past Friday, he’d completed his twelve-week training session at the Canyon County Training Center, a pilot project for the state of Arizona that trained new police recruits to be K-9 officers.
Not every candidate who applied was selected for the K-9 program. Shane had been thrilled that he’d made the cut. Once he was accepted, he’d been placed with a group of other rookies, and they’d attended the police academy together in Phoenix before coming to Desert Valley for the K-9 training.
Upon the start of every twelve-week session, the trainers matched each officer with a dog based on master trainer Veronica Earnshaw’s research into the rookies, along with questionnaires the recruits filled out prior to the start of the program.
Shane had gleaned that all the trainers used their instincts and knowledge of dogs to help with the pairing of officers to canines. The center was a well-run operation, highly respected throughout the state and a model for other centers.
Shane couldn’t be more pleased with his pairing to Bella.
He knew, however, that once the training began, if a dog and rookie officer hadn’t jelled for whatever reason and the trainers’ attempts to intervene failed, then the officer and dog were reassigned to work with new partners to finish out the program.
Thankfully, he and Bella had meshed from the moment they were introduced.
Now that training was complete, the officers and their canines would be allocated to various police stations throughout Arizona, and the training center would then be reimbursed by the police stations. A win-win for everyone.
Shane sent up another quick prayer that his request would be honored and he’d be assigned to the Flagstaff PD, where he could prove to his brothers and father that he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t a failure.
He planned to be the best officer he could be, with ambitions to one day make captain, or even chief. One day he’d be the one in charge, and then he’d finally earn his family’s respect.
Shane waved a greeting to an older man taking out his trash.
Very few people were out on this Saturday night, and those who were made a point of acknowledging him and Bella. Shane liked that the community of Desert Valley embraced the K-9 officers and their canine partners. He couldn’t say the same of bigger cities, where law enforcement was usually viewed with fear, suspicion and malice.
Bella stopped abruptly, her ears perking and her nose lifting to smell the air.
Unease tightened Shane’s shoulder muscles. She’d been alerted to something. “What is it, girl?”
Bella took off. Keeping the beam of the flashlight aimed ahead of him, Shane ran to keep up, his feet pounding noisily on the pavement. The lead connected to the dog’s collar pulled taut, and Shane pressed himself to move faster. They headed toward the training center. Had something happened to one of the dogs? The trainers?
Bella led him past the veterinary clinic and skidded to a halt at the outdoor puppy-training yard.
Shane stopped and kept Bella at his side. He swept his flashlight over the scene before him. Dread crimped his chest. He sucked in a quick breath.
Veronica Earnshaw lay twisted on the ground with her dark hair and striking face coated in dirt. Her open eyes stared at the stars above. And what appeared to be two gunshot wounds marred her chest. Bile rose in his throat.
His priority as the first officer on the scene was to determine if the victim was alive or dead.
Bella tugged at the leash. He gave her the hand movement to sit and stay. She obeyed, but her gaze was riveted to the bushes along the fence.
Was the perpetrator hiding in there?
Wishing he had his sidearm, which he’d left locked up in the condo, he shone the flashlight on the thick shrubbery. He let out Bella’s lead. She made a beeline for the greenery and sat staring at the dense foliage.
Caution tripped down his spine. There was no coverage for him to use. If the person who’d shot Veronica was in the bushes with the gun, he might well be the next victim.
“I’m a police officer. If someone is in there, you better come out,” he said with authority.
“Shane?”
He knew that voice. “Gina?” It was the junior trainer from the Canyon County training facility. A sob came from the bushes, then Gina crawled out. He reached out to help her and she flinched. Her long auburn braid was coming undone. The hazel of her eyes was nearly gone because of her enlarged pupils.
He held up his hands, palms out.
Was Gina’s shock real or fake? Had she committed murder? Or was she a witness?
Cautious, in case there was a gun he couldn’t see, he crouched beside her, noting blood on her hands and smeared on her khaki pants and pink sweater. “Gina. Are you hurt?”
“No.” She took a shuddering breath. “She’s dead. Veronica’s dead. He killed her.”
A witness, then. He refocused his attention on Veronica. There was no discernible movement of the upper part of her abdomen, indicating her breathing had stopped or was too shallow to be observed.
He checked for a pulse and found none. He shone the flashlight into her eyes—no response.
There was no question in his mind.
Gina was correct.
Veronica Earnshaw was dead.
His chest tightened; his lungs seized. An itch scratched at his throat. He put his hand on the inhaler in his pocket, but he refused to let the asthma take hold. There were procedures to follow. A crime to investigate. He had no time for an asthma attack right now. And as the first responder, he had a responsibility to make sure no element of the scene was disturbed any worse than it had already been.
Instead of his inhaler, he took out his cell phone and called the police department. When the dispatcher answered the call, he said, “This is Officer Shane Weston. I need assistance at the side yard of the Canyon County Training Center. One gunshot-wound victim. One potential witness.”
He hadn’t ruled out perpetrator. Not yet.
“I’ll let the chief and Officer Hayes know,” she responded before the line disconnected.
Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he made mental notes of the scene since he didn’t have a notepad and pen. When he left the condo, he hadn’t expected to end up working a crime scene.
He hadn’t heard the report of a gun, much less two shots, so he knew this tragedy hadn’t happened recently. Unless...a noise suppressor had been used.
The thought stuck in his mind like a thorn.
Because if that were the case, then Veronica’s murder was premeditated.
He did a quick visual search with the flashlight for the weapon but came up empty. A dark trail of what he assumed to be blood led from Veronica to the training center doors. Had Veronica been dragged out of the building or had she managed to crawl to the gate seeking help?
