Home for the Haunting(63)

“A city of the dead, huh?” I never thought of that.

Annette nodded. “Not everybody feels that way, of course. But I guess getting out with the animals and the country smells . . .” She shrugged. “At least a person doesn’t think about bodies all the time.”

Now that I tripped over bodies with remarkable frequency, I was beginning to think more about the impact of the aftermath of violence on first responders. Whether paramedics or cops, we were all human and it was a lot to take in.

“Shel’s always been an animal lover. Even back in the day, when he lived in a small apartment in the city, he had two dogs and a cat. Now he’s on the board of the county’s SPCA and works with a program that brings shelter dogs into prisons to be trained and socialized by inmates. Caring for the dogs requires the prisoners to take responsibility for someone besides themselves, which increases their capacity for empathy. It also gives them something worthwhile to do so they’re not tempted to get into trouble. Meanwhile, the dogs are taught basic commands and good habits and are socialized so they’ll be good family pets. It’s a win-win situation.”

“What happens to the dogs?”

“When their training is complete they ‘graduate’ and are placed in new homes with families on the outside. The prisoners start over with another homeless pet. The program’s been a huge success.”

That would be a good thing for my dad to get involved in, I thought, then caught myself. First I had volunteered Dad for Neighbors Together; now I was thinking he should volunteer for a prison dog–training program. Apparently, without realizing it, I no longer expected my dad to resume control of Turner Construction so that I could carry on with my oft-threatened plan to run away to Paris. And the odd thing was, I seemed to be okay with it. Turner Construction, which I had for so long seen as an obligation and a weight around my neck, had somehow become mine, and I was feeling decidedly proprietary about it.

“Wow,” I said as we sped down a winding road, emerald hills on one side, an ancient walnut orchard on the other. “So, this is Martinez. Who knew?”

“John Muir, the pioneering conservationist, was from Martinez,” said Annette as we drove. “So was Joe DiMaggio. Bet you didn’t know that.”

“I surely didn’t.” It was embarrassing how little I knew about local history, which just went to prove that I was a true native. Only tourists and recent arrivals knew factoids such as this. “How is it you know so much?”

“Years ago, when I first moved to the area, I did a lot of exploring on my days off. I doubt I missed a single historical marker. I should make time to do more of that—I got a real kick out of it. It’s a fascinating area.”

There was a wistful tone in her voice. I had a number of friends turning fifty and had noticed that for many it was a time of reflection and introspection. I wondered whether Annette considered giving up all this grisly homicide stuff in order to—I don’t know—maybe take up tending a herd of goats or weaving lumpy linen cloth on a large wooden loom.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Alabama, originally, then I moved to San Jose.”

“Seriously? You don’t have an accent.”

“You have any idea how hard I’ve worked to shed it? Born and raised on a small farm outside of Selma, believe it or not.”

“Wow.”

“I know. I’m like the embodiment of the civil rights movement, right? I’d like to say that my family marched with Reverend King, but that would be a lie. They kept their heads down and worked their fingers to the bone to provide for us kids and to give us the education and opportunities they didn’t have. But the legacy was there, and as soon as I was old enough, I followed. I remember the sensation, hearing about what was going on at school: I felt, quite literally, my chest puff up. As though I were taking a deep breath for the very first time. After that, there was no keeping this girl down on the farm.”

Scratch the goatherding and handweaving.

Annette slowed, turned off the main highway, and passed through an open aluminum gate. We drove slowly another quarter mile down a dirt road, kicking up a plume of yellow brown dust behind us. We passed a fenced pasture where three swaybacked, scruffy-looking horses were contentedly munching on cropped grass. Beyond that was a mobile home surrounded by animal pens and cages holding a coyote and a variety of birds. A border collie and two dogs of dubious parentage raced toward the vehicle, barking.

A tall, slender man emerged from the mobile home and waved.

Retired San Francisco Homicide Inspector Sheldon Evans had embraced the rural life with enthusiasm. He wore a big tan cowboy hat, boots that had seen real labor, and an enormous belt buckle. A handlebar mustache dominated his face, as if tacked on during an out-of-control game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey. I gazed at him, fascinated that one person could embody so many western stereotypes.