless, it was time to have a chat with the former sheriff’s son.

Excusing
himself as the crime lab team pulled into the parking lot, leaving the crime
scene in Kendal’s hands, Sam walked into the dealership office.

“Sheriff,”
Bart said coldly as Sam approached. 

“We
need to talk,” Sam declared, not bothering to extend his hand to the
businessman.

Bart
motioned his guest to his posh office located in the back of the dealership. He
immediately walked over to his small bar and grabbed a bottle of liquor.

“Care
for one?” Bart asked as he poured himself a glass of whiskey.

“No
thanks,” Sam replied.

“That’s
what I figured,” Bart retorted as he closed the bottle and took a sip of his
drink. “Sit down.”

“I
think I’ll just stand if it’s all the same with you,” Sam replied.

The
sheriff didn't believe in pretense since he had never liked Bart.
The salesmen always seemed shady. Plus, there were too many rumors about
Bart's connection with the criminal element. Sam knew that "where there's
smoke, there's fire" so he figured the businessman was less than reputable.

“Suit
yourself, sheriff,” Bart shot back as he took a seat in his large leather
chair. 

The businessman
was not a fan of the sheriff, making their dislike for one another mutual. Bart
didn't approve of the way Sam did his job. In Bart's eyes, no one could be a
better sheriff than his father.

“So
what can I help you with today?" Bart began. "I’ve got a yellow
Corvette on the lot I’ll sell you cheap.”

Sam
didn't care much for Bart’s flippant attitude since they
were probably looking at a third homicide.

“I
guess you can start by telling me what happened at the Red Dog that has someone
killing your old friends one by one,” Sam said. "You do remember the old
Red Dog, don't you Bart?"

Giving
the sheriff a nervous grin, taking a loud sip of his drink, Bart ran his hand
through his receding dark hair.

“I’m
sure I haven’t the slightest what you’re talking about sheriff,” Bart said
innocently. “All I know is someone trashed my prize hotrod. I hope you guys can
bring this dangerous vandal to justice.”

“I
think we both know what that is on your hood,” Sam shot back in an agitated
tone. “I’m not a doctor but I’d have to guess that someone who lost that
much blood probably isn’t with us anymore. By my way of thinking, your old
buddy Stevie Grissom is probably the donor. You know, he's the guy who
helped you restore your precious hotrod. Looks like to me someone’s trying to
send you a message.”

Bart
maintained his smile and leaned back in his chair.

“You
know, sheriff, that a successful businessman like me makes a few enemies here
and there,” Bart began. “Maybe someone is mad about paying for the undercoating
- that’s a scam you know. Or maybe they didn’t get what they wanted in a trade.
Bottom line is that could be anything messing up my fine automobile. It’s deer
season for crying out loud. It’s probably deer blood some rednecks drained out
of a poor doe after spotlighting last night. You’re seeing ghosts where they
aren’t any.”

Sam
delivered a steely glare as he stared down his host for a moment.

“So
that’s how it’s going to be?” Sam declared.

“I
suppose so,” Bart retorted as he locked stares with the sheriff.

“In
that case, good luck to you,” Sam said. “I’m sure whoever it is out there will
work their way around to you sooner than later.”

Bart
refused to break his staring contest with the lawman although the smile ran
away from his face given the sheriff's comment.

“That
sounds like a threat, sheriff,” Bart said, narrowing his eyes. “Are you trying
to scare me?”

“No,
that’s a prediction,” Sam countered. “I can’t help you if you won’t help
yourself.”

Bart stood
up from his desk and took a last swig of his drink. Then, slamming down his
glass on his desk, he sneered at the lawman.

“It
seems to me, sheriff, you aren’t helping anybody,” Bart declared. “It seems
like there’s a lot of people dying on your watch lately. I don’t recall people
dying left and right back when my father was sheriff.”

Bart’s
statement ran all over Sam. He could feel the veins sticking out in his neck
and the heat on his face. He was about to break red on his host.

“How
about young girls getting raped at the old Red Dog?” Sam shot back. “I guess
your father wasn’t much good at solving that, especially when his boy was
involved.”

Sam’s
statement cut a nerve as Bart stepped from behind his desk and walked
aggressively toward the sheriff. He stood eye-to-eye with the lawman.

“You
better watch your mouth,” Bart snarled. “You don’t need to be talking about
things you know nothing about and you better not talk about my father. You
aren’t even in his league.”

Sam
now sported a smirk, realizing he had hit a chord. He could feel the hatred
oozing from Bart. It was white-hot.

“At
least I don’t turn my head to a rapist,” Sam countered. "Maybe dear old
dad was into that type of thing. Did he like little girls too, Bart, or was
that just a thing his son was into?"