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Foster looked between the two agents, then at Turk. Turk dipped his head in a nod, and Foster, oddly, seemed to take courage from that. He took a breath and said, “Okay, I saw Gerald Conway hitting his dog almost every time he brought her in. She was a beautiful Collie mix, but she had been abused to the point of severe anxiety. She would tremble constantly in his presence and cringe every time he spoke to her. I used to get so pissed off, but I didn’t say anything because it was my first job living on my own, and I thought I should just be cool. But one day, they came in and she bumped into his ankle, and he kicked her. He fucking kicked her!”
He paused, possibly waiting for the two agents to exclaim in outrage. Michael certainly felt outraged, but the fact that Gerald Conway had been reduced to a skeleton a week ago still bothered him more than the fact that he was abusive to his dog.
After a moment, Foster continued. "The poor thing let go of her bladder on the floor. Gerald got this red-faced, angry look and started walking toward her with his hand raised. I remember he said, 'Minx, you little bitch,' in this horrible voice.
“I couldn’t take it anymore. I jumped in front of him and said, ‘If you put your hands on that dog again, I’ll call the sheriffs and report you!’”
“And did you put your hands on him?” Faith asked.
“No,” he said, reddening. “Gerald shoved me out of the way. I hit the counter and fell to the ground, and he looked at me and said, ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Well, my boss came out to the front, and when she heard what happened, she fired me on the spot. She didn’t care that I had seen Gerald fuckingkickhis dog. She just wanted the employee who couldn’t mind his own business out of her way.”
“That must have angered you a lot,” Michael said.
“Not enough to kill someone,” Foster said defiantly.
Michael lifted his hands placatingly, still wearing his diamond-hard grin. “Tell me about George Merrill.”
Foster adopted the flat-faced rage he wore earlier when talking about George. “He’s lucky I never saw him,” he said. “Honestly, agent, I’d either be dead or you’d be handcuffing me now if I ever saw George in person. That dick got what he deserved. You can be upset with me for saying that if you want, but it’s the truth. When I found out what happened, I quit Sunrise. I decided I needed to work for myself so if I caught anyone treating their dogs like that again, I could report them. I wouldn’t kill them,” he insisted. “One of the commitments I made to myself was that I wouldn’t allow myself to lose control the way I would have with Merrill. I can’t help anyone in jail. Of course, as it turns out, Gigi was the worst owner I’ve seen since leaving Sunrise, and she was nowhere near as bad as the other two were.”
Michael and Faith looked at each other, and he could see she was weighing everything she’d heard like he was.
Michael turned back to Foster and folded his hands. “Mr. Chase,” he said, “I’m inclined to believe you, but the fact that you don’t have an alibi we can verify for the nights of the murders and your own admitted conflicts with two of the three victims make it hard for me to take your word for it.”
“Can’t you call my clients and… no wait, don’t call them. I don’t want them to know I’m being suspected of murder.”
“If we bring you in for murder, they’ll find out from the evening news,” Faith pointed out.
Foster released a sound that reminded Michael uncomfortably, though perhaps appropriately, of a dog’s whine. He ran his hands through his hair and said, “Okay, if you have to call them, can you at least say you’re investigating something like dog thefts, and you want to make sure I never left anywhere with their dogs? That’s what you need to verify, right? That I’m not borrowing big dogs to go kill people?”
“We can avoid the topic of the murder investigation,” Faith agreed, “but the alibi is more concerning, if I’m being honest.”
“I know,” Foster said with a whine again. “I mean… I don’t walk around living my life thinking, ‘Hey, I should probably take pictures of myself everywhere I go in case someone suspects me of being a serial killer.’”
“That’s fair,” Michael said, “but you have to give us something.”
He lifted his hands and let them drop. "Other than the neighbors maybe—hopefully—noticing that I arrived home and didn't leave, I don't know. Wait!" His eyes flew open with excitement. "I ordered pizza on Friday! Yeah, I was binging Star Trek, and I ordered a pizza at eleven-thirty from the Pizza Parlor. They're the only ones that deliver that late. I remember the delivery driver was named Luigi, and he looked like that chef from those old ravioli cans my parents used to buy when I was a kid. Yeah, if you call him, he can tell you I was here on Friday. I didn't order anything on Sunday or Wednesday, but I can explain Friday, and if I wasn't murdering anyone Friday, then I can't be your guy, can I?"
If Michael were being pedantic, he could mention that the fact that Foster’s anger was directed far more toward Conway and Merrill than to Gigi Demetrious and the fact he had actually gotten into an altercation with Conway meant that he should still be considered a suspect in Conway’s murder, but despite Foster’s anger and the fact that he actually did fit the profile of a serial killer who would hide behind a pack of large dogs rather than risk a physical confrontation himself, Michael bought his story. It was convenient for them to fit Foster into a profile, but there were too many holes. If the pizza shop confirmed that he had indeed ordered pizza the night Merrill died, then he was probably not their guy. Merrill was the only one he seemed to truly hate, and it was his murder for which he had the alibi.
“We’ll follow up, Mr. Chase,” Michael replied. “In the meantime, do yourself a favor and stay in town. We might need to contact you again.”
Foster bobbed his head up and down excitedly, relieved that the agents were coming around to his side. “Sure!” he said, “You betcha.”
The three of them left, gently prying themselves away from the dogs. Pancho and Lefty seemed particularly upset to lose Turk and followed him nearly all the way to the street before finally turning back to the house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was dusk when they returned to the hotel. Michael called the Pizza Parlor, and after verifying that Foster had indeed ordered a large thin crust with extra cheese and pepperoni, he ordered them a Chicago-style deep dish with extra cheese. Faith declined to participate in the pizza, so Michael ordered her a chicken ceasar salad.
Michael ate mechanically, a sour frown on his face. Turk ate his food next to the bed, watching a movie about talking dogs that Faith had found on one of the family channels. He seemed unperturbed by the dead end in the case.
Faith felt a lot more like Michael than Turk at the moment. The Boss’s throwaway case to get her away from the Copycat Killer was proving to be far more of a challenge than it seemed it would be at first. The killer’s M.O. read like a bad joke at first glance, but it was proving to be the most brilliant method for avoiding detection they had come across. There was less evidence to follow up on than any other case Faith could recall, and the two good leads they had found turned up empty. One was the junkyard Santa Claus, and the other was enjoying a pizza while George Merrill was getting eaten alive.
She decided to take a walk. These solo excursions often helped clear her mind and allowed her to sift through cases and find connections she couldn't see before. She stood, and Turk followed her. “Going out?” Michael asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, I need some fresh air.”
“Take your keycard,” he said, “I might be in the shower when you get back.”
