Free Scent of Murder by James O. Born

alpaca he’d found on the side of the highway. Josh had immediately named him Albert, and Hallett had quickly learned alpacas were not terribly pleasant, although he had grown to admire the undying defiance of this distant cousin to a camel. There was something about his cadre of animal friends that made him feel at home even though the trailer on the edge of the woods behind the giant Christian school was as far from his middle-class upbringing as anything he could imagine.
    Hallett liked to keep a regular sleeping schedule no matter what shift he worked. The special unit worked a variety of shifts but rarely midnights, when not enough happened to justify three hypertrained dogs. He wanted to always be available for the days when he could see Josh. Having the boy every other weekend was just not enough. He’d worked it out with Crystal to take Josh a couple of days a week, then drop him off at her mother’s house in the afternoon when he went on shift. Sometimes the schedule wore him down, but it was well worth it to see that perfect smile and those twinkling brown eyes. He also had to share the boy with his own mother, whose only goal in life was to populate the state with her grandchildren.
    Another reason he’d always tried to maintain regular sleeping hours was for his health. Too many cops experienced problems later in life from screwed-up working hours—one reason why retired cops live an average of nine years less than the general public. Civilians always thought of bullets or knives as being the biggest threat in a policeman’s life. Once again, TV had skewed people’s view of the profession. The fact was that more cops were injured by years of carrying heavy-duty belts than by bullets. He didn’t know a single patrol deputy over forty without serious back problems. That was one of the few reasons he missed working in the detective bureau.
    At ten o’clock, he sat on the edge of his bed. “What do you want to watch?” he asked Rocky.
    The dog trotted up with a DVD in his mouth. A line of slobber ran down the case.
    Hallett pulled it free and groaned. “C’mon, Rocky. Really? Marley and Me again? Can’t we try something else for a change?”
    The dog sat motionless, staring at Hallett.
    â€œOwen Wilson is a whiner who doesn’t deserve Jennifer Aniston.”
    Rocky wagged his tail.
    â€œThe book is great. The guy who wrote it lived right here in Palm Beach County.”
    Rocky bowed down and let out a slight whimper.
    That did it. Hallett sighed and popped the DVD into the player, then settled back onto the bed to be bored into sleep by the sappy movie he had watched more than fifty times. The first few were great. Up till the time he knew the dialogue by heart, he still enjoyed the film. But now it was like a bad dream and he couldn’t wake up.
    After a few minutes, he sensed Rocky stir on the rug next to the bed. The dog rarely moved during his favorite movie. A moment later, he caught just a flash of a headlight as a vehicle came onto to the school grounds. He automatically looked across the room at the locked metal box that contained his .40 caliber Glock model 22 duty pistol.
    *   *   *
    Junior sat in the La-Z-Boy his father had given him years ago. The blue fabric that covered the chair was stained and had a dingy odor, but he had never felt more comfortable. That’s what he needed to get through this night. Comfort. He couldn’t believe how badly things had gone and how unlucky he had been. Of course he should’ve remembered Katie Ziegler’s father was connected to a motorcycle gang. He had been their drug dealer.
    They had effectively cut off that avenue of respite from his urge. He had to do something and do it soon.
    He might not have finished what he had started with Katie Ziegler, but it wasn’t a total loss. His interaction with the girls was only one of his needs. He had plucked Katie from a list