“Fair enough. You want to answer any more questions?” Grant was silent. “I asked you a question, son.”

“I want my attorney.”

Sergeant Turner nodded, picking him up by the arm and leading him back to his car. “Watch your head, Mr. McNamar,” he said, helping him into the back seat of the police cruiser. Once he was secure in the car, both the Sergeant and the Corporal walked to the back of the Corporal’s K-9 unit. The younger rookie got in between the senior officers, waiting with bated breath to tear into the car. “Kevin, you will wait here and not do a damn thing.”

“But Sarge!” the rookie whined. “C’mon! This is my first big bust! Please?”

“Kevin, this isn’t anything but the right vehicle, make and model. Nothing more. It’s a hunch and a long shot at that. Bruce, take Cujo there and check his car. If he alerts us, we’ll search it together, you and me. And you?” He pointed back at Kevin. “You will get back into your car and head to the station. Bruce will come and get you if anything happens that we need you for. I want you back at the station and writing your report right now. I will personally sign off on it and include my statements. Now get going, rook.”

 Kevin slinked back to his patrol car, dejectedly shutting the door and peeling out, leaving gravel in his wake. “Think he’ll learn, Bruce?”

“I’m not sure, Scott. One thing’s for sure. If we do find anything? That kid is gonna be pissed!”

Scott laughed. “Yeah. That’s for damn sure. Let’s get this over with.”

The pit bull in the back seat of Bruce’s car wasn’t your normal K-9 dog, but he was more intimidating than a German Shepherd because of the sheer visibility of his muscles. Bruce named the dog Cujo after the dog in the Stephen King novel. The pit was mean to criminals but not to his handler. When he alerted his fellow officer to the bad thing, he knew he’d be allowed to run free for a few hours. Bruce didn’t know the dog knew that, but it was well-trained. Cujo didn’t alert unless there was something to alert to. Many other K-9 units had false positives, but not Cujo. In the three years of his service, he had a perfect record. Every alert netted the San Ramon police an arrest, usually one of the bigger takedowns in the valley. 

Bruce called Cujo, winding up the dog. Cujo was ready for duty, pacing, panting, and barking in the back of the cruiser. Bruce didn’t like keeping his dog caged, but it was for the safety of small kids, mostly kids who loved dogs. “C’mon, Cujo! Let’s get to work, boy!”

Opening the back door, the dog jumped out of the car, standing at attention next to his handler, Corporal Bruce Stevens. Snapping the heavy-duty leash onto his harness, the big dog was ready to work. He made a beeline straight for the Toyota, sniffing all around. Bruce walked him slowly around the car, letting him sniff every inch of it until he alerted to the rear of the vehicle. Not exactly the trunk. More like the rear quarter panel, which seemed a bit unusual to the two officers. “That seem right to you, Bruce?” Scott wasn’t convinced that dogs were smart enough to detect drugs or other illicit materials, but so far, Cujo’s record was impeccable. To be sure, Bruce ran the dog around the car, inside and out, one more time. Each time Cujo alerted to the exact same spot, whining for his owner to tell him he was a good boy for finding the stuff.

“It can’t be right,” Bruce said. Scott shrugged. “Maybe it is, and we can’t see or find it. But it’s there.” Scott lay on the ground, looking up at the underneath side of the quarter panel. It was a fragile sheet of aluminum or steel. He examined the quarter panel using his flashlight, feeling and tapping against it. He missed something. The first time he rubbed it, it almost felt smooth – then his hand finally caught it. An abnormal spot in the metal. Not quite flat, but soft enough that no one, not even border patrol, would notice it.  

Bruce put the dog back in his car. “Find something, boss?”

To be continued . . .