Harrison county morgue offices. It looked more like an outdated DMV building than a receiving area for those that died under mysterious circumstances.
A pair of older men who had shared the gruesome duties of autopsy and determination of death for the last twenty-five years met them in the freshly painted lot. They each took one corner of the tarp on which the dog was laid, the two coroners remarking on the rigid state and emaciated look of the animal. "How long has he been dead?"
Hoping to avoid any embarrassing questions in front of the bartender, Jacobs remarked, "I was hoping you could tell us!" For the next half-hour, Roth and Collier filled in the pair on what they knew of the manner of the dog's disappearance and how they found it. Beyond that, the deputy was afforded little opportunity to explain his concerns in private. They were concerned as he asked them to pay close attention to the state of the blood and organs of the Rottweiller, although with one notable exception the external wounds were hardly invasive, in their estimation. One of them was named Klein, the other Oscarson. In his hurry to usher Blake out of the morgue, which smelled of formaldehyde, Jacobs wasn't sure which coroner was which.
Jacobs requested that a full report be made ready by the morning, as he authorized the necessary work in the absence of Sheriff Crawley. They were not used to taking orders from the sheriff's office, but understood by the strained plea in his expression that time was of the essence. Whatever killed this animal, it probably wasn't expected to be the last. The town of Jefferson and the surrounding areas had an unknown predator on their hands.
Reluctantly, they agreed to his demand as Roth thanked them, pushing Blake Collier out before him. As a final favor, he had the Third Round owner follow him back to the station, where the Mexican's truck was impounded in the back lot. The deputy promised to do all he could to resolve what caused the Rottweiller's death as the patrol car pulled into the parking lot of the bar and let out the bartender.
It was by now mid-afternoon, and Jacobs was in a hurry to get back to Ramirez to find out more about the Chupacabra. Like so many others, he had heard something about the strange creature, or at least the impact on the people of Puerto Rico during the mid-1990s.
But that had all settled down, hadn't it?
Roth parked the squad car next to one of only two others in the fleet belonging to the Jefferson sheriff's department. He stepped around a bright red Moped as he made his way up to the tinted glass door with bronzed lettering. Pulling the handle with only a single backwards glance to the scooter with the wire basket on the back, he called inside to ask who it belonged to when a knot seized at the pit of his stomach.
Calvin Smootz!
Instead of the sobering migrant worker he left in the care and custody of Deputy Bill James, the rotund and unshaven town drunk was now trying fitfully to get to sleep, as Jacobs loudly demanded an explanation from his partner.
"Well, it's like this. You said to keep an eye on Ramirez, book him for disorderly conduct and fine him $3000.00 for public intoxication. Problem is, somebody came in and made bail for him. They haven't been gone twenty minutes now. I helped him on with his boots and this newspaperman from 'The Jefferson Observer' drove off with him."
"Let me guess. Jeremy Borjon."
"Yeah, that's the guy. Said something about protecting his source's first amendment rights." Jacobs was about to get infuriated, but both men quieted when an exasperated Calvin Smootz, his hair askew and disheveled, raised himself out of his stupor long enough to demand that the pair be quiet so that he could get some shuteye. He was out again before he hit the pillow.
No sense in appealing to the editor's sense of justice or threaten him with censure. Roth Jacobs had the uneasy feeling that a special edition of 'The Jefferson Observer' would hit the convenience stores and front porches of the east Texas town by morning, costing him whatever advantage or head start he had in finding out what was responsible for the bizarre mutilations.
He was right.
THE AUTOPSY
Wednesday morning fell on Jefferson, Texas like the last day on earth. From the half-deserted Waffle House and independent diners up and down Main Street, to the unexpected three-page edition of 'The Observer' that lay like an abandoned child on so many doorsteps, the world would never be the same. Above the fold on the first page, facing up on the counters and door mats, sleepy-eyed citizens of the tiny community read the same headline with growing alarm:
EXTRATERRESTRIAL CATTLE MUTILATION: POLICE BAFFLED
Although it was far less of a surprise than an annoyance to the Sheriff's department, Bill James knew without bringing it to Roth's attention just what would be in the story. Jacobs already seemed to be nursing as much of a headache as Calvin Smootz, who was freshening up to dive back into the Third Round as soon as it opened.
"You know about this?" James asked sheepishly.
"Yeah. I know," the half-Cajun deputy replied.
"So, what are we gonna do about it?"
"We? Nothing. You are going to use an old trick we applied back when I was on the French Quarter patrol in N'awlins. It's called 'plausible deniability'."
"Me? I don't know anything about this situation. What am I supposed to tell these people when they call or storm into the office demanding what we know? I'd have to plead ignorance!"
"Exactly. I need you to hold out for as long as you can. In fact, I wouldn't even read that trash Borjon threw together. It would only make them think he was right about whatever he got by nagging Sykes and helping out Jorge Ramirez." Roth Jacobs drew back his jet-black hair and fitted his tan Stetson hat to his head.
"Wait a minute. You can't just leave me here, deputy. Where are you going?"
"County Coroner's office. I've got to get some answers."
Bill rolled the paper and tucked it under his arm. "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"
Roth sighed, stopped at the door to let Smootz out and turned back to his partner.
"Damage control, Bill. Just keep them at bay until I get back. Alright?"
Deputy James would have none of it. "Well, I think somebody's got a lot of explaining to do and it ain't me. I think I'd better give Sheriff Crawley a call. He ought to know what's been going on while he's been gone."
"Do what you've got to do. I'm not going to try and stop you. I do think, however, that he wouldn't be happy with you asking him to come back because of a mutilated bull, a dead dog and a midweek edition of the town paper. You know him much better than I do. Gerald doesn't seem like the type that appreciates panic over by the numbers police work. No one's going to panic until you do. Understand?"
The man with two first names nodded and turned toward the bathroom to read, with the rolled up newspaper tucked under his arm.
"Good," Jacobs murmured under his breath as he closed the front door behind him. With the story breaking the deadline he thought he had, the next impending disaster he had to ward off was the return of the sheriff without at least a mundane explanation to the mystery of the two seemingly unrelated animal deaths.
Five minutes later, a muffled voice echoed from within the men's room. "Dog? What's this about a dead dog? There ain't a mention of anything but a killed Brahma bull out at Caddo Lake in here. Jacobs!"
Although the trip across town took less than five minutes, even taking back roads and residential streets to avoid any of the curious or demanding, Roth still got confused, angry or distraught looks from townsfolk, who would have normally waved to the passing deputy. Many had gone back into their homes and businesses, locking their doors and pulling down the shades. It was strangely quiet, for a Wednesday morning.
When Roth pulled off the asphalt two lane leaving Jefferson to the western outskirts, Emil Oscarson was already waiting for him in the parking lot of the county coroner’s office. From the bedraggled look of the elderly man, he had probably remained much of the night to perform an autopsy on the Rottweiller.
"You found something?" The deputy asked hopefully as the forensic pathologist waited just outside the
squad car door.
"Several somethings, in fact," Oscarson said with an equal measure of confusion and excitement. "David Klein is still inside finishing up an examination of the traumatized tissue surrounding the wound. Very curious, but not the most compelling evidence we've gathered. Please, step inside, won't you?"
Jacobs wasn't sure of their nationality, other than both appeared to be of Scandinavian origin. Lifelong friends, no doubt, probably coming to this country together at least a quarter century ago to settle, for whatever reason, into a life of quiet solitude in east Texas.
To each his own.
"We are still trying to determine how the killing was accomplished. We know now pretty much what was done, but we're still struggling to find out how, if you take my meaning. Yes?"
"Yes," the deputy responded absently as they made their way through the sea foam green halls of the less than antiseptic county office. Since their work was with the dead and the untimely demise normally attributed to accident or premeditation, there was not the hospital level care taken to control the spread of contagion. Biohazard was enough, as regulated by the state of Texas.
They walked past row upon row of yard square doors inset against steel bulkheads containing their latest charges. It unnerved Jacobs to guess what each contained, even after all these years of police work. He kept his eyes forward to a pair of rubber edged swinging