Chapter 4
I left the MCME and hurried out to the parking lot. Wheep-wheeped the locks of my Mazda and slid behind the wheel.
Immediately shot forward.
Recognizing that the drive to Weddington might take longer, but not wanting to divert out to the beltway, I decided to follow Providence Road, a city street, the full distance. Bad call. Cars and trucks clogged the lanes in both directions, slowing my progress and souring my mood.
As usual when jammed up in traffic, I thought about all the things I could be doing with the wasted time. Reports on the three sets of bones in my lab. Birdie’s overdue checkup. Dirty laundry cramming my hamper.
Mostly, I thought about Ralfs Balodis. Ralph.
I’d met Balodis at an Allegro Foundation fundraiser. I was there with my husband Janis “Pete” Petersons, soon to be my ex. Sad but clichéd story involving his partying with women other than moi. Painful then, but time heals. Pete and I are on good terms now.
Pete and Balodis had spoken to each other in Latvian that evening, but I’d caught that they shared a connection through a camp both had attended as kids. As adults they’d maintained contact for a while, but Pete went into law and Balodis became a vet. Their lives diverged. You know how that goes.
Over the years, I’d learned through Pete that Balodis operated a veterinary clinic in Weddington, one of Charlotte’s southernmost burbs. That he’d married a woman named Marcia, maybe Marcy or Marve. That the marriage had ended after about three heartbeats. No kids.
My ex has made a lot of mistakes in his life. I guess I’m one of them. But Pete’s a good guy. And a good judge of character. Though he disapproved of the switch from Ralfs to Ralph, he liked and trusted his fellow Latvian. We’d bumped into Balodis sporadically back in the day.
Weddington, once a sleepy southern town surrounded by farmland, was sucked into Charlotte’s orbit as developers began casting their nets farther and farther south in search of buildable land.
Today it’s a mélange of parks and malls and churches and schools.
Of McMansions and small tract homes. Of pools and jungle gyms in large backyards.
Of shiny new SUVs in three-car garages and not-quite-late-model cars at curbs.
Forty minutes after setting out, I went left onto Sunset Hill Road, left again into a cluster of shops featuring a lot of red brick.
Scrolly lettering on a sign indicated that Balodis’s clinic, optimistically named Happy Tails, was located down a narrow strip of asphalt cutting between a dental office and a Bojangle’s chicken joint.
I made the turn and twenty yards farther came to what looked like a modest two-story brick home topped by a satellite dish and fronted by a patch of asphalt marked with diagonal yellow lines. Closed blinds obscured what lay behind every window, up and down.
A doggy comfort station had been set up to the right of the asphalt. Artificial turf. Faux fire hydrant. Water bowls half full of what had to be very warm water. Nice touch.
After parking I got out and walked to the door. Philodendra in large ceramic crocks sat to both sides. The wood, though alligatored in places, had been freshly painted a bright Kelly green. The potted plants looked discouraged at having to compete.
A sign hung at eye level.
Sorry. We’re Closed.
Below, in smaller font, a phone number accompanied the words: For emergencies.
Did my desire to speak with Balodis qualify?
No.
I dialed.
My call was answered after two rings.
Thank you for contacting Happy Tails. The clinic is closed until further notice. For urgent veterinary needs please phone Dr. Michaela Horowitz.
Another number followed that message.
I stood a moment, perspiring and considering options. Which seemed nonexistent.
Frustrated, I tapped a name on my Favorites list.
Pete answered with his usual affable greeting.
“Tempe, how’s it going?”
“Sorry to bother you, Pete.”
“No bother at all. It’s always great to hear your voice.”
“I’ve got an odd ask.”
“Hit me.”
“Do you remember Ralph Balodis?”
“What is this, a senility test? Ralph and I were cultural soulmates back in the day. You know, fellow patrons of the opera and ballet.”
“More like the bars and beer joints.”
“Tempe.” Faux disappointment.
“Anyway, are you still in contact with Balodis?”
“I haven’t spoken to Ralph in years.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“Probably. Hold on.”
I waited as Pete scrolled through his contacts, my shirt now feeling like wet tissue wrapping my skin.
“Babe, you’re in luck.”
I entered the digits into my Notes app as Pete read them off.
“Last I knew, Ralph was living in an apartment above his clinic,” Pete said. “The guy always had an inertia problem, so he probably still is.”
I almost did a hand pump at hearing that.
“What’s up?” Pete asked, undoubtedly curious about my desire to talk to a ghost from the past. To a guy who’d really been his friend, not mine.
Instead of answering, I asked, “Are you in Charlotte?”
“Pittsburgh. I’ll be home tomorrow. Katy and I have a date for the Knights game Saturday.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’re welcome to join—”
“That’s so nice of you. But I already have plans.”
“Another time.”
“I’d like that.”
“Take care of yourself, Tempe.”
“You, too.”
I disconnected.
Wondered. Had Good Time Pete sounded wistful?
More to the point, I wondered what to do now that I had Balodis’s number.
Slidell said the vet had become an alcoholic. A recluse. Not using such a poetic term, of course.
Balodis had a reputation as a kind and caring doctor. I’d heard that back in the day he was an honest and conscientious forensic consultant. Why such a dramatic retreat from life?
Had the man suffered some trauma greater than that of losing a horse? Weren’t animal deaths a sad part of every veterinary practice?
Could my request for Balodis’s expertise function to reestablish his sense of self-worth? Could it help draw the man out of his funk?
Worth a shot.
And I did want his opinion on the bizarre animal carcasses arriving at my lab.
But how to approach him?
If I phoned and Balodis told me to take a hike, I couldn’t then brazenly waltz up and ring his bell. If I appeared at his door unannounced, he might slam it in my face.
Despite the sign, I tried the clinic’s main entrance. As expected, found it locked. Putting my nose to the glass, I saw that the waiting room was dark.
Deciding that it was better to annoy and apologize later than to be rejected in advance, I circled the building. Spotted a set of exterior stairs connecting a backyard patio to a second-story landing.
Again shielding my eyes from the sun, I scanned up the risers. At the top, beyond waist-high iron fencing surrounding a tiny porch, was a door leading into the rear of the house. Kelly green like the one at the front of the clinic.
Brushing sweat-damp bangs from my forehead, I drew one deep breath and began to climb. A bird who’d been vociferous about some victory or injustice went silent at the sound of my sneakers slapping the rubber runner covering the treads.
A button hung to the right of the door. I thumbed it. A muted buzz sounded deep inside the apartment.
Seconds later, a man posed the expected question, voice muted by the cheery green wood.
“Who’s there?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
The name was met with a very long pause. Balodis was either running through his mental Rolodex or formulating a reply to send me away. Maybe both.
“Tempe?” With an added frisson of apprehension. “Has something happened to Pete?”
“Pete’s fine. But I need your help, Ralph. On a forensic case.”
“I don’t do—”
“I know you’re retired, but this is important.”
“I’m sorry but—”
“Some psycho is torturing and killing animals, then mutilating and displaying their corpses.” I wasn’t certain about the first half of that statement but needed something to hook Balodis.
“Oh my.”
“May I come in so we can discuss it?”
I heard the snick of a deadbolt. Then the door swung inward.
I remembered Balodis as, well, unmemorable. Not tall, not short. Average build. Brown eyes. Mousy hair. The only thing notable were his enormous “what-me-worry?” ears, appendages that made one wonder how the man fared in strong winds.
Balodis was still in there somewhere. Same features. Less hair and more forehead. But the man standing before me was a mere remnant of his former self.
His face was gaunt, his shoulders so rounded it took two inches from his height. His frame was hung with the minimum amount of musculature needed for upright posture and ambulation.
I hid my surprise. I think.
“Hey, Ralph. Sorry to barge in like this.”
Ralph dipped his overly prominent chin, then stepped back.
I entered. After closing the door, he led me down a short hall to a surprisingly roomy parlor.
At his direction, I sat on the sofa. Balodis remained standing.
“Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Soda?”
“Water would be good,” I said.
Balodis disappeared back into the hall, heading, I presumed, to a kitchen. In seconds, I heard the whoosh of a refrigerator door, then ice rattling against glass.
I looked around.
In addition to the sofa cushioning my butt, the room held two armchairs, all three upholstered in a burgundy-and-green floral print. The side and coffee tables were blond, probably oak. I guessed the last updating of decor had taken place sometime in the sixties.
Framed pictures crowded the top of a sideboard by the far wall. I was idly scanning the collection when one image caught my attention.
Two men stood holding hands facing each other in front of an altar. They wore corsages in their lapels and gold bands on their fourth fingers. Ringman, we’d called the digit as kids.
Beyond the couple, a preacher clutched a Bible and beamed her approval. Above them curved an arch made of flowers. It was a classic wedding shot.
The man on the right was Ralph Balodis.
Clarification of the implosion of marriage number one?
My gaze was still lingering on the photo when I heard a throat clear.
I turned.
Balodis didn’t say a word. Just watched me.
“It’s a lovely picture,” I said.
“His name was Michael Fielding. We were married a very short time.”
I waited, hoping he’d reveal more. He didn’t.
“Was?” I queried his use of the past tense.
“Michael died four years ago. Cryptococcal meningitis.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Balodis’s withdrawal from life made sense now. It wasn’t because of a dead horse. It was due to the loss of his partner.
As usual in situations of heightened emotion, I didn’t know what to say. Though I empathize with the sorrow of others, I’m lousy at expressing condolence or comfort.
Didn’t matter. Balodis was already moving on.
After handing me the glass of ice and a bottle of Evian, the vet sat in one of the flowery chairs and said, “You say someone is disfiguring animals.”
I told him the whole ugly story.
He listened without interrupting.
“This abuse is still going on?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What would you have me do?”
“We’d like you to examine each kill. For the earlier ones you’ll have to work from photos.”
“The goal being?”
“To determine exact species or breed and note anything of significance.”
A deep inhalation, out through his nose.
“Yes. I will do this.”
We were halfway down the stairs when my iPhone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked caller ID, hoping it was Ryan. It was Slidell.
I answered, suspecting the conversation wouldn’t be pleasant. And the news wouldn’t be good.
I was right on both counts.