Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay by Gordon Carroll (tools of titans ebook .TXT) 📗

door — stopped — went back to the door — sniffed hard at the crack between the door and the front quarter panel — sat down and stared at it.

Max is a passive alerter, which means when he finds where the drugs are he sits and stares at where the odor of the narcotic is strongest. An aggressive alerter, like Pilgrim, scratches at where the drugs are. I decided at the beginning to train Max as passive for two reasons. First, it’s easier to train because you can hide the drugs anywhere on anything without fear of damage, whereas with an aggressive alert you have to be careful where you hide the drugs because the dog is going to scratch up whatever the drugs are hidden in. The second reason I trained Max to be passive is because as fierce as Max can be I was afraid he might just rip car doors off their hinges to get to the drugs. Car doors get pretty expensive, besides, he might hurt a tooth.

Max looked back at me as if to say, “What’s the hold up, I’m showing you where the drugs are, dumbo? I ain’t sittin’ here all night.” I held my hands out palms up. “I’m thinking.” Max blew air out his nose and looked back at the car. It was probably just my imagination but I could swear he rolled his eyes.

With Pilgrim I would have thrown him a rolled up towel as a reward for a positive indication on narcotics, but that’s not how Max rolls. So I just nodded and said “Good boy.” He looked at me as if I were nutty and went back to staring at the car after blowing air out his nose again in a close approximation to a human’s version of harrumphing.

I foossed him back to me and took him to the car.

Okay, Tom and Amber weren’t in the house, but Baldy and Pimples still might know where they were. They had drugs in their car; they were doing drugs in the house; there were three new people in the house who might or might not have information about Tom and Amber.

Hmm. Not a lot to go on.

I pulled out my phone and punched in star six seven so my number wouldn’t show up on caller ID then dialed 911. A female Denver Dispatcher with a three pack a day smoker’s voice answered after five rings.

“Denver 911 emergency. Do you have an emergency?”

“I think a man and a woman are having a terrible fight across the street from me,” I said.

“What’s the address?” asked the dispatcher. Her voice was so gruff it sounded like she gargled with glass. I gave her the address.

“What makes you think they’re fighting?” My own throat was starting to hurt just listening to her.

“Well, I heard a lot of yelling and banging around, and then a woman screamed for some guy named Gage or something not to hit her anymore. It sounded pretty bad.”

“How long ago was this?” she asked, and I had to wonder if it was possible to sandpaper the inside of someone’s esophagus.

“It started about ten minutes ago, but it’s still going on. Oh, did you hear that? The woman just screamed something about the man having a gun, or a bun. Something like that. I can’t be sure, but it sounds bad. You better send two cars.”

“We have cars on the way,” said acid voice. “Do you want to be contacted?”

“No, I’d rather remain anonymous, thanks. I do hope that poor woman is okay. Bye.”

I hung up before she could hurt my ears with a reply. I got back in my car and waited. It didn’t take long. I heard sirens in the distance. In the old days things were different. Except for the mention of a gun, or maybe a bun, being involved, a domestic call like this might have gone on the back burner for awhile. Not anymore. Colorado has some of the strictest domestic violence laws in the country. So strict that if there is probable cause that any crime, no matter how slight, has been committed during a domestic situation, the perpetrator must be arrested at the soonest possible time. Even if no one wants to press charges. And, he, or she, can’t get out of jail until they go to court. That means no bond, no bail. Hello gray-bar motel.

The sirens shut down a few blocks away and a minute later I saw the first car glide into the area with all lights off, stopping a few houses up from the target house, facing me. Before the first copper could get out of his car the second passed me and pulled in two cars up, also with his headlights out. I stayed low in the seat so they didn’t see me. With all the ambushes of cops since the Black Lives Matter and Antifa protests, my brothers in blue were hyper vigilant. Both officers went to the house where Pimples, Baldy, Gauges, and Short-Shorts were. They stood at opposite sides of the front door and waited. It was a scene I had played out hundreds of times myself. They were listening for signs of a struggle or fight. I also knew that if they didn’t hear anything they would still have to make contact. And I didn’t think any of the happy homebodies inside were going to believe the police were there on a false alarm. A guilty conscience just doesn’t work that way. And there was no way they were going to let the police in to search: not with all the drugs and paraphernalia lying around in plain sight. And since it was a domestic call, there was no way the police could leave without at least performing a safety sweep of the inside of the residence and checking on the welfare of Short-Shorts.

So I just sat back and waited for the fireworks. And once again I didn’t have to wait long.

25

Max

Max sat behind the