10
An older, heavyset man occupied a small shack by the main gate of the impound yard. A light was on inside and he was easily seen seated before a small, portable, black and white television, a large tin cup in his hands. Geoff located a buzzer-type button and depressed it, causing the man in the shack to gaze his way abruptly. He took a last healthy drink from the cup, fumbled at his belt, then exited with a stiff gait that indicated an old injury or current pain. "I help ya?" he asked.
"I'm here to pick up a vehicle that was brought in."
"Papers?"
Geoff rolled them loosely to push through the chain link.
The guard checked them over, paying extra heed to where the make and model were indicated. "Jeep. Uh-huh. I remember that. Hold on." He unlocked the gate and it rattled on its track as he slid it aside. "You got ID?"
Nodding, Geoff forfeited it again and followed the guard to the door of his shack.
"You can enter."
"Thank you." He remained standing while the other dropped himself into a heavy desk chair on wheels with duct tape patches on the seat. The interior of the shed was warmed by a portable space heater and featured unfinished particle board walls, a shelf-like desk area, factory stickers still on the windows, and a coffee pot warming on a small hot plate.
"Weren't in it when it got banged up?" the man asked, his voice low and a little gravelly.
"It was stolen from me."
The guard finished copying down information from his license, and then hefted a thick radio. "Walsh? You headin' in, yet?"
After a moment another voice replied, "Could be."
"Got a young man here wants his Jeep back."
"Be there."
The guard did not offer coffee. He held the license out for Geoff to take along with a pastel-colored carbon he guessed served as some sort of receipt. The younger man checked his watch and winced. Things were progressing far too slowly. He'd had no idea he wouldn't be able to walk right into police headquarters, flash a big smile, then depart with his own property.
He heard a yip and turned to see a uniformed man holding a leash making his way to the shed. A veterinary student, McKenna had no fear of dogs. He was even confident he could easily fend off the most vicious dog attack if need be, but something about the sight of the silver-grey shepherd made him distinctly uneasy.
"That's ol' Samson," the man in the shed informed him. "Ain't scared of dogs, are ya?"
"No," he responded, watching the thickly built animal pull his handler as he followed the scent trail of a stranger.
The guard rose and stepped outside. The German shepherd whined and rose upon his hind legs repeatedly, tail low and wagging, barking with excitement, though not in a particularly aggressive manner. It was a beautiful dog, the winter coat lush and thick, but with a slightly odd appearance as though his skin was a size or two too big for his body. Samson didn't strain at the leash, but maintained constant movement and whining as he was transferred to the custody of the older guard. The younger man, no longer encumbered, gestured Geoff's way.
McKenna stepped out into cooler air and the dog began to tug and lunge in earnest, his barks deeper in timbre and closer together, ears alternately forward or back without ever flattening completely against the back of his massive skull. Aware he was specially trained, the blond man refrained from attempting to acquaint himself and followed the younger man in uniform instead.
"Hey—you're Geoff McKenna."
"Yep," sighed Geoff.
"Tim Kochner. I 'member you. You're here for the banged-up Jeep, just came in?"
"I think so."
"You probably don't remember me," the other guy continued, walking briskly through the lot. "We picked watermelons for Ms. Murphy few summers back."
"Oh, sure." He vaguely recalled the other man's features on a younger face.
"You goin' to college?"
"Veterinary school."
"Oh, uh-huh, uh-huh. I remember now. You used to go to people's farms and do things for their animals. I remember now."
"Uh-huh," said Geoff, catching sight of what he thought was his CJ-5.
"You in it?" Kochner asked.
"I was not," he answered, not liking the sight of the passenger side.
"What happened?"
McKenna found the query inappropriate, but answered anyway, "Somebody stole it from me."
"Gunpoint?"
"No. From behind the house." He found that the passenger door was loose and swung open all too easily. There was no package inside. "Where do I go to claim the contents?"
"Where do what?"
"Something's missing," he clarified. "How do I get it back?"
Kochner tried to peer beyond him as though he'd be able to figure out what McKenna was looking for. "What was it?"
"A package wrapped in aluminum foil."
"Was it food or somethin'?"
"How do I get it back?"
The other man's gaze shifted to the side. "Like a chicken?"
"Yes! Like a chicken! Do you know where it is?"
Kochner turned away, laughing. "Well why on earth would you want that back?"
"Because I'm a veterinary student and it was a project I was working on! I dissected it! I need it!"
"Oh," said the other, sobering up. "Didn't have no formaldehyde or anything on it, did it?"
"No! Why?"
"Ah, well, old Samson went over your Jeep here after it came in and he musta found it. Had hold of it before I could stop him-"
"Where is it?" Geoff asked, a quaver in his voice.
"Well, by the time I got to it, weren't much left."
Looking skyward, McKenna exhaled a soft syllable of despair.
"I'm sorry, but, can't you just get another chicken?"
Mind racing, breathing fast, his eyes roved the bland, grey winter sky and suddenly brightened with hope. "Yes! Yes! I think I can! Thank you!" He hurried back toward the gate.
"Ain't you gonna take your Jeep?" the perplexed Kochner called after him.