The moisture clung to the collar of my uniform.
I clutched the empty leather harness, a heavy, double-stitched piece of equipment that had cost the department eighty-five dollars, now useless in my hand.
Gerald was walking half a step behind me.
He tapped his heavy metal flashlight against his thigh, the regular clicking rhythmically marking our steps.
“The tracking signal broke down right next to the slipway, Commander,” Gerald said in a quick, thin voice.
“If he jumped, he could end up anywhere in the water.”
“Delta doesn’t jump off the docks, Gerald,” I said.
I adjusted the strap of my black leather watch, tightening it by one notch.
The dog had never managed to free itself from its collar before, let alone escape from its secure enclosure.
The port was enveloped in a thick grey fog, reducing visibility to ten meters.
Further along, the silhouette of the public bench was taking shape near the edge of the quay.
A man sat there, his shoulders hunched in a faded olive-colored country jacket.
Next to his boots, a large German shepherd sat perfectly still.
I stopped three meters away.
“Sir, move away from the dog,” I said.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The man did not move quickly.
He slowly rubbed his right thumb over an old scar in his palm, his eyes still fixed on the water.
“He’s not hurting anyone, officer,” the man said.
Delta did not move nor did it return to my side.
Instead, he stood up and placed his template between the bench and us.
He let out a low, vibrating grunt, directed straight at me.
“Commander,” Gerald whispered.
The beam of his flashlight trembled slightly as he pointed it towards the dog’s chest.
“He does not recognize the order.”
At that sound, my chest tightened.
Delta had undergone months of intensive obedience training, but her attitude was entirely defensive.
He was protecting the foreigner.
“Easy, boy,” said the man.
His voice, a gentle Southern accent, seemed to calm the animal instantly.
“They’re just doing their job.”
“Please identify yourself,” I said, taking a step forward.
“Ernesto,” said the man.
He did not immediately look up, keeping his gaze fixed on the dog’s ears.
“I was simply taking my morning walk.”
“This is a police dog,” I said, brandishing the eighty-five-dollar harness.
“He escaped from our premises three hours ago.”
“Are you implying that I stole it?” asked Ernesto.
He looked up, his face marked by deep wrinkles.
“I ask you how he ended up at your feet,” I said.
Ernesto finally looked at me, his eyes misty but calm.
“He came towards me as if he already knew my name.”
I didn’t believe him.
“Dogs don’t run five kilometers across town to find a stranger, Mr. Ernesto.”
“I didn’t call him, ma’am,” Ernesto said.
“He trotted over, sat down, and rested his head against my knee.”
As if by magic, Delta pressed her heavy head back against the old man’s trousers.
The dog closed its eyes, exhaled deeply, and remained perfectly still.
“Gerald, put the escape line on him immediately,” I ordered.
Gerald advanced cautiously.
“Watch his posture, Commander,” Gerald said.
“He’s wagging his tail.”
Delta remained tense but let the rope slip around his neck.
Her eyes never left mine as the rope tightened.
“Look at his shoulder, Commander,” Gerald said.
He pointed his flashlight towards the dog’s left side.
“Under the fur, there is a thick, irregular mark.”
I leaned over to examine the area of skin.
It was a crescent-shaped scar, old and deep, white on dark skin.
“It came from shrapnel,” Ernesto said softly.
He slowly traced the outline of the scar on his own palm.
“A bad day in the mud.”
“This dog has no military record,” I said.
“He was bought from a breeder in Sacramento.”
Ernesto did not respond, his eyes following the dog as Gerald led him back to the path.
“Let’s go, Gerald,” I said.
“Get him in the back of the police car.”
We retraced our steps towards the pier entrance, Delta reluctantly walking alongside Gerald.
“Page forty-two is missing from the police dog admission register,” I said, noticing the ellipsis in the sequence.
“That’s correct,” Gerald said. “Protocol requires a second signature from an official for any physical retrieval of these records. We don’t know who accessed this file.”
“Where are the medical duplicates?” I asked.
“Dr. Marcus keeps the digital backups at the county clinic,” Gerald said. “He doesn’t use the central server.”
I closed the binder, the heavy plastic cover slamming against the metal table.
The county veterinary clinic smelled of isopropyl alcohol and damp cedar shavings.
Dr. Marcus did not look up from his desk when I entered. He held his metal-framed glasses in front of the fluorescent light, wiping the lenses with a small square of blue silk.
“A gap in documentation is rarely indicative of a systemic failure, Commander,” Dr. Marcus said in a neutral and precise tone. “Veterinary record keeping during the administrative transition five years ago was notoriously fragmented.”
“The admission form is missing from the medical file, Marcus,” I said, leaning against his metal cabinet. “The dog has a seven-and-a-half-centimeter surgical scar on his left shoulder that isn’t listed on his enlistment medical file.”
“A superficial laceration,” said Dr. Marcus, adjusting his glasses. “It was deemed to have no impact on her performance. I classified it as a minor injury sustained while grazing during her initial breeding phase.”
“These records do not conform to standard veterinary protocols,” I said.
“The department was undergoing restructuring,” he said, closing his desk drawer with his knee. “There was an oversight. I’ll retrieve the digital copy once the quarterly audit is complete.”
“I need to know who signed the authorization for Delta’s transfer five years ago,” I said.
“The permit is registered with the town hall,” said Dr. Marcus, moving a stack of cardboard folders. “I’m sure the clerk will be able to find it, provided you have the correct application form.”
He picked up a black pen and began filling out a diagnostic chart, ending the conversation without looking up.
In the early afternoon, the sun had broken through the low clouds, making the asphalt of the station parking lot hot and sticky.
Gerald had balanced his sturdy laptop on the hood of my patrol car, the screen reflecting the blue sky.
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