Honor Code (2 page)

“Over there.” Ellis pointed at an area between the bed and wall.

A medium sized mutt lay on the floor near a pallet. The grizzled dog was half-buried under the jumbled sheets and blanket. Robbins squatted and took a closer look. Not asleep. Dead. He ran a hand over the wiry coat and felt the stiff body. The dog had been dead a few hours, but not long enough for rigor to pass. “Old age?”

“Maybe. Looked to me like it tried to get to its bed.”

Robbins glanced at the surrounding floor and linens. “No blood in here, but look.”

He pointed at an area of matted fur beside the dog’s ear.

“Do we do autopsies on animals?” Ellis asked.

“We can ask a vet how she died.” Robbins stood and stared down at the dog, hoping it was old age and not a sad attempt to save her master that got her killed. “Did you let Miz Rose in here?”

“No sir.”

“Good.” He turned and studied the rest of the Spartan bedroom. Same condition as the living room.

Trashed.

“Either Beason was looking for something or someone else broke in, through that smashed window,” Ellis said.

Robbins nodded, searching the room for anything obvious missing amid the clutter. “Next questions are, did he or she find what they were looking for? Did the old man leave with them or take off on his own?”

“In the old Caddy,” Ellis added.

“I think we have cause for concern for Mr. Beason’s well-being.” Robbins folded his arms over his chest. “You get a BOLO started. I’ll talk to the neighbors and the vet.”

Robbins stepped into the vet’s tile floored waiting room. Carrying the blanket-draped dog brought back too many memories of childhood pets—his kids’ pets, the day his son’s retriever got hit by a car. None of them could bear the thought of another pet. Losing them hurt nearly as bad as losing one of the kids would.

He squared his shoulders and shoved the grief into his internal black well along with the rest of the emotions he didn’t dwell on. Couldn’t dwell on if he was going to stay sane.

A fresh-faced teenager—he scrolled through the Rolodex in his head for her name—stepped around the counter. “Detective Robbins? Dr. Lewis is waiting for you.”

DaNeal. The name clicked into place.

He followed her across the waiting area, relieved he didn’t have to sit around with the dog on his knees. A harried looking woman shifted the box on her lap and gave him an irritated look, clearly wondering why he could waltz right in while she had to wait. A muffled yowl came from the box. Cats don’t take kindly to confinement.

“Did you find Mr. Beason?” DaNeal asked.

The cat lady jerked her head around, an intense expression on her face now.

Word got around fast. He’d talked to several of the neighbors and the pastor at the Methodist AME Church before arriving at the vet’s clinic. Apparently the case had taken on a life of its own.

He’d never seen the Cat Woman before. She must be living in one of the new subdivisions that had sprouted between Newberry and Columbia, the state capital thirty miles south of town.

“Do you know Mr. Beason?” he asked DaNeal.

“He goes to my church.”

The rest of the information about her dropped into place. “Your mama still directing the choir?”

Her teeth flashed, brilliant against her coffee-hued skin, “She’s still hoping I’ll learn to carry a tune. The animals don’t seem to mind if I’m off key.”

“Long as they don’t howl along.”

She opened an inner door and a chorus of barks greeted them. “I hope you find him soon,” she said.

Robbins listened to the dogs. A thought nagged at him from the back of his mind.

“Right here. Dr. Lewis will be right in.”

He gently settled his burden on the exam table, fished his cell phone from his pocket and poked in Jordan’s number. Jordan was so new, Robbins had a hard time believing the kid had passed the detective’s exam, much less put in enough time to merit the promotion. But his partner, Perrin, had retired, and Jerry Jordan was who the chief had come up with.

“You still in Beason’s neighborhood?” he asked when the younger detective answered.

“Yeah. News people just showed up. Want me to say anything to them?”

Must be a slow news day. “Emphasize Beason’s old. Do the human interest thing. Ask people to watch for him.”

“Okay. Couple more people just came in down the street. I was headed over to talk with them, but I can leave if you need me,” Jordan said.

“No, stay there. Ask everybody if they heard the dog bark last night.”

“Right here.” Dr. Lewis pointed to a dark spot on the x-ray. It looked like a little spider web or his windshield when a rock nailed it straight-on. A divot with thin lines radiating outward.

Lewis returned to the exam table and ran a gloved hand over the old dog’s head. “Right beside the ear. That spot you noticed. Blunt force trauma. Old girl like this, blind, she never saw it coming.”

“You think Beason could hit her that hard?”

“Beason? He loved this old girl.” Lewis returned to the viewing box. “Depressed area’s deep, tapered at the end. She was hit with something hard and cylindrical, like a baseball bat. Someone with some muscle swung it.”

Or some anger.

Robbins started to pull out his phone and tell Jordan to check the house for anything that looked like a baseball bat, but he left the cell in his pocket. He’d do that walk through himself. “Anything else?”

“Not unless you want a full-out necropsy. But this blow to the head definitely killed her.”

“Poor old girl.” Robbins ran his hand down her flank. “Thanks, doc.”

“Has anyone made arrangements?”

“For…”

Arrangements.

Robbins’ jaw tightened. The word hit him with the same blunt force as the baseball bat blow Lewis had mentioned. Arrangements for the dog’s body. Funerals for goldfish, gerbils, assorted dogs and cats paraded past, along with tears large and small. To make matters worse, this dog was evidence. Evidence of what he wasn’t sure. But if some scumbag who could kill a blind old dog had Beason and his car, Robbins hoped they found the old man soon.

In one piece.

Robbins pushed the thought aside and considered the vet’s set up. The police occasionally boarded an animal they need to hang onto, but Lewis didn’t have the facilities to store the dog’s body.

Wonder how the guys at the morgue feel about dogs?

He opened the door to return to the waiting area. DaNeal stood beside the Cat Woman, reaching for the carrier. He made his routine assessment of the woman. Caucasian, mid-fifties. Stick thin, hair from-a-bottle red.

Cat Woman turned as he stepped forward. “What is the status of Mr. Beason’s case?” she asked.

He was used to nosy people. “He’s missing. Do you have information that could help us locate him?”

“He’s of no interest to me. It sounds as if his past finally caught up to him.” With that pronouncement she swept into the vet’s inner room.

Robbins took an automatic step, then stopped and turned to DaNeal, who watched, wide-eyed. “What’s her name?”

“That’s Dr. McKinley.”

“Is she a vet?”

DaNeal’s dark hair bounced around her face as she shook her head. “She doctors people, but I don’t think I’d want her doctoring me. Mr. Beason’s a nice man.”

“I don’t think I’d want her doctoring me either.” Robbins watched the door swing closed. Questioning her was probably pointless. She seemed the kind who’d throw confidentiality over everything. Still…

“Do you have contact information for her?”

Robbins dropped the receiver back into the cradle and checked off another relative who hadn’t heard from their father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. He hoped the evening news report generated more tips about the old man’s—or his car’s—location. He turned pages in the leather-bound address book, searching for another name from his contact list. At last he found the youngest daughter—currently living in Camden according to the long list of crossed out address and phone numbers. He tapped in the digits and once again explained why a Newberry, SC detective was calling.

“No, we don’t have any evidence of a crime”—other than the dead dog—“but a neighbor asked us to check on him and we found he was not at his residence. At his age, he’s considered a vulnerable adult. We issued a missing person alert.”

“My father hasn’t been vulnerable for a day in his life.”

The guy was pushing eighty. That equaled vulnerable in Robbins’ book.

“That busybody next door reported it, didn’t she?”

The icy tone of her voice grated across Robbins’ ear. “If you hear from your father, please let us know. The missing person file will stay open until he’s located.”

“Really officer, I appreciate the non-discriminatory effort to find him, but this is a complete waste of time. I’m sure he’s off enjoying himself somewhere. Why weren’t you this eager to investigate when my mother died?”

Silence.

He let it grow for a bit. What was she asking? “Your mother?” Robbins prompted.

“He killed her. None of you people would do a thing about it.”

Robbins scrubbed a hand over his face. What the hell? “Your father killed your mother?”

“Yes.” Her tone added,
Finally. Someone gets it.

“You reported this.”

“Of course. She was ill, but she could’ve lived a long time if he hadn’t decided to play God. I don’t know if it was the money or he was tired of taking care of her or what he was thinking. But one day she had hope for a future and the next day she was dead.”

Fuck.

“I’m not aware of the particulars of the case. Was an autopsy performed? An investigation?”

“His doctor covered up everything and you people wouldn’t listen.” She was angry now. A volcano ready to erupt. “He could’ve smothered her with a pillow or overdosed her with morphine. God knows he kept her doped up.”

How angry was she? Mad enough to lash out at her father? To take matters into her own hands?

“She was fine when I visited her. She perked right up, asked about my job.”

Robbins jotted Gloria Beason Washington’s name on his note pad and added a few question marks. He wanted to ask how often she visited, and for how long. He’d seen older people put on a good front for visiting kids. Instead he said, “Like I said, I’m not familiar with the case, but either of those circumstances would’ve shown up in an autopsy.”

“You’re just like the rest of them. My psychiatrist said I should accept that I can’t change the past. That I should concentrate on finding my own resolution. You’ve heard of Dr. McKinley? She’s a leading innovator in grief management and family reconciliation.”

Cat Woman. No wonder she reacted to the Beason name.

“Obviously I couldn’t reconcile things, so I solved it my way.”

Robbins’ hand tightened around the receiver. Solved it? Did she do something to her father? Years of practice kept his tone level. “That helped? How do you feel about your dad now?”

“I have no intention of discussing my personal feelings with you. When you’re serious about investigating my mother’s death—and I won’t hold my breath—you can call me.”

With that, the daughter hung up.

Robbins was still staring at the phone, trying to decide if the daughter’s claims were a lead or a shit pit he didn’t want to crawl through when Jerry Jordan came through the door carrying a greasy bag from Bojangles. Tall and gangly, the kid wore khakis and a navy blue blazer. He looked like a nerdy prep instead of a detective.

Jordan dumped the food on his desk and said, “A couple of the neighbors mentioned a car leaving around four AM, but no one heard a dog barking.”

“Why didn’t the dog bark?” Robbins laced his fingers behind his head and studied the ceiling. “Either the neighbors’ hearing’s gone or the dog didn’t bark because she recognized whoever entered the house.”

“Or they slept right through it.”

“Maybe. Old people are usually light sleepers.”

Jordan roamed the squad room, nearly bouncing on his toes with enthusiasm. “What’s our theory? Think Beason left on his own?”

“Doesn’t look like it. The dog. The ransacked house.” He left out the daughter’s accusations for now.

“Old man like him. Not the most likely kidnapping target.” Jordan moved to the white-board where they’d listed the known chronology and points of contact.

“For that community, Beason had money. He owned an electronics shop downtown. The big box stores and a throw-it-away-instead-of-fix-it world shut him down a while ago.” Robbins opened the Bojangles sack. Chicken sandwich and dirty fries. He fished a few fries out of the packet. Sharon might not want him to die of lung cancer, but she hadn’t started in on a heart attack.

Yet.

“Some of these dirt bags will kill you for a dollar if they need a fix bad enough. But the dog would’ve barked at a druggie.” He bit into the fries. They had enough pepper to kick start his taste buds.