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  Dominick Leland was a tall, bony African-American with thirty-two years on the job as a K-9 handler, first in the United States Army, then the L.A. County Sheriffs, and finally the LAPD. He was a living legend in the LAPD K-9 corps.

  Bald on top, his head was rimmed with short gray hair, and two fingers were missing from his left hand. The fingers were bitten off by a monstrous Rottweiler-mastiff fighting dog on the day Leland earned the first of the seven Medals of Valor he would earn throughout his career. Leland and his first dog, a German shepherd named Maisie Dobkin, had been deployed to search for an Eight-Deuce Crip murder suspect and known drug dealer named Howard Oskari Walcott. Earlier that day, Walcott fired nine shots into a crowd of high school students waiting at a bus stop, wounding three and killing a fourteen-year-old girl named Tashira Johnson. When LAPD ground and air support units trapped Walcott in a nearby neighborhood, Leland and Maisie Dobkin were called out to locate the suspect, who was believed to be armed, dangerous, and hiding somewhere within a group of four neighboring properties. Leland and Maisie cleared the first property easily enough, then moved into the adjoining backyard of a house then occupied by another Crip gangbanger, Eustis Simpson. Unknown to officers at the time, Simpson kept two enormous male Rottweiler-mastiff mixed-breeds on his property, both of which were scarred and vicious veterans of Simpson’s illegal dogfighting business.

  When Leland and Maisie Dobkin entered Simpson’s backyard that day, both dogs charged from beneath the house and attacked Maisie Dobkin. The first dog, which weighed one hundred forty pounds, hit Maisie so hard she rolled upside down. He buried his teeth into Maisie’s neck, pinning her down, as the second dog, which weighed almost as much, grabbed her right hind leg and shook it like a terrier shakes a rat. Maisie screamed. Dominick Leland could have done something silly like run for a garden hose or waste time with pepper spray, but Maisie would be dead in seconds, so Leland waded into the fight. He kneed the dog biting her leg to clear a line of fire, pushed his Beretta into the attacker’s back, and pulled the trigger. He then grabbed the other dog’s face with his free hand to make the dog release Maisie’s neck. The overgrown monster bit Leland’s hand, and Leland shot the sonofabitch twice, but not before the big dog took his pinky and ring finger. Leland later said he never felt the bite, and never knew the fingers were missing, until he put Maisie into the ambulance and demanded the paramedics rush her to the closest veterinarian. Both Leland and Maisie Dobkin recovered, and worked together for another six years until Maisie Dobkin retired. Leland still kept the official LAPD picture of himself and Maisie Dobkin on the wall of his office. He kept pictures of himself with all the dogs who had been his partners.

  Leland scowled when he saw Scott, but Scott didn’t take it personally. Leland scowled at everyone and everything except his dogs.

  Leland uncrossed his arms, and entered the building.

  “C’mon, now, let’s see what we have.”

  The building was divided into two small offices, a general meeting room, and a kennel. The K-9 Platoon used the facility only for training and evaluations, and did not staff the building on a full-time basis.

  Scott followed Leland past the offices and into the kennel, Leland talking as they walked. Eight chain-link dog runs with chain-link gates lined the left side of the kennel, with a walkway leading past them to a door at the end of the building. The runs were four feet wide and eight feet deep, with floor-to-ceiling sides. The floor was a concrete slab with built-in drains, so the room could be washed and rinsed with hoses. When the training dogs lived here, Scott and his two classmates, Amy Barber and Seymore Perkins, had begun every morning by scooping up dog shit and washing the floor with disinfectant. This gave the kennel a medicinal smell.

  Leland said, “Perkins is getting Jimmy Riggs’ dog, Spider. I think they will be a good match. That Spider, I’ll tell you something, he has a mind of his own, but he and Seymore will come to terms.”

  Seymore Perkins was Leland’s favorite of the three new handlers. Perkins had grown up with hunting dogs, and possessed a calm confidence with the dogs, who instantly trusted him. Amy Barber had shown an intuitive feel for bonding with the dogs, and a command authority that far surpassed her slight build and higher voice.

  Leland stopped between the second and third runs, where the two new dogs were waiting. Both dogs stood when Leland entered, and the near dog barked twice. They were skinny male Belgian Malinois.

  Leland beamed as if they were his children.

  “Aren’t these boys gorgeous? Look at these boys. They are handsome young men.”

  The barker barked again, and both furiously wagged their tails.

  Scott knew both dogs had arrived fully trained by the breeder, in accordance with written guidelines supplied by the K-9 Platoon. This meant Leland, who traveled to breeders all over the world in search of the best available dogs. Leland had spent the past three days personally running the dogs through their paces, evaluating their fitness, and learning each dog’s personality and peculiarities. Not every dog sent to the K-9 Platoon measured up to Leland’s standards. He downchecked those who did not, and returned them to their breeder.

  Leland glanced at the dog in the second run.

  “This here is Gutman. Why on earth those fools named him Gutman, I do not know, but that’s his name.”

  Purchased dogs were usually around two years old when they arrived, so they had already been named. Donated dogs were often a year older.

  “And this here is Quarlo.”

  Gutman barked again, and went up on his hind legs, trying to lick Leland through the gate.

  Leland said, “Gutman here is kinda high-strung, so I’m gonna put him with Amy. Quarlo here is smart as a whip. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s easy to work with, so I think you and Mr. Quarlo here are going to make a fine match.”

  Scott interpreted “easy to work with” and “smart as a whip” as Leland’s way of saying the other dog was too much for Scott to handle. Perkins and Barber were the better handlers, so they were getting the more difficult dogs. Scott was the moron.

  Scott heard the door open at the far end of the kennel and saw Mace come in with the German shepherd. He put the shepherd into a run, dragged out a large canine crate, and closed the shepherd’s gate.

  Scott studied Quarlo. He was a beautiful dog with a dark fawn body, black face, and upright black ears. His eyes were warm and intelligent. His steady demeanor was obvious. Where Gutman frittered and fidgeted, Quarlo stood utterly calm. Leland was probably right. This would be the easiest dog for Scott.

  Scott glanced at Leland, but Leland wasn’t looking at him. Leland was smiling at the dog.

  Scott said, “I’ll work harder. I’ll work as hard as it takes.”

  Leland glanced up, and studied Scott for a moment. The only time Scott recalled Leland not scowling was when he looked at the dogs, but now he seemed thoughtful. He touched the leash clipped to his belt with his three-fingered hand.

  “This isn’t steel and nylon. It’s a nerve. You clip one end to you, you clip the other to this animal, it ain’t for dragging him down the street. You feel him through this nerve, and he feels you, and what flows through here flows both ways—anxiety, fear, discipline, approval—right through this nerve without you and your dog ever even having to look at each other, without you ever having to say a word. He can feel it, and you can feel it, too.”

  Leland let go of his leash, and glanced back at Quarlo.

  “You’re gonna work, all right, I know you’re a worker, but there’s things work can’t build. I watched you for eight weeks, and you did everything I asked you to do, but I never saw anything flow through your leash. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I’ll work harder.”

  Scott was trying to figure out what else to say when Cam Francis opened the door behind them, and asked Leland to check
Tony’s foot. Cam looked worried. Leland told Scott he would be right back, and hurried away, scowling. Scott stared at Quarlo for several seconds, then walked to the other end of the kennel where Mace was now hosing out the crate.

  Scott said, “Hey.”

  Mace said, “Watch you don’t get splashed.”

  The shepherd was lying with her head between her paws on a padded mat at the back of the run. She was a classic black-and-tan German shepherd with a black muzzle giving way to light brown cheeks and mask, a black blaze on the top of her head, and enormous black ears. Her eyebrows bunched as she looked from Scott to Mace, and back again. No other part of her moved. A hard rubber toy lay untouched on the newspaper, as did a leather chew and a fresh bowl of water. A name was written on the side of the crate. Scott cocked his head sideways to read it. Maggie.

  Scott guessed she had to go eighty or eighty-five pounds. A lot bigger than the Maligators. She was big through the chest and hips the way shepherds were, but it was the hairless gray lines on her hindquarters that drew him. He squeezed past the crate for a better view, and watched her eyes follow him.

  “This Maggie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She ours?”

  “Nah. Donation dog. Family down Oceanside thought we could use her, but Leland’s sending her back.”

  Scott studied the pale lines and decided they were scars.

  “What happened to her?”

  Mace put aside the hose, and joined Scott at the gate.

  “She was wounded in Afghanistan. The scars there are from the surgeries.”

  “No shit. A military working dog?”

  “U.S. Marine, this girl. She healed up okay, but Leland says she’s unfit.”

  “What kind of work did she do?”

  “Dual-purpose dog. Patrol and explosives detection.”

  Scott knew almost nothing about military working dogs, except that the training they received was specialized and excellent.

  “Bomb get her?”

  “Nope. Her handler was blown up by one of those suicide nuts. The dog here stayed with him, and some asshole sniper tried to kill her.”

  “No shit.”

  “For real. Shot her twice, Leland says. Parked herself on her boy, and wouldn’t leave. Trying to protect him, I guess. Wouldn’t even let other Marines get near him.”

  Scott stared at the German shepherd, but Mace and the kennel faded, and he heard the gunfire that night—the automatic rifle churning its thunder, the chorus of pistols snapping like whips. Then her brown eyes met his, and he was back in the kennel again.

  Scott bit the inside of his mouth, and cleared his throat before speaking.

  “She didn’t leave.”

  “That’s the story.”

  Scott noted how she watched them. Her nose worked constantly, sucking in their smells. Even though she had not moved from her prone position, Scott knew she was focused on them.

  “If she healed up okay, what’s Leland’s problem?”

  “She’s bad with noise, for one. See how she lays back there, all kinda timid? Leland thinks she’s got a stress disorder. Dogs get PTSD just like people.”

  Scott felt himself flush, and opened the gate to hide his irritation. He wondered if Mace and the other handlers spoke about him like this behind his back.

  Scott said, “Hey, Maggie, how’s it going?”

  Maggie stayed on her belly with her ears folded back, which was a sign of submission, but she stared into his eyes, which possibly indicated aggression. Scott slowly approached her. She watched as he came, but her ears stayed down and she issued no warning growl. He held the back of his hand toward her.

  “You a good girl, Maggie? My name is Scott. I’m a police officer, so don’t give me any trouble, okay?”

  Scott squatted a couple of feet from her, and watched her nose work.

  “Can I pet you, Maggie? How ’bout I pet you?”

  He moved his hand slowly closer, and was six inches from her head when she bit him. She moved insanely fast, snarling and snapping, and caught the top of his hand as he jerked to his feet.

  Mace shouted, and charged into the run.

  “Jesus! She get you?”

  Maggie quit her attack as quickly as she bit him, and once more lay on her belly. Scott had jumped back, and now stood three feet away from her.

  “Dude, you’re bleeding. Lemme see. She get you deep?”

  Scott pressed his handkerchief over the cut.

  “It’s nothing.”

  He watched Maggie’s eyes move from him to Mace and back, as if she had to watch them both because either might attack.

  Scott made his voice soothing.

  “You got hurt bad, big girl. Yes, you did.”

  I’ll bet I’ve been shot more times than you.

  He squatted again, and held out his hand again, letting her smell his blood. This time she let him touch her. He spread his fingers through the soft fur between her ears, then slowly stepped away. She stayed on her belly, watching him, as he and Mace backed out of her run.

  Mace said, “That’s why she’s going back. Leland says they get fucked up like this, they’re never right again.”

  “Leland said that?”

  “Voice of God.”

  Scott left Mace washing out Maggie’s crate, and walked back through the offices, and outside, where he found Leland on his way back.

  Leland said, “You and Quarlo ready to get to work?”

  “I want the German shepherd.”

  “You can’t have the shepherd. Perkins is gettin’ Spider.”

  “Not Spider. The one you’re shipping back. Maggie. Let me work with her. Give me two weeks.”

  “That dog’s no good.”

  “Give me two weeks to change your mind.”

  Leland scowled the Leland scowl, then grew thoughtful again and fingered his leash.

  “Okay. Two weeks. You got her.”

  Scott followed Leland back inside to get his new dog.

  5.

  Dominick Leland

  A few minutes later, Leland resumed his position outside in the spare shade cast by the building, crossed his arms, and watched Scott James work with the dog. Mace stood with him for a while, but grew bored, and went inside to get on with his duties. Leland said little. He watched how the man and the dog related to each other.

  Inside, before they came out, Leland walked Scott back to the shepherd.

  “Take her out back, and introduce yourself. I’m gonna watch.”

  Leland walked away without another word, and waited outside. After a while, Officer James came around the far side of the building with the dog on his lead. The dog was on James’ left, which was the proper position, and did not try to range from him as they walked, but this proved nothing. The dog had been trained by the United States Marine Corps. Leland did not doubt the excellence of her training, which he had witnessed himself when he evaluated her.

  Officer James called over.

  “Anything in particular you want me to do?”

  Me. Not us. There was your problem, right there.

  Leland answered with a scowl. After a while James withered under Leland’s scowl, and went on with it. He made a few ninety-degree left and right turns, and trotted in left and right circles. The dog was always in perfect position except when they stopped. When they stopped, the dog lowered her head, tucked her tail, and hunched herself as if she was trying to hide. Officer James seemed not to notice this, even though he glanced at the dog often.

  When Leland was sure James was concentrating on the dog, he slipped a black starter pistol from his pocket, and pulled the trigger. The starter pistol fired a .22-caliber blank cartridge, and was used to test new dogs for their tolerance to loud, unexpected sounds
. A dog that freaked out when a gun went off was of little use to the police.

  The sound cracked sharply across the training field, and caught both the dog and her handler by surprise.

  James and the dog lurched at the same time, but the dog tucked her tail, and tried to hide between James’ legs. When James looked over, Leland held up the starter pistol.

  “Stress reaction. Can’t have a police dog that shits out when a gun goes off.”

  James said nothing for several seconds. Leland was about to ask what in hell he was looking at when James stooped to touch the dog’s head.

  “No, sir, we can’t. We’ll work on it.”

  “Long strokes. Start at her neck and run your hand back to her tail. They like the long strokes. That’s the way her mama did it.”