Lost & Hound, page 6
“Strange. Can you still buy pure heroin?” Jackie knew what was in the street was anything but pure.
“Unlikely.” Ben folded his hands, then rose as the printing stopped. He squared off the papers, putting them on his desk. “I’ll sort them through for you in a minute. Back to cause of death. Since it was pure, give me your thoughts.”
“Maybe the victim was a chemist or maybe the killer was a chemist,” Jude posited.
“Or the killer is a doctor who can get pure heroin.”
“That thought crossed my mind. Would a smart killer use something that law enforcement officers recognize is hard to come by?” Ben noted.
“Maybe he’s making a statement,” Jude spoke.
“He or she made a few statements. The victim’s ears had been punctured, the eardrums, and here’s one, his tongue had been slit down the middle.”
Both of their eyes opened wide.
“The message…” Jude trailed off.
“Is that the victim can give no message.” Jackie finished the thought. “A forked tongue.”
“Yes.” Ben was back in his chair. “Our victim knew something, or so it seems.”
“This looks like a planned murder…cool, calm, and collected.” Jude then mentioned, “But seeing the body, the murder planned, yes, but why was the body tied to a chair off the road? We are supposed to look?”
“Good thinking. The fog messed with that plan.” Ben stared up at the ceiling then back down. “And our victim died in their car or at another location, but he didn’t die on the After All farm road. Time of death indicated that he had been dead for some hours before being placed where he was. He had gone into rigor mortis and was probably coming out of it when tied. The boys,” he looked at Jackie, “and girls down there in Richmond are so sharp.”
“You can drink heroin, right?” Jackie questioned.
“I don’t see why not, but shooting it in a vein is better and when you read the report you will see he did indeed have a needle mark on the inside of his left arm, right below the elbow.”
“So he shot himself up?” Jude asked.
“I would think, but it could be that the killer held a gun on him and he had to shoot up, or the killer shot him up when he was tied.”
This thought disturbed Jackie, because she hadn’t considered that.
“Let’s review this.” Ben first got up, put his papers in order, handing them to his young team. This gave them some time to think.
“Well, we can start from the fact that this was premeditated.” Jude then added, “And well thought out, at least the killing part.”
“He had been dead for roughly twenty-four hours before being placed in the chair. Hard to move a body in rigor, so whoever did this did not move the body immediately after death. He had to hide it and wait for darkness.” Ben was sure about that.
“Was dark. The fog didn’t come up until early morning.” Jackie, an early riser, paid attention to the weather.
“Hence the fouled plan.” Jude opened his hands as if in supplication. “What can be served by an unknown man sitting in a chair to be seen? By foxhunters?”
“It’s possible the killer didn’t know the hunt club cubbing schedule.” Jackie knew her hunting terms. As Albemarle County was horsey, many people did.
“Possible.” Ben nodded.
“Well, who else would see it? The Lorillard brothers. Maybe the Bancrofts, although chances are they wouldn’t be heading to the Lorillards’. Not that they don’t visit, but a killer couldn’t depend on it.”
“Yeah, well, how can the killer depend on the hunt club members seeing the body?”
“Ah.” Ben smiled. “What if he or she laid down scent?”
This shut up both Jude and Jackie, who not being hunters never considered such a thing, didn’t know it could be done.
“You can do that? How?” Jackie wanted to know.
“Soak a rag in fox urine, tie it to a rope, and drag the line of scent where you want. So my idea is that the body was tied, placed in the darkness, and the killer left a line that would go by the body, along the road, or by the side of the road.”
“Well, then what happens?” Jude was puzzled.
“Hounds follow the line to the body. However, hounds actually picked up a fox despite the fog…or who knows, because of the fog. The air was heavy, clammy. Scent was rising. It rises with the heat, but there had to be vestiges of scent, yet they got a more recent scent line. If any of the drag scent was there, they ignored it for the hotter line, which ended at the Lorillard house.”
“No kidding.” Jude rubbed his chin. “So everyone, including the hounds, would go past the body and not know?”
“Hounds probably smelled the body but their job is to chase foxes. They wouldn’t veer off. For one thing, this pack is too well trained. Even the youngsters out for the first time wouldn’t veer off if the older hounds were speaking, which they were.”
“Do you think our killer knows what happened?” Jackie found this fascinating; it was why she got into this business in the first place.
“Probably. Remember,” Ben came back to the body, “this man was to have been seen by foxhunters. There is really no other reason he would be placed where he was. If this was some kind of broader warning, why not put him alongside 64?” He named the interstate.
Jude and Jackie held the papers they had been handed and Ben remained standing.
“I’ll read this,” Jackie affirmed.
“Me too.”
“Think of this. We don’t know who that victim is. But I am willing to believe someone in the hunt field knows him.”
As the two left Ben’s office, this disquieting thought in their minds, Jackie turned to Jude, a fit young fellow with a warm smile. “Someone knows him?”
“That doesn’t mean whoever knows him killed him. The body is probably a warning.”
Jackie stopped, looked up at the tall fellow. “Oh Jude. That means this is close to home.”
CHAPTER 7
September 29, 2022, Thursday
U .S. Geological Survey maps, lined up on Betty Franklin’s long table at her home, held everyone’s attention. Jefferson Hunt Club held a board meeting once a month during hunt season, once every other month in the off-season. Members served a three-year term. Meetings were hosted by individual members, as Jefferson Hunt had no clubhouse. A plus and a minus. The plus was no building and upkeep expense. The minus was no gathering place available to all.
At least two members had to be hunt staff. Sister and Walter, as joint masters, were in attendance. They only voted if there was a tie.
“Okay, you can see where we are gaining territory and where we are losing.” Ronnie Haslip, the treasurer for over twenty years, pointed. “To the east, we are losing. To the west and the south, gaining. Obviously, the development is in the east toward Richmond.”
“Sure didn’t used to be that way.” Sam stood up to get a closer look at the maps.
Ronnie had outlined each fixture, a task taking days. His commitment to the club was solid. He was generous with his time.
Freddie, elected to the board last year, said, “Granted, the territory is rougher out this way but that’s better than dealing with someone who paid over a million dollars for a McMansion on five acres.”
Ronnie laughed. “And they still have to buy riding mowers, Weedwackers, maybe even a backhoe. Crazy, really. You might as well buy more land.”
“Well, no crazier than paying ten thousand dollars a month for a decent, not even fabulous, apartment in Manhattan,” Alida Dalzell remarked.
Alida and Freddie were old friends from when they met in Raleigh, North Carolina, years ago, right out of college. Freddie invited Alida to come up and hunt with her. They hunted together in North Carolina then Freddie moved to Charlottesville to start her own small accounting firm, a success. The real success was when Alida met Kasmir. The visits became more frequent. Kasmir, who had lost his wife back in Mumbai, had moved to Virginia to be close to a childhood friend and his wife. He attended Oxford as a young man, so Virginia didn’t seem foreign to him in language or in culture, in some ways.
Ronnie put his finger on Showoff. “The Sabatinis have agreed to let us hunt their property, so now we have a straight line between Welsh Harp and the farm on the other side of Showoff. But that’s not why I’ve put surveys out.”
Everyone looked at him. Ronnie was obsessive about details so they wondered what was coming. He had spent too much time on this for it just to be about a new fixture in the west losing land on the east.
“Okay. Sister, you had a few of our people to Marty Howard’s lecture in your wildflower field,” Ronnie said.
“Did.”
“And it went well?”
Looking up at Ronnie, standing, Sister nodded.
Betty piped up. “Sorry you couldn’t be there. Marty really gave us so much information.”
“She enjoyed it, too. Most especially when people promised to order seed packets. I drove over there to talk to Crawford about PVC pipes, which is when I saw Marty. Crawford’s rebuilding the bridges over creek crossings. Thought I would tell him what my experience has been. He really doesn’t need to tear out the clay pipes, but that’s another issue. Crawford likes everything to be the best. As your treasurer, I want to save money. Clay pipes can last one hundred years.”
Bobby, serving drinks, spoke, although not a board member. “True, Ronnie, but clay pipes can attract roots. You sure don’t want a willow tree near them.”
This group knew one another so well, no one was offended by Bobby’s interjection. Even in disagreement they got along well, respected one another’s opinions.
“That’s the truth.” Sister had dealt with willows. “But if the pipes are free of roots, or major cracks, I have to go along with Ronnie. Save money.”
Ronnie was not an accountant for nothing. “True, but the real question for all of us, not just as a hunt club, is, What will the costs be in the future? Look what happened to gas prices.”
“Boy, is that ugly.” Walter, a cardiologist, moaned as he drove to the hospital five days a week, as gas spiraled ever upward.
“Okay. Back to these maps.” Ronnie swept his hand over the carefully placed colored maps. “You all know the old fixtures. We are learning some of the new ones. There are places on each of these farms where wildlife habitat could be improved, be it mammals or monarch butterflies.”
“Have you been talking to Ed Clark again?” Alida named the founder and president of the Wildlife Center of Virginia.
“Have, and if no one objects, I’ll talk to him about the ideas we discussed here. He is so good at fundraising. He might see something we missed.”
The Wildlife Center, one of the world’s leading teaching and research hospitals for wildlife, was right over the mountain from Jefferson Hunt Country. A show about it, Untamed, was on PBS’s LearningMedia. While many members watched it, most all knew Ed personally, having visited the Center.
“Okay,” Ronnie spoke again. “Here is my idea. As foxhunters, we are outside more than most Americans these days. We see the effects of weather, we see human impact on wildlife and plants. Not much of it has been good. And like most hunt clubs, our base has changed.”
“You mean people don’t grow up with knowledge of the country anymore?” Sister tried to push him, as Ronnie could rattle along.
“Exactly. When I was a kid,” he looked at the woman who had known him since childhood, he being the best friend of her son, “people understood hunting, fishing. Many took a train from the city, or as roads improved, drove to hunt or fish. Most people had a rudimentary understanding of country life. Now someone in a subdivision sees a bear and they panic. Know what I mean?”
“Well, we do. Not everyone panics, but people have no idea of the life cycles of wildlife, food needs, really basic stuff. Then add in the coyotes, who have made it from the West and are now part of our lives.” Bobby could see no good coming from the coyote invasion.
“And they are so much heavier and bigger than, say, in Idaho.” Freddie traveled a lot in the West, loving the distance between herself and Washington, D.C.
“More to eat and easier to catch here,” Sam interjected.
“Ronnie.” Sister simply said his name in a tone Ronnie had heard for most of his life.
It meant, get on with it.
“Okay. Here is my idea, finally.” He laughed at himself. “Why don’t we create seed bags, say fifty-pound bags? We give ten percent of our profits to either the Gardens for Wildlife or to the Wildlife Center, if people become interested in mammals. We can also deliver food for raptors, bears, you name it. We give ten percent and we keep the rest. After all, we are delivering the goods and we can help with some of the work.”
A silence followed this as the small group absorbed it.
“Where can we get the seeds?” Sam asked.
“Sabatini’s. She has put in over one hundred acres in butterfly plants, etc. Had no idea until I had the chance to talk to her. She, like Marty, is passionate about this.”
“And Marty Howard?” Freddie asked.
“She also has set aside acres for this, as well as sunflowers, acres and acres of all manner of berries, the plant and fruit foods of mammals. Our very own foxes love berries. She intends to harvest and sell these things and she has the workforce to do it. Elise may need a workforce larger than she imagines. Right now she thinks she can do it all by herself. We can buy from both of them. Anyway, we support the people who support us and we support wildlife and monarchs. We have to do something.”
“We do, Ronnie. We really do, but we are all caught up in daily life. You know from hunting how much there is to do to keep our territory open. Build jumps, fix broken jumps. Again, so many people work full time, we are shorthanded.” Sister keenly felt the workload. “In the old days, many foxhunters enjoyed inherited wealth. We have a few people with strong resources, but not like the old days. People work. They don’t have the time.”
“Yeah, that’s really true. But even when I was young and you could hire day workers, it took many hands,” Bobby chimed in.
“Well, you can’t hire them now.” Alida threw up her hands. “No one wants to get their hands dirty.”
“That’s not exactly true.” Walter stepped in, not wanting an argument. “But even someone who, say, isn’t college educated may not have practical skills. There are fewer and fewer schools for electricians, plumbers, cabinetmakers. All of those jobs take training. You might say, What skills do we need out there? Ronnie, you drove over to talk to Crawford, about drainpipes. Who knows about drainpipes today? Who knows how to put them in? A few specialized contractors, but even thirty years ago more people knew more handy knowledge, for lack of a better word.”
“I know.” Ronnie sat down. “But if Elise becomes overwhelmed, we can help. She’ll give us a bigger discount. The Sabatinis are shrewd, good businesspeople. Marty needs no help on that issue. Crawford will bus people in if he has to do so. But Marty will truly appreciate what we are doing and let us not forget we all need to stay on good terms. It was Marty,” Ronnie nodded to Sister, “who finally got Crawford to become a farmer pack, registered by the MFHA after creating havoc for years.”
Crawford formed his own foxhunting pack in a fury because Sister did not pick him to be her joint master. She realized she needed one. He was sure he should be that person. He had recently moved to Albemarle County, threw a lot of money around, bullied people. He would have been a disaster as a master. Yes, the money would have helped enormously but they would have lost most every landowner they had, including the Bancrofts, old money, old blood. No way would they tolerate that behavior. When Crawford started his own pack, his hounds rioted. He blew through three huntsmen, all of whom left in a huff or were fired when they tried to tell him what hounds really needed. Then, too, if a member of a recognized club hunts with an unrecognized club, there really can be hell to pay with the MFHA. The national organization couldn’t stop him from hunting on his own land but they could stop others from hunting with him. Undemocratic as that might seem, it ensures clubs adhere to the national standards. Given the ever thundering march of people knowing nothing about hunting and assuming the worst, this is not a superficial approach. Then again, it had worked since 1907, the founding year of the Master of Foxhounds Association. Crawford would have none of it, creating hardship, mostly for Sister.
A few years of being ostracized, except by merchants, slowly forced him to realize his approach was not what would be described as the Virginia Way. Marty got it instantly. She would say to him, “We aren’t in Indiana.” Their home state had people who didn’t appreciate the Howard approach either but there he was a known quantity.
“It’s a great idea,” Walter weighed in. “It will take a lot of work on our part and we need to make sure our members not only like the idea but are enthusiastic.”
“If we could get media coverage for our work to help wildlife and butterflies, that won’t hurt either.” Alida had a sound appreciation of media power. “We always have to overcome the stain of once being a blood sport. People won’t let that go.”
“Because we are terrible at promoting ourselves.” Freddie reached for her iced tea.
“I know. I know.” Sister nodded. “But Freddie, I am a lot older than you and I was taught your name only appears in the newspaper when you are born, when you marry, and when you die. I know times have changed, but self-promotion is hard for me and many of my generation. I’m not even a golden oldie. I’m a platinum oldie,” she joked.
Sam, like Ronnie, who had loved her since childhood, spoke up. “Sister, the old ways pushed a lot under the rug, but that kept a kind of harmony. And before I forget, can you imagine what a splash Yvonne would be if she signed up, so to speak?”
