Month: June 2024

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-Ten.

 

Eleven years separated the brothers. In that time, the whole world had shifted. On one side of the divide stood DDE and the military-industrial complex. The sound track was Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You.” Late night commentary was Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show. On the other side? Well, RMN and Watergate, for one. The sound track was Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones belting out “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” Late night? That was Jay Leno.

Then too there was Vietnam. The older sibling got drafted, served honorably in Southeast Asia, came home, and never once talked about any of it in public. The younger came of age after the draft had ended. But he was much affected as a 10-year-old by events unfolding at Kent State when National Guard troops opened fire on student protesters, killing four.

Not surprisingly, one was a Democrat, the other, a staunch Republican. Both of them had one son and two daughters. One family called Texas home, with a vacation place on Hilton Head. The other lived in Colorado and kept a short-term rental property in California. When they went to the beach, one headed East, the other, West.

Both worked in the same industry: Computer services. And both shared the same upbringing. They had common early experiences, identical core values, and spoke roughly the same dialect. But circumstance had driven them in differing directions, with radically different outcomes.  It was a crying shame. They no longer spoke to each other.

 

********

 

The police got interested in the brother from Dallas after all their other leads had run dry. This was going to be a long shot, but at the moment a long shot was better than no shot. It was, sad to say, about the only thing the cops had left. The lead came to light after a review of Internet data on the deceased’s website – DEWConsulting.net – turned up a curious anomaly. Hosted on the dinosaur platform called “WordPress,” stats on each and every site hit were saved and stored, seemingly forever. Every IP address that had ever visited was recorded, date-time-stamped, and squirrelled away on a server somewhere in San Jose. Score one for the tried and true.

The website had been up for nearly 7 years when DEW got himself conked on the head with a hammer and buried beside South Rim Trail @RoxStatePark.  After that point there was complete radio silence of course: No DEW, no posts. By this late date the case went cold and had been shuffled off to the State Police’s Open/Unsolved Unit. That’s right, the same outfit that Michael Connelly’s fictional detective Harry Bosch worked in L.A. after he retired from active duty as a homicide dick. But this was not fiction. And it was also not L.A. The Douglas County Sheriff’s Office didn’t have the same resources that a big city police force had. It was probably unfair to say they couldn’t even catch COVID at the height of the pandemic. But maybe it was close?

 

 

********

 

The squints at the Open/Unsolved Unit included a lot of recent Computer Science grads from Boulder and DU who were just glad to be employed by a government agency with relatively deep pockets. Well, that along with good health and dental plans. So they were always happy to run their algorithms late into the night on various datasets mined from the deep recesses of the Internet. One such search yielded a finding that raised eyebrows on the DEWConsulting case as it was now known.

The deceased was a blogger who put something out there nearly every day on his site. He also was a smart-ass, posting commentary and memes that some folks found, well, objectionable. In certain instances it was downright offensive. You know the type: Always a wise-crack but never an apology. He was the kind of guy who might tend to get under your skin if you found yourself on opposite sides of a digital divide.

As it turned out, the deceased’s Dallas brother was just such an opposite number. While the deceased was progressive to a fault, his Dallas kin played golf with Dubya back in the day and ended up working for Ross Perot, if you can imagine it. He was employee #66 at EDS. The stock options made him rich. Not Bill Gates or Warren Buffet style rich. But rich enough that he could retire early and enjoy the good life with his buddies down at the local country club.

 

********

 

The thing that caught everybody’s attention in Open/Unsolved about all this was the fact that the elder brother had stopped regular visits to DEWConsulting.net exactly a week prior to the fateful day when all blogging – and blood-flow – came to an abrupt halt for the unlucky half of the pair. Based on a gut hunch, one particularly enterprising squint pushed his boss to seek a judge’s subpoena to open up the blogger’s email accounts posthumously. To everyone’s surprise, the court order was granted, And that is where they struck paydirt.

DEW posted a long rant on his blog about some unwelcome guests who trashed the Airbnb he owned in California. They actually painted psychedelic murals in fluorescent green and orange on the white interior walls. Worse, they rewired the entire house to install hidden cameras in each of the bedrooms, the better to film pornographic videos for sale on the dark web. What some people won’t do to make a buck, eh?

The elder brother wrote an email to DEW making jokes about “Hunter Biden’s artwork” and “only in California do you get such degenerates.” The blogger took exception, calling his brother “a fat fucking pig wallowing in hogslop.” The Texan said he’d better be careful about the things he said or he just might end up being sorry. The blogger replied that regional and political bias was a very ugly thing… “and so are you.” “Bite me.” “Fuck you.” “I hope you die a painful death.” The discourse went rapidly downhill from there.

“Take me off the distribution list for your daily BLAH-BLAH-BLAH BS. I never wanna hear from you again.”

“Gladly. You will not be missed.”

 

********

 

As it turned out, the Texas brother was at loose ends. His wife had died unexpectedly during COVID, and his only son had recently fallen over dead of a previously undetected aortic aneurysm at age 32.  At the second of the two tightly-spaced funerals, one of the remaining daughters was concerned enough to remark publicly, “Daddy just seems so angry all the time. I’m worried he’s going off the deep end. There’s no telling what he might do next.”

“But why didn’t you tell us she was sick? We only hear about it NOW?”

“Well, we thought she was going to get better.”

More like “It doesn’t comport with your inflated sense of self-regard.” But that part was left unsaid.

 

********

 

The police ticked off the check-box for “motive.” And a hammer was certainly pretty non-specific as “means” went, readily available at any Ace Hardware. But what of “opportunity?”  In a post-9-11 world of TSA checkpoints and tight airport security, this was a sticking point in their theory of the crime. Gone were the days when you could pay cash for an airfare and hop on a plane same-day without providing plenty of traceable ID – and indenturing your firstborn – up front. Absent the air route, it was a very long drive from Dallas to Denver. Maybe you could do it in one long day, but is that what really happened?

Nothing conclusive ever could be proved one way or the other. Certain of the squints had their suspicions of course, but it was never going to be enough for police to make an arrest. So the case would remain Open/Unsolved. Justice for the dear departed would have to be put on hold until a later date. Yeah, sure, “The wheels grind slow” and all that jazz. But this was starting to get ridiculous.

Bear the Great – Chapter Ten.

 

“Voxdoc” was an ENT who realized early on he didn’t want to spend his entire career putting tubes in the ears of squalling kids with chronic Otitis Media. In medicine, the dictum “Knowing More and More About Less and Less” was not just the prevailing wisdom, it was a blueprint for continued professional development. Also, sub-specialization was a good way to make more money. A whole lot more. So, after his surgical residency at Southern Illinois he sought out one of the few laryngology specialists he could find who did nothing but vocal chord surgery and apprenticed himself for a year. It was the smartest professional move he’d ever made.

Not that there weren’t casualties along the way. His ex-wife and twin daughters, for instance: They didn’t speak to him anymore. And truth to tell, he was fine with that. The divorce had been ugly. And he’d always thought his girls lacked ambition. They now both worked as account reps for Zillow in Seattle. Jesus. What a waste.

The thing that tripped him up in the dissolution of his 25-year marriage had been the slightest mistake. Always a technophile, he had an app on his phone that tethered his personal GPS data to a daily diary entry. Traveling the world now as one of the foremost experts in vocal chord surgery for transgender patients, he was much sought-after as a speaker at medical conferences from Norway to Nairobi. He was away from his practice almost as much as he was home.

 

********

 

He’d first met his mistress when they’d done youth choir together at the Episcopal Cathedral where she was choir director and he was a musically-inclined volunteer. Turns out, she liked to travel too. The problem for him, at least once his ex-wife’s lawyers compared his mistress’ airline itineraries with his phone GPS data, was the uncanny correspondence in dates and times of travel. By this point the shenanigans had been on-going for almost a decade. And the legal proceedings turned into a bloodbath.

Though costly, in some ways it was a relief. He had to quit-claim the spectacular house he and his ex co-owned on top of a mountain and move into a tiny loft downtown. But now at least he could get a little work-life balance. He’d always been outdoorsy. So, by chance, was his mistress. They each bought the latest in titanium-alloy mountain-bikes and took up bike-packing. When they finally tied the knot, it was with only a half-dozen-or-so of the hardiest of their close friends in attendance. The blessed event took place in a meadow full of wildflowers off a mountain trail that took two days on foot to reach from civilization. It was the ultimate destination wedding for the REI crowd. The happy couple was thrilled. Voxdoc’s ex was decidedly less so. “Make the bastard pay” became her life’s abiding passion.

 

 

The less-obvious silver lining of it all was that now when he was speaking at a conference in the Baltics or the Balkans, they could sit together on the plane. As an added bonus, they never had to rent a car. They each had these nifty hard-sided carrying cases for their bikes and equipment that allowed them to get around easily in whatever city or country was their current destination. He had to say, he never once missed his old house. Not even a little.

 

********

 

For a while he hated the transgender population that became his bread and butter. So needy. So vocal. And so demanding. But eventually he made his peace, swallowed his irritation, and pocketed fat fees. If life wasn’t going to be an uninterrupted bed of roses, then at least it was going to be lucrative.

Today, instead of sitting in an airport VIP lounge, he was closer to home, seeing outpatients at his clinic. First up? A trans Park Ranger who’d already had reconstructive genital surgery and was now in the middle of hormone treatments. Aelin/Aaron wanted a deeper voice to go along with the five-o’clock shadow. Well, voice change was Voxdoc’s specialty after all. And as transgender patients went, this one was far less aggravation than most. At 6’3″ they certainly looked the part. Might not be into bike-packing, but trail life was a point of commonality he could exploit to gain trust and put the patient at ease. Tricks of the trade.

 

********

 

“How goes the battle?” He found that confronting the inevitable rough patches was preferable to glossing things over with these folks.

“Ugh. Paperwork’s the bane of a Ranger’s existence. Last week we had a suspicious death. So I had to be in the office all hours with local law enforcement, answering questions and filling out forms. Christ, the Douglas County Sheriff is clueless. People think being a Park Ranger is all kum-ba-ya and birdwatching, but it’s not. My life is no picnic, let me tell you. And that’s not even counting all the heirarchical BS of the Park Service. But hey, enough about me. Where are you jetting off to next week, doc?”

He was impressed. Most of his patients couldn’t see even one step beyond their own petty personal grievances. But Aelin/Aaron had remembered his travel schedule. And in the midst of a murder investigation, no less. The needle of his transgender disdain-o-meter ticked down by a tiny notch. Maybe these trans folks weren’t so bad after all.

 

********

 

For Aaron/Aelin’s part, disdain for Voxdoc stayed at about the same chronic level it had always been, at least since details of his very public divorce came out in the press. The little twerp. Fidelity mattered!  But hey, not everybody did this kind of specialized surgery. The day when (s)he could tell their superiors at CPW to go stick it – in a deeper voice – was just around the corner. That was something at least. For Aelin/Aaron, that day couldn’t come soon enough.

The first things I read in a book if I already know the author are the acknowledgements and the dedication. If I don’t already know the author, I might read the blurb on the book jacket or the promo quotes on the back to see if it seems like this might be an interesting read. But nobody needs to tell me anything about Michael Connelly. I already know him, and I already know I like what he writes. What I’m most interested in when he puts out a new one is what has inspired him this time around.

The acknowledgements and dedication are where an author steps outside the story and speaks directly to the reader. In any event, here’s mine for Bear the Great, my murder mystery currently under construction. Chapters One through One-Oh-Nine can be found at dewconsulting.net, although I’m still working on chapters Ten through Ninety-six. Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

And if you don’t like the working title, you’re welcome to suggest alternatives in the comments section after you’ve read all the way to the end.  Nothing’s etched in stone here folks. Not yet anyway.

 

********

 

“Plotter or pantser?”:

“Excuse me?”

“Are you a plotter or a pantser?”

You’ll have to forgive me here. I’ve got a pretty decent vocabulary, but “pantser” was a new one on me. Truth to tell, I was picturing something in a WWII-era German tank. And again, please keep in mind: I’m a guy with mild to moderate hearing loss from too many years running a chain saw out in the woods, so it’s not always easy for me to distinguish “nts” from “nz.”

“What’s a pantser?

“You know, by the seat of your pants.”

“Ahhhh.” Clarity was dawning. It wasn’t all the way up above the horizon yet, but it was getting closer. “So a plotter is….?”

“A plotter writes knowing where they’re going. They see the end from the beginning. The plot drives the story from Point A to Point B to the Big Climax.”

“Well, I’m all for Big Climaxes…. And the pantser?”

“Flies by the seat of their pants. Let’s their characters drag them along down a long and winding road to we-know-not-where. The story-book-ending is not necessarily where they thought it was going to be at first.”

“Maybe a little of both?”

“Bzzzzt. Wrong answer. You can lean a little one way or the other. But as a writer, if you don’t know your own biases and admit them – especially to yourself – you’re never going to keep people interested all the way to the end. It’s like a cosmic law or something.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay WHAT?”

“You said I have to admit it TO MYSELF. And I have. But nobody ever said I have to tell YOU anything up front. You’ll have to read to the end to find out, just like everyone else.

 

********

 

Which brings me to my dedication: “For AVW.

The best First Reader a hapless pantser could ever hope for.”

 

 

As for acknowledgements, I may be putting the cart before the horse here. You know, since the book’s not yet finished. Still, this may serve a useful function after all. For instance, everybody always thanks their editor and their agent and all the hard-working support staff at Mom & Pop Press. Me, I don’t have anything like that. But if you’re reading this, maybe you have some ideas? If so, please let me know. I’m always willing to exchange a cut of the profits for a good professional referral.

The other thing that always comes in the acknowledgements is this disclaimer: “Any factual errors in this book are solely the author’s.” Now the fact of the matter is, this is a work of fiction and not an oral history. As such, the factual errors aren’t just mine, they’re mostly intentional. You say “making things up?” I say “creativity.” Potato, po-tah-toe.

The other universal disclaimer in fiction is this: “All similarities to any persons either living or dead are purely coincidental.” Me personally, I hate legalese and I don’t believe in coincidences. Things happen for a reason, and you can quote me on that too, mister. Hell, I haven’t even bothered to change any of the names yet! Though I’m sure once I find an editor and a publisher, all of that stuff will need to happen before you can buy this on Amazon. The sacrifices we make for art, eh?

 

********

 

Last but not least, if you’re reading this you either already have a cameo appearance in the story or are going to get one at some point in the near future. We all get by with a little help from our friends, right? That’s why I’d like to recognize the fine folks at Ramos Law, Bachus and Schanker, and Frank Azar The Strong Arm. I’m definitely hiring one or the other of them to make sure I don’t get sued. I mean, waddaya think I am, crazy? Think again. The fact remains that if there’s not somebody out there wanting to sue you then you’re probably not doing a very good job as a writer. For an author, legal representation is more than just a luxury. It’s an absolute necessity,

OK, I lied: The above paragraph was not the last word. But the paragraph below IS. This story flouts convention on any number of levels: The hero is a dog. The sleuth is a psychic. The killer gets away with it. There are no James Bond 007 sequences on a remote tropical island sipping Mai Tais and getting sand in one’s, uh, swimsuit. And just so you know up front, I have written myself out of the story practically from the get-go. In Chapter Three. Hey, I’m the victim here, folks! So please don’t sue me. Because I’ve already been through an awful bloody lot. But do read all the way to the end. I mean, how else will you ever find out whodunnit?

 

 

********

 

Now, somebody go find out who owns the copy rights to the Green Acres theme song and get them on the line ASAP. We gotta dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s here – doncha know?

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred-Nine.

 

The Pet Psychic started out in banking, if you can imagine. Well, at least she worked for a bank, mostly doing marketing and PR. It wasn’t until much later in the game that she dropped out of the corporate world entirely and decided to stay home doing whatever it was she’d be doing for the rest of her life.

Her first post-bank venture was writing children’s books. She loved kids, though she couldn’t have any of her own. And she’d always been a pretty engaging writer. Even if it was mostly aimed at getting people to open a Six-Month Jumbo CD.

“If I Could Fly” was the heart-warming tale of Aria, a spunky little chimpmunk full of wild imagination and big dreams. It was published by a mom-and-pop press that specialized in kids’ lit. It did okay, but not well enough that she could retire on the royalties. And it was A LOT of work. Her agent wanted her to write another installment, but no publisher was offering an advance. Thanks, but no thanks.

 

 

With the help of some PR contacts at the local iHeart affilliate she’d cultivated while working for the bank, she next tried her hand at talk radio. She only ever agreed to interview those guests she found interesting. That ruled out most politicos, all preachers, and the latest local sports hero. You know, the tried-and-true staples of small town broadcast journalism. That gig lasted a few years and was fun enough. But ultimately the station manager told her one day that they needed something different for her time slot. Something that would drive ad revenues higher than a 1-book children’s author with 5 dogs at home could ever hope to provide. At the door, he handed over a souvenir WGAL coffee mug, wished her the best, and that was the end of that.

 

********

 

The one-two punch that ultimately prompted a midlife course correction came after her beloved aussie, Darwin, was hit and killed by a car speeding down the two-lane blacktop near the end of their driveway. On the same day, she recieved a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis from her GP who had been working up some abnormal lab results.  She couldn’t figure out why she was always dropping things and gradually losing strength in her fingers. Now she knew. MS could be managed, the doc said. But it was unlikely to improve over time. Crap.

For a while she wandered the house in a tattered bathrobe wondering what in the actual fucking hell. What’s a spunky little chipmunk with big dreams and a background in banking PR to do? Eventually she picked herself up off the mat, got certified in Reiki, then finally decided to hang out her shingle as a pet psychic. I mean, c’mon: Conversing with dead animals? That would be a piece of cake compared with trying to make an interview with some bottle-blonde air-head Dairy Princess sound interesting. And imagining that animals could talk in the first place? Well, Aria the chipmunk had already given her a leg up on that one. If she got to speak with Darwin from time to time in the process? Bonus. 

 

********

 

She closed her log-book on the case of Bear The Great Pyrenees with a satisfied “thwack.” Another success story. Another fat fee in the account ledger for Pet Psychic Services, LTD. And she hadn’t even needed to go all Nancy Reagan to get there this time either. Just a little Google Earth street-view, plus the tried-and-true treats-from-home trick. Oh, and also, a generous dose of empathy, sprinkled with just the right amount of questioning curiosity. It sure was a whole helluva lot easier than marketing Jumbo CDs.

The clients were certainly pleased with the outcome. And it looked like the entire family was going to hit the trail and get themselves in better shape, Bear included. Just what the doctor ordered. But something nagged at the edge of her consciousness….

How could the cops let this thing with the missing neighbor drop ? I mean, this wasn’t just a case of some teenager in a hoodie taking the five-finger discount on a tube of spf50 plus some Baby Ruths from the display rack by the cashier at the local Walgreens. This was premeditated murder. Did local law enforcement really not give a damn? Or did they lack the necessary research skills? Hell, give her a week or two with Bear in tow and she bet SHE could figure it out. Ah well. Not her monkeys, not her circus. Let the police do their job. Right?

 

********

 

OK, yeah, sure: Julianne the whack-a-doodle dog groomer lady next door turned out to be a dead end. Away at an out-of-state dog show at the time of murder? Man, you couldn’t ask for a better alibi. And her husband apparently had passed the detectives’ smell test when they interviewed him. He said he had no animus against his neighbor, none at all. It was his wife who had the problem, not him. The pet psychic wished she could get Chris in an interview room one-on-one and sniff him out. Though if it was the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office that was investigating, she doubted they’d ever be able to do much besides catching scofflaws speeding past Roxborough Intermediate when school let out. 

Security tapes for the day of the murder were all blank because somebody had been messing with the cameras’ wiring again. Not once, but twice! Chris said he suspected the HOA Board Chair, @RampartsBob. But nobody in their right mind would ever believe that. Chris was probably just being vindictive because of all the grief the HOA had given him and Julianne. Hell, Bob was too fat and feeble to make it up three rungs of a step-ladder to change a dang light bulb, let alone to snip four camera wires. 

 

********

 

The deceased’s wife had also been a likely suspect early on, especially after she admitted to following the victim into the Park on the day of the murder. But after police sweated her long and hard, her story – that she was “just curious” as to her potentially unfaithful husband’s whereabouts, and that she only used the Visitors Center restroom briefly before returning home – held up.

Well, it held up with the backing of Aelin the Park Ranger, who admitted – on second thought – that she DID notice a black Accord leaving the Visitors Center lot that day. And that leaving occured way too soon for the wife to have had enough time to hoof it all the way up to the top of South Rim and conk poor hubby on the noggin with a hammer. It was ironic in more ways than one, too: Jealous wife of hapless victim is exhonerated by sworn testimony of transgender Ranger? Man, you just couldn’t make this stuff up. Never in a million years.

 

********

 

When he goes out to pee in the yard these days, Bear misses his early-morning neighborhood walking-buddy. He still can’t figure out what’s become of that guy. He always had the best treats. Bacon! Too bad mom hasn’t discovered the wonders of bacon. But now they go over to the dog park at Chatfield for walks, and there’s this poodle over there Bear’s been looking forward to sniffing again. No, it’s true that loyalty has never been Bear’s strong suit. But he does know what he likes.

Bear the Great – Chapter Nine.

 

 

“Hey, hon. Do we have any wirecutters? Tin snips? I’d hate to ruin a perfectly good pair of toenail clippers.”

“Somewhere. Let me look. What do you need them for? Obviously not for toenails.”

“Oh, it’s just a little home improvement project I’ve got going. No big deal. Let me know what you find.”

“Okay.”

 

********

 

Man, it was stuff like this that really set Chris off. He hated anything that disrupted his normal daily routine. Today while prepping to back up the security tapes, he’d looked at the screen of his laptop and saw that all four camera feeds were blank. All of them? What the HELL?

“Julianne? You notice anything off with the cameras last night?”

“Nope.”

“Well, something’s off this morning. I better go out and see what’s up.”

He had to be at work in less than an hour. And he was on deadline. This had better not take too goddamn long. It was always something.

“I’m  letting the dogs out to pee.”

“Okay.”

 

*********

 

Chris found the wires leading to each of their four recently-installed outdoor security cameras had been neatly – and intentionally – cut. Clearly it was not a faulty install or an accident.  When they’d first gone up, he’d made sure there were no blind spots, front or back. That was very important. And it was fun sometimes to watch a mama bear at 3AM lumbering up the walk with her cubs in tow. Once he’d even seen a powerful mountain lion dragging what might have been a mule deer carcass across the back yard. Yikes. Something like that was enough to make the hair stand straight up on the back of your neck. Gotta love Mother Nature.

But these were never intended as wildlife cams. They were installed to make sure that nobody – not the neighbors, not the HOA, nobody – messed with any of their property. Their back deck was crammed with all kinds of stuff in addition to the hot tub and their patio furniture. There was an expensive gas BBQ grill. A gas fire pit that had cost them an arm and a leg. A little metal memorial pyramid containing the ashes of one of their previous pets who’d crossed over the rainbow bridge. And a bunch of knick-knacks he wasn’t even sure they had any use for anymore. But what the hell: Anybody who thought they could cart any of it off would soon have another think coming. They’d be caught on tape, with all evidence turned over to the Douglas County Sheriff’s Office forthwith for swift and certain prosecution.

 

********

 

Julieanne could also watch for clients headed up to their front door, and thereby avert disaster should they be so foolish as to try ringing the bell. That unwise course of action always set their own dogs off into a frenzy of ferocious yaps and howls entirely disproportionate to the dogs’ stature. The smaller the dog, the louder the ruckus. They put up a sign clearly telling people to respect their “Reactive Dogs.” But of course there was always some Bozo who couldn’t – or wouldn’t – read plain English. People could be so stupid. Or mean. Or both.

 

********

 

“What was up with the cameras this morning? You get that figured out?”

“Yeah. Somebody cut the wires.”

“WHAT???”

“I think it might have been the guy next door. I could tell that idiot got his panties in a bunch when the electrician was here doing the install.”

“That motherfucker. If I catch him messing with any of our stuff again, I’ll cut off his balls with a pair of tin snips and stuff them down his goddamn throat.”

Julianne always did have a way with words. It made Chris smile.

“No worries. A little electrical tape and now everything’s back as good as new. I’ll keep an eye on the feeds to make sure nobody does it again.”

“Good.”

 

Bear the Great – Chapter One-Hundred.

<Offices of JLB, Pet Psychic Services, LTD.>

 

“So how is Bear doing these days?”

“Much better. He’s still basically the same old fat and lazy Bear he always was. But now he seems to be getting a little less anxious every single day. That’s a good thing, right?”

“It’s great to hear, yes. What d’ya think made the difference?”

“I guess we’re taking him on longer walks now. He comes home after a 3-mile, flops down on his mattress in the living room, and sleeps like a baby. He actually snores, if you can believe it. Seems to be losing a little weight, too. That’s never a bad thing, shedding some flab. For him or for us, right?”

“I agree whole-heartedly.”

“Of course, the State Park next to where we live, they don’t allow any pets. We never could figure out why. Anyway, we have to take him over to the dog park at Chatfield for walks. That seems to be fine by him. Gives him a chance to socialize. It’s never too late to find lost love, y’know?”

“Ha. I guess so.”

 

********

 

“Say, what ever became of your missing neighbor? I never heard the outcome on the news or anything.”

“The case is still unsolved. No new leads. Early on, the police declared our old groomer lady a “person of interest.” But it turns out she had an airtight alibi. Based on forensics’ estimated time-of-death, she was away in another state at a dog show at the time. If you can believe it.

“Wow. Best laid plans of mice and men, eh?”

“Yeah. Anyway, we don’t think Bear’s gonna need any more sessions. Do you? We’re very grateful for all your help.”

“Agreed. See my receptionist on your way out. She’ll draw up a final bill. And you take good care, Bear.”

Bear ignores her. In fact, he’s already headed for the door. Mom has the leash out of her purse. And there were no treats in the offing today anyway. “Humpf.”

 

********

 

The killer sets off in a kayak from shallow water near drowning cottonwoods as the sun is going down over Chatfield Reservoir. The coup de grace will have to wait until much later for pitch dark. There are an awful lot of very dedicated fishermen out on the lake at all hours. You can’t be too careful. So staying close to shore and under cover of trees in the meantime is an absolute must.

The “plunk” of a heavy object cast out into deep water will cause ripples expanding from the point of impact. But so what? At new moon?  At midnight? No one will be there to see it. And even if they do see, what of it? A night-time kayaker in a hoodie, that’s all. Then, the slow paddle back to shore.

 

Yeah, the hoodie was a stroke of genius.

Thanks for that, by the way.

Couldn’t have done it without you.

Bear the Great – Chapter Ninety-nine.

 

Chris Rodriguez’s head had never been screwed on exactly straight. He’d done fine in school, especially when it came to math and science. Early on they called him “gifted.” Also “on the spectrum.” He’d never really cared what anyone called him as long as they stayed out of his face. He graduated from high school around middle of the pack. “Wasted potential” was what his guidance counsellor had written. But Chris simply didn’t care. He enrolled in a tech training course at the local community college and earned an associate’s degree in programming. After that, a tech job where he didn’t have to do any customer interface? As far as Chris was concerned, that was pretty close to perfect.

 

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He met Julianne Acosta at a church social his parents had forced him to go to. He’d rather have stayed home and played Grand Theft Auto or Call of Duty. But mom and dad were insistent, so he went. There was no mistaking the dark-haired beauty for any kind of shrinking violet. She was pretty with a kind of Neve Campbell vibe. But her braying laugh was LOUD, and that seemed to keep most of the other boys at bay. Chris thought most of the other boys were flat-out stupid, and Julianne’s laugh didn’t annoy him too much. When she noticed him noticing her, she asked him to dance. He didn’t say “yes” – for the life of him he couldn’t meet her eyes – but he did get to his feet. That was something at least.

 

 

They were married by the priest at St. Aloysius the summer after he earned his associate’s degree. By then he was working crazy hours at a small computer start-up, and she earned a little extra cash doing dog grooming from home. They thought about having kids, but something was amiss. It was never clear which of them lacked the requisite plumbing. But neither of them was really much interested in having it diagnosed or treated. It was God’s will.

Chris kept his head down at work and at home and let Julianne do most of the talking whenever they were out in public. For her part, she poured all her excess energy into the dogs. It was never a match made in heaven. But it was a life, and that was good enough for both of them.

 

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The trouble with the HOA started after Penny died. Penny had been their next door neighbor, and she was a non-stop riot. Before her retirement she’d been a successful real estate agent. Afterward, Penny always brandished a vodka martini in one hand starting daily at 4PM. Her other hand usually held an unfiltered camel, but that was all day long. The smoke curled up into her leathery face and made her squint. She was a sassy smart-ass, and that always made Julianne laugh. Chris just tolerated her. But then, that was his stance toward pretty much everybody.

Angina and COPD made it hard for Penny to climb stairs. So she put up wood paneling in the front office on the ground floor and turned it into her bedroom. That’s where they found her after the heart attack. Lips blue, face gray, and most definitely dead as a doornail. Her family came and cleared out her stuff, then put her place on the market. After six months, it finally sold.

The new neighbors were non-smokers. That was something at least. They rarely drank vodka martinis. Although they were cordial enough, when Julianne got into a fracas over one HOA infraction or another with Bob, the Board President, they backed off and didn’t seem to take her side. The not-to-code hand rails on the outdoor steps. The drainage issues when it rained. The roof replacement. The security cameras. It was just one damn thing after another.

Julianne had learned early on the value of forging ahead. Of doubling down and taking-no-prisoners. When in doubt, threaten litigation, that was her creed. In fact, maybe that’s what endeared her to Chris in the first place. By contrast, he’d rather swallow battery acid than confront anybody directly about anything. But unfortunately it did not make either one of them very popular with the neighbors in general. Or with Bob the HOA Board Chair in particular.

 

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It was always hard to tell what Chris was thinking. He was an odd duck, also a bit of a wild card. His devotion to Julianne was absolute. But, truth to tell, he was always a little fearful she would leave him. So, whenever she said “Jump,” he didn’t ask “How high?” He just jumped. If she had a problem with Bob, or with any of their neighbors, he took it to heart.

That’s what really got him most exercised about that asshole next door giving their security cam the early morning middle finger every day on his way out the door. And cutting the wires too, he was pretty sure. He could tell that the guy over there was a smart-ass, but not in a good way like Penny had been. So, being a problem-solver, he resolved to do something about it. Something lasting and final that would let Julianne know once and for all that he could be counted on no matter what.

They’d been renovating their place inside and out for nearly two years straight. Always the constant racket of hammer, drill, and saw. They’d gone through 3 or 4 different contractors already. It was never good enough for Julianne. It seemed like maybe this remodel thing might go on forever. Their garage was filed with building materials and contractor’s tools, so they’d begun parking their cars in the communal spots outside. Yet another point of friction with the HOA. But that’s where he’d gotten the kernel of an idea. A plan began to form in his brain.

 

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The problem was, although the timing was usually the same, he could never be sure where that guy was going to head off to around sunrise each day. There was no discernable pattern, and patterns were what Chris lived for. He followed the guy’s car at a discrete distance a couple of times. But one day it would be just a mile or so to the State Park next door. Then the next day it was way the hell over the mountain to some place 45 minutes away. No way in God’s green earth he could scout out every single potential trail that guy might be hiking.

He finally figured out that if the final destination was the State Park, the guy would have to take the first right hand turn outside their development. From that right, the State Park was the only place he could possibly go. So, that simplified things by a lot. It just required enough patience to wait for a day when he took that turn. After that, the only tools needed were a shovel and a spare contractor’s hammer from the garage.

Things were always much simpler if you broke them down into their component parts. Analytical thinking had always been Chris’ strong suit.

Bear the Great – Chapter Ninety-Eight.

 

She was practiced at pretending to sleep. She waited until he was out the door, then quickly pulled on sweatpants, an old t-shirt, and a dark hoodie. When his car got to the end of the lane, she could ease her black Accord out of the garage and follow him without much chance of being noticed. It’s not that she was afraid he was actually having an affair with the Park Ranger. Not per se. She just wanted to see where he went. And when. And for how long. Maybe spy a little. Was that so terrible? I mean, c’mon. Three hours a day, every single day, rain or shine? That’s just a wee bit excessive. Doncha think?

 

 

At the turnoff just outside their development he makes an immediate right. Must be her lucky day. That was the tip-off he was headed to the nearby State Park. At least now she won’t have to follow him 45 minutes over the dang mountain to Staunton Ranch. Sheesh.  I mean, c’mon – REALLY?

 

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At the entrance to the parking lot, she hangs back and turns off her headlights. She sees him park, exit his vehicle, and then have just a brief conversation with the Park Ranger who is there hoisting the American flag at sunrise. Instead of following Aelin into the Visitors Center, however, he turns off onto South Rim Trail. No liason in the offing today. Good. But now her hammering heart and associated adrenalin surge has the unintended consequence of making her really REALLY need to pee. I mean, RIGHT NOW.

The rest rooms are at the opposite end of the Visitor Center from the Ranger’s Office, so she figures she can park down at the other end, do her business, and no one will be the wiser. Her husband will be two or maybe three hours on the South Rim Trail, so, no worries there. She parks and heads inside. The smell of strong coffee hits her nose as she enters, and she makes a mental note to get a pot going when she returns home.

The thought of it is enticing enough that she never even sees the other car pulling into the lot right after her. Had she noticed, it would have been a familiar make and model that made the same immediate right turn she had made after exiting their development.

 

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“I have to admit, the hoodie’s a nice touch. But I wonder what in the hell is SHE’S doing here today?” The killer makes a mental note for future use, then grabs the necessary tools and heads up South Rim after the woman from the black Accord has gone inside to use the restroom. By this stage of the game, Aelin is already immersed in the day’s interminable stack of paperwork on top of her desk. She never even sees the killer’s shovel. Certainly not the killer’s hammer either. Not that it would make a bit of difference in any event. The entrance booth isn’t staffed at this early hour. But trail building activity is ongoing during all daylight hours in mid-summer at the Park. Getting a head start on things, a volunteer could be carrying any number of tools heading out before the heat sets in. It would be the smart move after all.

 

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Oblivious, the victim heads up the trail before the sun peeks over the edge of South Rim. As if to taunt him, a tune pops into his head. At least it’s the proper cadence. Genre and lyrics don’t matter? HA! Think again, you fool. This is an earworm that’s been tormenting him the past couple of days now. It’s the theme song from the old TV show, Green Acres. Sung by the show’s now long-deceased stars, Eddie Albert and Zsa Zsa Gabor.

Eddie: Greeeeen Acres is the place to be. Faaaaarm livin’ is the life for me. Land spreadin’ out so far and wide. Keep Manhattan just gimme that countryside.

Zsa Zsa: Neeeew York is where I’d rather stay. I get allerrrrgic smelling hay.  I just adore a penthouse view. Darling I love you but give me Park Avenue.

Eddie: The chores!

Zsa Zsa: The stores!

Eddie: Fresh air!

Zsa Zsa: Times Square!

Eddie: You are my wife.

Zsa Zsa: Goodbye city life.

Both: Green Acres we are there!

 

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Oh. My. God. Where’s Creedence Clearwater Revival when you need them most? How sad that this commercial TV inanity is going to be his last earthly thought.

But then again, the day and the hour were never meant to be of our choosing.

Bear the Great – Chapter Eight.

 

 

“Hey Aelin.”

What was his name? Donald? David? Daniel? She was terrible with names. That was it. Dan.

“Hi Dan.”

“What are you doing here this early? You should get a volunteer to do that for you. Makes for an awful long day.”

She was putting up the American flag outside the Visitor Center just after sunrise. Today it was supposed to be at half-mast. She couldn’t remember why. Probably another school shooting. There was always another school shooting. But wasn’t school already out for the year? Yeah, it was mid-June. School was definitely out already.

“A Ranger’s work is never done, Dan. You know that.”

“You’re probably right. Have a good one. I’m heading up on South Rim today. Before it gets too hot.”

 

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Dan was a regular hiker at the Park, Aelin knew. He lived nearby and also was a volunteer. He’d done some Corridor Cleaning last week on the scrub oak. He’d also offered to man the entrance booth. But she preferred putting younger people out there. It projected a better image to the Park’s guests. Not that she was ageist, exactly. It was just… well… you didn’t see a lot of retirees behind the counter at Starbucks, now did you? Or running the register at REI? Yeah, sure, maybe as a WalMart greeter. But certain roles required a youthful image. And it was well within her purview as Ranger to match the right people with the right jobs. Right?

She’d put him on a trail construction detail for the new connecter between Bear Falls and Elk Valley. They would need to install railroad tie steps on some of the steeper stretches so hikers wouldn’t need to crabwalk up to the top. Or fall and break their dang necks on the way back down. That work was scheduled to begin next week. The big earth-moving equipment had already done most of the heavy lifting. But it would take teams of trail builders with McLeods and Pulaskis to have it all ready for the masses by fall.  Plenty enough to keep the retirees busy.

“Have a good one. It’ll be a scorcher by noon. You were smart to come out early. See’ya.”

“‘Bye.”

 

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As she was turning to head inside the Visitor Center – all the better get a head start on the day’s paperwork – she noticed a 25-year-old Chrysler 300 sitting in the lot. Who drives a gas-guzzler like that anymore? She herself drove a battered Prius which had been bought new, driven hard, and now was showing its age. Her Prius was old, but not near as ancient as that Chrysler. Then, she answered her own question: Retirees. That’s who drives a car that only gets 22 miles per gallon.

Funny, she was going to be the last person to see him alive. Well, the last person except for maybe one other. Once she was back inside, fortified with strong coffee and sitting at her desk, she idly gazed back through the glass doors she had just come in by. Procrastination was a weakness, she knew. But there were worse character flaws. Right? It was then she noticed the black Honda Accord that had just pulled in the lot and was parked at the opposite end from the 300. The Accord’s driver waited a long while before getting out.

On a day that promised to be a scorcher, Aelin thought it odd that this person wore a hoodie. The pulled-up hood effectively obscured their face. Ah well. It takes all kinds to make a world I guess. If they wanna sweat their asses off, let ’em go ahead and sweat. It was no skin off her nose.

 

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This paperwork wasn’t gonna fill itself out. Time to get cracking. Down at the bottom of her bottom desk drawer was a form she’d never actually had to use before at Roxborough State Park. Over at Chatfield, with two drowning victims this season, they’d had plenty of opportunity to put it to good use already. The form? “Death of a State Park Visitor – Standards and Procedures.”

Aelin was destined for a much longer day today than she ever imagined. She just didn’t know it yet.