Findo lifted his leg and peed on the metal pole of the chain-link fence - as close as he could get to
a tree on the interstate. A semi roared by, the backdraft of which almost caused him to lose his balance.
He finished and looked up at his master, awaiting instructions.
His master was officer Kirk Landeau of the Clinton, Georgia Police Department. Officer Landeau, a large, good-natured young man was, like the two officers in the car beside his “canine unit,” assigned to the department’s Drug Task Force. Most of its officers were young because they aspired to work for the Piedmont Regional Drug Enforcement Unit – more status, power, glory. At Piedmont everyone started out working undercover, and to work undercover and look like a user, being young was an asset.
Landeau wasn’t savvy enough to work undercover. He’d probably have been a regular patrolman for the rest of his life but for his love of dogs. He was so fond of the department’s drug-sniffing dog, Findo, that the officer assigned to the canine unit had gladly turned the dog over to Landeau then gone around chuckling to himself for days. Except for Landeau, nobody wanted to ride around all day in a car that smelled like a kennel.
Landeau had gone through the required training at the school in Alabama and renamed the dog “Findo.” The dog didn’t seem to notice the difference, and he loved Landeau, who talked to him and played with him a lot, but the name change brought his master much grief.
“Findo?” his co-workers would exclaim. “That’s the stupidest name for a dog I ever heard.”
And Landeau would explain over and over, “It’s like Fido, see, except Findo is a finder, see, because he finds stuff, so his name is Findo.”
When Officer Landeau and Findo got back in the car, Justin Bledsoe stuck his head out the window of the other car. “Hey Landeau, next time you and Findo need to go before you leave home.”
“It wasn’t me, it was just Findo,” Landeau said, then realized Justin was having fun with him. Bledsoe was like that and sometimes his jokes were kind of mean, like the time back in high school when he’d put “Deep Heat” in Kirk’s jockstrap.
“Findo, what a dorky name,” Bledsoe said and rolled up his window.
At eight p.m. it was still over ninety degrees. Bledsoe and Stevens were running the air conditioning but Landeau kept his windows down so Findo could stick his head out the window and sniff, something he loved to do. A metal screen kept Findo in the back where the seat had been removed for his benefit, so that Landeau had to reach out his window to tousle Findo’s head. “Yeah, you’re the best dog in the whole world, Findo. When we get home I’m –“
The car beside them activated its light bar and slung sand that stung Landeau’s cheek and made Findo yelp.
“Are you alright boy?” Landeau got out of the car to examine his dog’s face. He seemed to be okay. “Its alright, Findo. It was an accident boy. You’ll be okay.”
He was kissing Findo’s forehead when Bledsoe came over the radio. “Landeau, you working with us or pissing again?”
Landeau grabbed the mike. “10-4, 219. K-9 struck by debris. 216 on route.” He put the car in gear and was about to activate his blue lights when he noticed a sliver of brown glass sticking in Findo’s ear. He got out of the car to give his dog a more complete physical.
The Maxima had pulled over as soon as Stevens whooped his siren once. Its driver sat perfectly still as Bledsoe approached. He had both hands on top of the steering wheel when Bledsoe shined his flashlight in the window. Nothing in the car but a leather briefcase.
“May I see your license and proof of insurance, sir?”
The driver, a clean-cut, middle-aged man wearing an Izod shirt and laundered khaki slacks, slowly and conspicuously took out his wallet and removed his license. “This is a rental car,” he said. “I can show you the rental agreement. Insurance is provided through my American Express.”
Bledsoe was looking at the license trying not to grin. “Let me see those if you don’t mind, Mr. McKay.” He shined his flashlight on Ron McKay’s hand as McKay slowly opened the glove box, pausing to let the officer see there was nothing other than papers inside before he removed them.
Bledsoe took his time examining the papers. Where was that idiot Landeau? “Mr. McKay, the reason I stopped you is you were going sixty-seven in a fifty-five mile per hour zone.”
“I was slowing down, Officer. I just passed the sign where it turned from sixty-five to fifty-five. Don’t you get a reasonable distance to slow down?”
“I understand, sir. I need to run your license and registration. If everything checks out, we’ll give you a courtesy warning and you’ll be on your way in a few minutes.”
Ron McKay felt a little better, but he was still worried because his driving history was a checkered one. Not to mention that he had a criminal record and a pound-and-a-half of cocaine in his trunk.
He watched in his rearview mirror as the first cop handed the driver cop his license and started talking to him. The driver cop was holding his license and grinning, but McKay had little time to worry about that because the first cop was coming back.
“Where you headed tonight, Mr. McKay?”
“Headed home.”
“You traveling for business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Me and you both working on Saturday. What kind of business you in?”
“I make pottery.”
“No kidding. You selling some down this way?”
“Augusta.”
“My sister makes pottery. Mind if I see a piece of yours?”
“I don’t have any with me.” The cop was grinning at McKay as if they were old buddies and McKay tried to match his expression. “Officer, do you think I could go ahead and get that warning? I need to be getting on.”
“What’s your hurry? You seem a little nervous.”
“Just tired of driving.”
“You know, Mr. McKay, we get a lot of drugs through here. I see a man in a rental car, no luggage, tells me he’s been selling pottery but doesn’t have any, license says he lives in Towns County and he tells me he’s headed home from Augusta, but he’s headed due west when Towns County is due north, it makes me kind of suspicious. You don’t mind if I bring a dog up here and just let him walk around your car, do you? It’ll just take a minute.”
The cop’s demeanor was unchanged but what he was saying now made the smile seem sinister to McKay, who tried to put on his most serious face as he said, “Yes, I do mind.”
“Well now, that just makes me more suspicious. Would you mind stepping out of your vehicle for me? Please keep you hands where we can see them.”
Ron McKay was careful to make no sudden movements. He tried to look like a businessman annoyed at being delayed, but his heart was pounding. He concentrated on breathing slowly. This must be some kind of set up. The convertible he’d been following had been going the same speed he was.
He leaned back against the trunk of the Nissan to steady his shaking, his arms propped well out from his sides, watching the two cops in the car behind him in animated conversation. They kept looking behind them and back at each other.
He’d managed to slow his heart rate when a second patrol car pulled in behind the first, producing another adrenaline rush. A third cop got out of this car and was putting a dog on a leash. Somebody had tipped them off. He closed his eyes and said, “Oh, dear God,” preparing to face the inevitable.
The first cop with the flashlight got out of his car and walked up to McKay. The other cop had emerged from the driver’s side when a yelping of dogs and a crashing in the undergrowth outside the chain-link fence drew their attention. The first cop swung his light that way and caught in its beam a spectacular sight. The biggest buck Ron McKay had ever seen was clearing the fence in full stride, posed like one of Santa’s reindeer against the sky, soaring in an arc that would land him on a beeline trajectory toward McKay and the cop with the light. His hooves struck the mown turf with a soft thud.
A lot happened in the next few seconds.
“Shit!” said the cop with the light and dove behind his patrol car. His partner stood transfixed. McKay hit the ground and rolled under the back of the rental car. The buck crossed the emergency lane, thundering between the Nissan and the first patrol car and onto the interstate, followed by the drug dog with his leash trailing behind. The third cop was inanely screaming, “Find doe!”
The buck managed to clear the median just ahead of an oncoming semi, but the dog didn’t. It met the truck’s huge bumper with a noise that sickened Ron McKay in spite of his own plight, and emitted the smallest of whelps as it bounced and skidded a hundred feet across the pavement into the emergency lane. The third cop was now running in the outside lane, howling. Both the other cops were on their feet yelling at him to get out of the road. The second cop ran after him.
McKay raised up to see what was happening and struck his head on the underside of the car. His cry of “Fuck!” caused the first cop to wheel around and draw his gun, but he didn’t see McKay.
“God damn it,” the cop said in a loud whisper and dropped to a prone position with his nine millimeter clutched in both hands before him.
“Don’t shoot, I’m right here,” McKay said and waited for the cop to spot him before he moved.
“Lemme see your hands motherfucker!”
McKay held up his palms. The flashlight beam struck him in the eyes.
“I want you to crawl out from under there, real slow. Make a wrong move and I’ll shoot your ass in a heartbeat.”
When McKay was clear of the car, the cop patted him down, then cuffed his hands behind his back. McKay was too scared to protest. The cop had the crazy look in his eyes that McKay had seen in junkies overdue for a fix. He was happy to see the other two cops walking back, one of them crying.
“I’m not letting you call an ambulance for a dog, Landeau; they’d have your badge.
Besides, if your dog’s not dead, he wishes he was. You oughta let me shoot him.”
“No! We can’t shoot Findo. He’ll be okay. We just have to get him to the vet. I’ll call an ambulance and we won’t tell them it’s a dog.”
“You’re not calling an ambulance, Landeau.”
“Oh, please Lieutenant Stevens.” He started crying again.
“Okay, Landeau. What if I help you put the dog in your car and you take him to the vet– if you can find one on a Saturday night.”
“I’ll call Dr. Ledford. He’ll come.”
“Okay, get your poncho and we’ll slide him on that.”
Landeau snorted a long mucas-rattling sniffle and beamed. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I know we can save him.” He was already trotting to his trunk.
“Stevens,” the first cop said, “how ‘bout y’all carry the dog by the dude’s car and see if he alerts.”
“Are you as stupid as Landeau? The dog’s dead, dickhead. It was hit by a transfer truck and knocked into Fulton County. Get on the radio and have the county–no wait.”
Stevens came up to the first cop and whispered in his ear causing him to fish a cell phone out of the patrol car and walk out of McKay’s hearing. Landeau came back with the poncho, bouncing anxiously from foot to foot. “Come on Lieutenant.”
“Just a minute, Landeau.” Stevens approached Ron McKay and used his cuffs to fasten the already manacled motorist to the bumper of his patrol car. “You sure you don’t want to consent to us looking through your car and save yourself some time, sir?”
“I’ll wait till hell freezes over, Lieutenant Stevens, but I’m not letting you search my property without a warrant,” McKay said, looking up from the pavement on which he now sat, then on a hunch added, “You heard that didn’t you, Officer Landeau?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry about your dog, man.”
