The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “You really think we have a chance?” Ash sounded cautiously hopeful.

  “Better than just a chance. That bear is flat out the best thing you’ve ever done and it’s not just because it’s technically perfect . . . there’s something about her that looks as if you had the time of your life creating her.”

  “It wasn’t just me. You helped make her.”

  “Honey, ramming polyester stuffing inside Susannah hardly constitutes helping.”

  “I disagree. And you were also right about her eyes. They were too close to each other at first.” The coffeemaker began to gurgle and Ash opened the cupboard to get a mug. “In fact, you had some pretty good ideas. Maybe I’ll let you make the next one.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m not ready for that. I’m afraid any bears that I made would look like furry mutants,” I said dismissively. Yet I had to silently admit I was more than a little intrigued at the thought of making a teddy bear. I hadn’t done anything really creative in nearly thirty years and I was surprised that the bears fired my imagination. But in order to make one, I’d have to learn to operate Ash’s high-tech sewing machine, a task I dreaded. With its LED display, glowing lights, and touch-pad controls, the machine looked only slightly less difficult to run than a nuclear accelerator.

  Ash poured the coffee. “Oh, I think you’re selling yourself a little short.”

  I took the mug and raised it high. “I’d like to offer a toast to Susannah, the cutest teddy bear in the Western Hemisphere.”

  Ash grabbed her cup of cocoa and tapped it against the mug. “To Susannah. She is perfect, isn’t she?”

  “Just like her maker,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m going to take my coffee outside. Want to join me?”

  Ash glanced at the bears and then turned imploring eyes on me. “I just need to double-check them one more time and then I’ll be right out.”

  “Take your time.”

  “Thank you, honey.”

  I grabbed a ragged old towel from the mudroom and went outside. The sky was growing brighter as the fog began to dissipate, but the forested ramparts of the Blue Ridge Mountains were still invisible, although they were less than three miles away. A thick mist persisted just above the swiftly flowing river, which was about sixty yards wide and as muddy as a candidate’s answer at a presidential debate. Although the water had receded somewhat overnight, the Shenandoah was still well above its normal level. The remnants of Hurricane Jeanne had rumbled through Virginia two days earlier, dropping over four inches of rain in less than twenty-four hours. We’d had a few tense hours when the river briefly overflowed its banks, but our house was never in any danger.

  I wiped down the wooden slats of the bench in our front yard, sat down, and took a sip of coffee. The air seemed to be full of swallows gracefully dipping and soaring through the sky in search of insects. An enormous century-old Chinquapin oak stood between our house and the river and from its upper branches I heard the harsh challenging call of a blue jay. I looked for Kitchener and finally located him near the riverbank beneath a sycamore tree. When he saw me, he ambled over for his morning scratch behind the ears and when he discovered I didn’t have any dog biscuits he wandered back to his original position near the water.

  Sipping my coffee, I found myself once more reflecting on the painful odyssey that eventually led us to this rural village in Virginia. The orthopedic surgeons operated on my shin twice after the shooting but the damage was just too severe. I should have been overjoyed with what the doctors accomplished because I could walk with the assistance of a cane long before anyone anticipated, but that wasn’t enough. My police career was on the line because I knew what would happen if my doctor categorized my injury as “permanent and stable”—the city would medically retire me, something I dreaded.

  But as the weeks passed it became clear that no matter how skilled the surgeons were and how hard I rehabbed, I was going to be crippled for the rest of my life. The city medically retired me and I’m not proud of what happened next. For several months I wallowed in bitter anger and depression. If Ash hadn’t been there, I don’t know what might have happened. All I can say is: Thank God she possessed the patience to endure my Mardi Gras of self-pity until I finally pulled my head out of my fundament.

  To make a long story short, Ash wanted to move back to the Shenandoah Valley to be close to her family and I was excited with the idea of the change of scenery. We’d visited her folks several times on vacation and I’d always liked the central Shenandoah Valley. The region was primarily rural; yet there were decent-size towns nearby like Harrisonburg, Staunton, and Charlottesville with shopping centers and cultural activities. The pace of life was slow, people still had manners, and best of all, there wasn’t a Starbucks coffee shop on every street corner. Country folks are often portrayed as being little better than cretins, but they’re smart enough not to pay three-ninety-five for a cup of coffee.

  When I finally came out of my reverie I noticed Kitch was still there by the river, looking down at something that I couldn’t see. I decided it might be a good idea to investigate, because the last thing we needed this morning was to have to bathe a hundred-pound sheepdog after he went swimming in the muddy river. So, I got up, walked over to Kitch, and looked down into the torrent of brown water. Our dog had shown a remarkable ability to locate dead critters, but this time he’d completely outdone himself.

  A man was floating face down in the river about twenty yards from the shore. His hips and legs were snagged on the thick branches of a huge fallen log. He rose and fell on the surging waters, yet I could see his arms bobbed lifelessly. Over the years I’d seen enough corpses fished from San Francisco Bay to know for a certainty he was dead.

  For a second, I found myself wondering if this was a really bad joke. I’d retired from cop work, moved 2,700 miles, and was just beginning to enjoy the fact that stiffs were no longer an integral part of my life and what happens? One washes up in my front yard. What are the odds?

  Then I looked down at Kitchener and asked, “Nice catch. What kind of bait were you using?”

  Kitch just panted and looked proud. I took him by the collar and led him toward the house because things were about to get hectic in our front yard. Going into the house, I called to Ash, who was worrying over another teddy bear. “Sweetheart, can you get me the phone?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because we’ve got some guy named “Bob” out there in the river and he’s dead.”

  My wife looked up in shock. “Oh, my God! Are you sure he’s dead? And how do you know his name is Bob?”

  “Well, the two questions are kind of connected. I know his name and his condition because he’s bob-bing face down in the water.”

  She grabbed the cordless phone, pressed 9-1-1, handed it to me, and then galloped up the stairs.

  Realizing I was going to be on my feet for some time, I called upstairs, “Honey, please bring my cane when you come down.”

  By the time I’d told the volunteer fire department dispatcher about the body and given my address, Ash was back downstairs, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee-shirt, and tennis shoes. She handed me my cane and headed for the door at a dead run. I followed her across the yard and joined her a minute later on the riverbank.

  Ashleigh peered at the body and then raised her hands in entreaty, palms upward. “What do we do?”

  “Nothing. Even if he were alive we couldn’t risk going into that water. We don’t have the training or equipment.”

  A moment or two later, we heard a siren start up from the direction of town and begin moving north on Cupp Road toward the gravel lane that led to our house. Then the Volunteer Fire Company River Rescue Team’s Ford F-350 appeared, its red lightbar flashing. The truck skidded to a halt and two firefighters jumped from the truck. As they jogged toward us, I realized that this day was swiftly going from bad to worse because one of the volunteer firemen was Marcus Poole, the effervescent pastor of the Remmelkem
p Mill Apostolic Assembly.

  Although everyone else in town adored him, I was inclined to dislike Reverend Poole. He’d been a high-school classmate of Ashleigh’s that I suspected had never quite gotten over having a huge and unrequited crush on her. The first time he’d visited our new home, shortly after we’d moved in, Poole gave Ash a hug that—at least in my mind—didn’t look entirely as if it was an innocent expression of Christian love. Add the facts that he was three inches taller than me, not crippled, in superb physical condition, and his hair wasn’t the color of brushed aluminum, and—oh, all right—I’m a little bit jealous, which is ridiculous because I know Ash views Poole as nothing more than an old friend. But even if he hadn’t embraced my wife a little tighter than I thought appropriate, I would have been wary of the pastor because on some intangible level my inspector senses detected the submerged aroma of fraud. Poole was so perpetually cheerful, energetic, compassionate, and painfully earnest that the saintly behavior impressed me as a superb performance. I’m sorry, call me a cynic, but nobody is that consistently perfect and it left me wondering why he was playacting.

  Poole was wearing heavy rubber boots, baggy yellow firefighting turnout pants with canvas-colored suspenders, and, despite the cool temperature a skintight white tee-shirt to show off his well-developed chest and abs and muscular arms. Jeez, he looks pretty good, I thought, with more than a trace of envy. He and his partner—a plump guy I’d seen around town but didn’t know by name—stood and looked at the body for a moment while quietly conversing. Then, while the other fireman went to the back of the truck and began to screw the pieces of a long metal gaffing hook together, Poole came over to us and intoned:

  “Dear Lord, what a tragedy. Sister Ashleigh, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Pastor Marc. Just a little upset.”

  “Still, it must have been a horrible shock. Is there anything at all I can do to provide some spiritual comfort?”

  “Getting the body out of the river would be a good start,” I muttered under my breath and resisted adding: And don’t even think about hugging my wife.

  Poole turned his empathetic gaze on me. “And Brother Bradley, how are you dealing with this terrible occurrence?”

  “Oh, I think I’m holding up pretty well under the circumstances.”

  If Poole noticed the dry tone in my voice, he chose to ignore it. However, Ashleigh recognized the sarcasm and shot me a look that said: He’s harmless, behave.

  Off to the northwest—over on U.S. Route 33, if I judged correctly—a new siren began to wail. Poole glanced in that direction and said, “That’ll be the Sheriff ’s Department. Our dispatcher called them.” Then he made a big production out of squaring his brawny shoulders. “Well, it’s time to get to work.”

  “Please, be careful,” said Ash.

  And God help me if Poole didn’t sound exactly like Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story when he replied, “Don’t worry. Recovering a body from the river can be very dangerous, but we’re experts.”

  As Poole returned to the fire truck and began to pull on a pair of hip-waders, Ash whispered, “Honey, I know he’s a little full of himself . . .”

  “Oh, you think?”

  “But I truly don’t believe he meant anything by that hug.”

  “If you say so, love.”

  “And I think it’s really sweet that even after being married all these years, you still act like a high-school kid ready to fight behind the gym because he thinks someone is making a move on his girlfriend.” She took my hand. “But you don’t have to worry because I wouldn’t trade you for anyone or anything.”

  “Thanks, Ash, and I’ll try to behave.”

  Poole had finished putting on the waders and was now adjusting the straps of a sturdy nylon harness that fit over his shoulders and around his waist. Two long and thick ropes were attached to the back of the harness and the chubby firefighter carefully tied them to the trunk of a sycamore tree. Poole smiled, gave us a thumbs-up, and took the twelve-foot-long gaff pole in hand. Then both firefighters went to the river’s edge and Poole proceeded cautiously into the murky water. The pastor moved very deliberately, using a fallen tree for a handhold as he moved farther into the rushing stream. You could see the water pushing against his legs and I’ll give the guy this: going out into that river took some real cojones. I wouldn’t have wanted to attempt it, even with two good legs.

  Down at the end of the lane, I heard the approaching siren shut off and a few seconds later a white and gold Massanutten County Sheriff’s car pulled up behind the fire truck. The female deputy was tall—right around six feet—with black curly hair and a round, sweet face that belonged on one of Ash’s teddies. She paused to speak briefly with the firefighter on the riverbank and then she joined us.

  “Hi, folks. I’m Deputy Tina Barron. Can I get some information from you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who found him?” The deputy pulled a pen and notepad from her breast pocket.

  “That’d be me,” I replied.

  After I’d provided our names, address, and phone number, Barron asked, “So, Mr. Lyon, when did you first see the body?”

  “I don’t know—call it six-forty.”

  “Any idea of who he is?”

  Ash knew what I was thinking and squeezed my hand. “Well, I know it’s definitely not Bob.”

  Barron gave me a searching glance and I thought I saw a brief, suppressed smile. Then we turned our attention to Poole. The pastor now stood hip-deep in the cascading water and had gotten to within a few yards of the body. Gradually and carefully, he extended the metal pole toward the corpse and expertly slipped the large metal hook inside the back of the dead man’s jacket collar. Poole twisted the hook slightly and then began to pull the body free from the tree branches. A few seconds later, he was towing the corpse to shore.

  Barron helped Poole and the other firefighter drag the body up the riverbank and lay the dead man on our front lawn. Poole checked the guy for vitals, but it was a waste of effort.

  “No wallet or ID,” said Barron, checking the victim’s pockets.

  I could tell the dead man hadn’t been in the water for very long because his skin hadn’t yet begun to turn adipose—that is, looking waxy and fatty. He was a runty little white guy—maybe five-foot-five and 150 pounds soaking wet, which—come to think of it—he was. I estimated his age at about thirty-five years and saw that he’d tried to compensate for his diminutive physique by shaving his head and growing a fierce moustache and goatee combination. His clothing consisted of an orange University of Virginia tee-shirt, a leather jacket, a relatively new pair of jeans, and some battered Nikes.

  “Our Heavenly Lord, please bless this poor sinner that’s come home to you.” Poole’s head was tilted skyward and his eyelids were shut. “And, please, dear Jesus, guide your noble servant, Deputy Tina, that she might discover this man’s name so that his family won’t spend the rest of their days worrying over his fate. All this we ask thee with humble and loving hearts, amen.”

  There was a moment or two of silence and then Barron said, “Well, I guess I’ll call the coroner and get started on my accidental drowning report before he gets here. Would you folks mind if I used your kitchen table to write on?”

  I cleared my throat. “You know, Deputy, I’m not trying to tell you your job, but you might want to hold off on your accidental death report for a little while. In fact you probably should call out a detective.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because this guy has petechial hemorrhaging in both eyes. You see those little bloodstains on the whites of his eyes?”

  “Yeah, now that you mention it. What does that mean?”

  “It tells us he didn’t drown. The only way you get that sort of bloodstain is if the victim’s been strangled or suffocated.” I shifted my gaze to the dead man’s neck and pointed. “You see that faint red line?”

  “Right there?” There was a flicker of excitement in Barron’s voice.

&n
bsp; “Yeah. It’s a narrow ligature mark. Ten-to-one the autopsy will show his hyaline cartilage has been fractured—classic evidence of manual strangulation. You’ve got a murder victim here.”

  Chapter 2

  “You’re sure?” Barron asked.

  “Absolutely certain,” I replied.

  “You mind telling me how you know so much about people who’ve been strangled?”

  “Because he was one of the top homicide inspectors on the San Francisco Police force,” Ash said proudly.

  “The city of Satan, sin, sodomites . . .” Poole struggled to think of another alliterative bad thing to say about my old hometown.

  “Shameless strumpets?” I offered and pretended not to notice Ash’s eyes rolling upward.

  “Thank you, Brother Bradley.”

  Barron stood up. “So, what you’re saying is that somebody murdered this guy and then threw him in the river, hoping he’d drift downstream all the way to Chesapeake Bay while the water was high.”

  “That’s one scenario,” I replied. “Here’s another: The victim was killed and tossed into the river because the suspect hoped by the time the body was recovered it’d be in such bad shape that it would be easy to misidentify the cause of death.”

  “Any idea of how long he’s been dead?”

  “I’d just be guessing, but it probably happened sometime last night. His skin hasn’t begun to become adipose yet, which means he hasn’t been in the river all that long.” I lifted up the man’s arm by the sleeve of his leather jacket and then released the limb. It struck the ground with a squishy thump. “And it looks as if he’s already been in and out of rigor.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better call the sheriff,” Barron said dolefully.

  “Will you need us for anything else?” Poole began to remove the hip-waders. “Our shift is about over and I’ve got to get over to the church. Today is our monthly charity flea market and things just get out of control unless I’m there.”