Chapter 10
Charlotte has a plethora of trendy breakfast spots. The RedEye Diner. The Flying Biscuit. Café Monte French Bakery & Bistro. Ruthie insisted on the Original Pancake House. Though not a bold choice, I was good with it.
So. At eight o’clock the next morning, I was sitting in a booth opposite my daughter and great-niece, struck by how much they resembled each other. Both were tall and lanky, with green eyes and blond hair, Ruthie’s long and braided, Katy’s in a practical boy cut.
I sensed tension. The two were largely ignoring each other.
Katy had ordered the apple pancake. Which arrived looking large enough to feed Great Britain. I’d gone with the cherry crepes.
After lengthy consideration involving a great deal of sighing, Ruthie had finally decided on the ham and cheese omelet. Having eaten maybe two bites, she’d planted an elbow on the table, cradled her head in her palm, and commenced macerating the remains of the egg concoction.
I raised my brows in question to Katy.
She raised hers back to me.
“Would you like something different?” I asked Ruthie.
“No.” Poking again at the yellow mess oozing over the edge of her plate.
Our waitress reappeared and waggled the stainless-steel coffee pot she clutched in one hand. Her name badge said Helen.
We all nodded.
“Would the young lady like to place another order?” Helen asked the young lady with a note of disapproval.
“I’m good,” Ruthie said.
“Shall I clear the table?”
“Yes, I think we’re done,” said Katy, while tapping her iPhone screen to check the time. “Then please bring the check.”
We fell silent as Helen stacked plates, balanced utensils on them, and withdrew.
Talk had been sparse throughout the meal, so I gave conversation another go.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Charlotte?”
Jesus, Brennan. What’s the kid supposed to say?
Ruthie shrugged.
“She went to check out UNCC,” Katy said.
“That is not true,” Ruthie said. “I’ve made some friends. They attend UNCC. End of story. I have zero interest in enrolling there. Or anywhere else. So don’t suggest otherwise to my lunatic mother.”
Alrighty, then.
“College doesn’t interest you. Fine. What does?”
Ignoring Katy’s annoyed tone, Ruthie answered quickly.
“Animals.”
“No surprise,” Katy said. “Given that your dad’s a vet.”
“What aspect?” I asked. “Species ecology? Physiology? Taxonomy?”
“Behavior,” Ruthie said.
“Aren’t you working a string of animal cases?” Katy asked me.
“Really?” Ruthie said, perking up.
Sliding a cautionary glance in my daughter’s direction, I said, “You know I can’t talk about—”
“Seriously, Mom?” she said, issuing an exasperated eye roll. “We’re not asking you to name names. We’re good with four-legged aliases.”
Katy was right. What could it hurt?
Choosing my words carefully, I provided a brief overview of Bear and the others. Ruthie listened, her emerald eyes showing surprising focus.
“Maybe it’s the animal’s reaction that triggers this guy’s need to act out,” she said after a short pause. “You know, the way a squirrel or a raccoon vibes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Different species deal with threat in different ways. You’ve heard of the four f’s for dogs?”
I shook my head.
“Flight, fight, fidget, or freeze.”
“Fart?”
Ruthie and I ignored Katy’s quip.
“Some animals try to make themselves look bigger,” she said. “Some can detach limbs or tails if trapped, mostly reptiles, I think. Sea cucumbers can actually eject internal organs.”
It was the first time Ruthie had shown enthusiasm for any topic. Wanting to encourage her, I said,
“You know a lot about animal behavior.”
“I read books on ethology. If I could work at a zoo someday, that would be a dream come true.”
“I’ve seen her in action,” Katy said. “She’s like a dog whisperer. Or cat, or toucan, or gerbil. Fill in the blank.”
“It’s nothing magical,” Ruthie said. “I just try to imagine what the animal is feeling. What it’s seeing, hearing, smelling. What it’s experiencing in that moment.”
“What it’s vibing.” I tried the Gen Z lingo.
“Facts. Then I act accordingly.”
Helen arrived and placed the bill squarely between my daughter and me. “Y’all have a good one.”
Katy and I both went for the check. Not surprisingly, I won the staged battle that ensued.
“I’m bummed that I have to work,” I said to Ruthie. “What’s your plan for the rest of the day?”
“I’m going to visit Uncle Pete.”
Ruthie and my ex have always shared a special bond. Partly their mutual love of baseball. Partly their offbeat sense of humor. Mostly, they just like each other.
“That should be fun,” I said.
“I can’t wait to see Boyd.” Ruthie referred to Pete’s dog.
“Brace yourself. The Chow will be excited.”
“Katy has offered to drop me off. Could you maybe pick me up if it turns out I need a ride home?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
As we wove our way toward the door, I said to Ruthie, “You have great insight. Have you considered a career in counseling or psychology?”
“As I said, I prefer animals.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Animals hit different.”
“Meaning?”
“Nonhuman means nonjudgmental.”
A summer storm had broken during the ninety minutes I’d spent in the restaurant. Nevertheless, the day felt even warmer than when I’d gone in. The sky was leaden, the humidity somewhere in the Basin range.
The gravel parking lot was like The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes.
Weaving between the puddles, trying to keep my feet dry, I considered my conversation with Ruthie.
For someone not yet out of her teens, she was certainly well-grounded.
I wondered what had made her so cynical about people at such a young age.
I had my hand on the car door handle when Slidell phoned. As usual, he launched in without greeting.
“Got a forensic report might interest you.”
“On the articles associated with Bear?” I asked, sliding behind the wheel.
“No. On fingernail clippings we think might ID the Ripper.”
“That was fast.” As usual, I ignored Slidell’s sarcasm.
“I got friends.”
Though surprised that Slidell would call in a favor on an animal case, I said nothing.
“I’m thinking we should visit another of the sites this toad dressed up.”
“Why?” I turned on the car and the wipers.
“Jesus take the biscuits. Why the freak not? We scored something the last time we ran a reboot.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“When?” I asked, watching the blades flick water from the windshield in matching fan shapes.
“You got a lot on your dance card today?”
“Enough.”
“I can go without you.” Slidell’s tone was totally neutral, suggesting I could take his words anyway I chose.
“Which location?”
“Chantilly Park. That’s near your crib. How ’bout I pick you up in thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
I lowered the window and set out for home, enjoying the smell of fresh rain as I drove.
Chantilly is wedged between Plaza Midwood and Elizabeth, where Katy lives.
Originating with the construction of a few homes in 1913, the neighborhood grew during the 1940s and, for a while, thrived.
Eventually, with the expansion of housing options throughout the Queen City, the hood’s fortunes began a slow decline.
Then, a renaissance. As with Elizabeth, Chantilly’s affordable pricing and proximity to Uptown were recognized as a winning combo by those with limited budgets and by those wanting to avoid the expense and tedium of a long commute.
Older homes were purchased for restoration, others for demolition and replacement by more modern construction.
Inevitably, property values climbed. Soon followed the restaurants, funky stores, and art galleries frequented by millennials and Gen Z. Or whatever gen young property buyers were of late.
Bottom line: Chantilly is home to both the run-down and the renovated. And contains some of the hottest real estate in Charlotte.
Slidell’s reference to feedback from the forensics lab had been a type of bait and switch.
He’d gotten a prelim report, all right. But all it said was that the fabric, feathers, glitter, and other articles decorating Bear’s skull had been unremarkable, items that could be purchased at a Michaels or any handicrafts store.
Slidell delivered that news while driving past brick-and-frame bungalows set behind sodden front yards, finishing as he turned onto Wyanoke Avenue. At the rear of the hood, he pulled into a small parking area by the entrance to the park.
We got out and crossed to a pebbled path barricaded by two chest-high posts to prevent the passage of cars and trucks. Beyond the posts was a wood-chipped playground similar to the one at Park Road Park. Swings. Slide. Monkey bars. All glistening wet.
An elderly woman in a long black skirt and a sweatshirt proclaiming something pertaining to Jesus sat on a bench holding an umbrella and bouncing a pram with one foot. Her red high-topped sneakers reminded me of a similar pair at home in my closet.
A young, blond woman stood by the swings, eyeing her phone while pushing a towheaded toddler buckled into a baby seat. The child’s face was red and scrunched. I couldn’t tell if it was crying or laughing.
Two teens slouched at a picnic table, elbow leaning, legs outstretched. Dyed black hair, purple eye shadow, and abundant facial hardware suggested they were going for a goth look. Both were soaked and appeared to be stoned.
I wondered briefly if everyone had arrived after the rain. Or weathered the storm under the corrugated tin roof covering part of the playground.
Slidell had nailed it. This trip was a reboot of our previous outing.
Entering the woods via a gap in the trees, Skinny continued a short distance, then veered off to the left. Cursing and swatting at mosquitoes and gnats, he stopped at an ancient elm and pointed upward.
My eyes followed the sightline of his finger. Spotted fragments of yellow police tape caught in a lower branch.
“Let’s do that grid thing,” Slidell got out between wheezy breaths.
We did.
Found nothing.
As I walked back and forth on parallel tracks, eyes scanning the ground, Ruthie’s words again looped in my brain.
I imagine what the animal is feeling. What it’s experiencing in that moment.
As a scientist, I like my data hard, not slippery.
Evidence I can measure, weigh, dissect, photograph.
Thus, my attraction to bones. I suppose you’d say I’m pragmatic by nature, skeptical of out-of-body travel, ESP, clairvoyance, the paranormal.
I don’t deny that people experience these things.
But I believe such phenomena can be explained via logical principles.
Still. Could Ruthie’s approach work with humans? With me? In this place of his choosing, could I enter the mind of the psycho we were pursuing? Sense his thoughts? His feelings? His motivation?
Probably not.
What the hell.
I closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and spread a welcome mat for whatever cerebral stirrings might be out there in the universe wanting to come in.
My hindbrain conjured a vision. A man striding the trail I’d just taken, black plastic garbage sack in one hand. The sack’s contents appeared to be weighty but not overly large.
Stopping at the elm under which I stood, the man reached in and ear-yanked a dead rabbit out into the open. Raising the limp body two-handed above his head, he tipped his face to the sky, neck tendons bulging and taut.
A heartbeat, then the man’s chin leveled. Scowling, he threw the rabbit to the ground, dropped to his knees, and wept.
Unexpectedly, my face went hot.
Electricity fizzed in my chest.
I heard a voice.
No.
The experience wasn’t auditory.
It was a feeling, cold and hard as igneous rock.
The unexpected surge of emotion sent a chill down my spine.