The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “Does Hokie know what you’re up to?”

  “Not so far, I hope. But it’s only a matter of time until somebody tells him.”

  “He won’t hear it from us,” said Abigail, and Claire nodded in vigorous assent.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Henshaw.”

  “So, what brought you here?”

  I jerked my head in the direction of the river. “The truck is still down there. We’re pretty sure the killer drove it there and threw Thayer’s body into the river. Which reminds me of another question.” I looked up at Claire. “Was another vehicle following Thayer’s truck?”

  “No, that was the only one I saw.”

  “Then whoever it was walked out—probably right past the barn. Did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No.”

  “Can I ask you guys one more question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you hear any gunfire near here that night? On your property or anywhere in the vicinity?”

  Abigail shook her head but Claire said, “I think I may have heard a couple shots fired sometime around ten.”

  “Really? Could you tell whether it sounded like a rifle or a shotgun or—”

  “It was a pistol, a nine-millimeter. I know because I’ve got one—a Ruger. The nine’s got a real distinctive sound. You know, pop.”

  I nodded. “And what direction did it come from?”

  Claire pointed south. “Over toward the Island Ford Bridge.”

  “Well, I guess we’d better head up there and take a look just to make sure there isn’t any evidence.” I pushed myself to my feet and tried to pretend I didn’t need the cane. I don’t think I convinced anybody. “Can you do me a couple of big favors?”

  “What’s that?” said Abigail.

  “Deputy Barron is helping us and I’ve already called to tell her about the truck. She’s going to be here soon to process it for fingerprints. Would you mind stopping production for awhile and stow the armaments while she’s here?”

  “I think we can accommodate you on that. What’s the other favor?”

  “Set aside a quart of that corn-based jet fuel for me. I have a feeling that by the time we’re finished, I’m going to need a serious drink.”

  Chapter 11

  We walked back along the dirt road toward the river. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked and far overhead I heard the rumble of a jetliner heading south. It was appreciably warmer and muggy now and my shirt began to stick to my back. Plump black flies the size of blueberries zigzagged lazily through the air while a cloud of gnats danced and hovered around my eyes. The dying cornfield no longer seemed spooky—just forsaken and sad.

  I reached out to take Ash’s hand. “Hey, you handled yourself like a pro back there. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks for saying that, but I was scared to death.”

  “Me too.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Believe it. I’ve just had a little more experience camouflaging my terror.”

  “My mind was just racing and, afterwards, my hands were trembling like I had a bad chill,” Ash said musingly.

  “Adrenaline palsy. Welcome to the wonderful word of police work.” I squeezed her hand and then released it. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I can’t hold hands with you and use this damn cane. It’s just too awkward.”

  “No need to apologize, I know.”

  “I never thought in advance how much it would change everything.” I dug my sunglasses out of my shirt pocket and put them on. “When you’re young and stupid, you think it’s going to be like Tom Selleck in Magnum P.I.—you get a ‘flesh wound,’ wear a white sling for the final minute of the show, and next week you’re ready to duke it out with the bad guys again. Sometimes it’s hard to believe this is forever and I can’t even take a walk and hold hands with my wife without it hurting.”

  “But I don’t know of any other man—handicapped or otherwise—that could have handled that situation so well, and I’m not just saying that.”

  “Thanks, my love.”

  “How are we doing for time?” Ash asked, swiping at a fly.

  “Fine, I think. It’s just a little after ten-thirty now.”

  “And why are we going up to Island Ford?”

  “Maybe it’s a fool’s errand, but I’d feel better if we took a look. We’ve got evidence that two pistol rounds were fired at the truck, but it didn’t happen here, and then Claire tells us she heard a couple of gunshots from the Island Ford Bridge. It’s a long shot but it may be connected.”

  “And the Island Ford Bridge is where Sheriff Holcombe said that an anonymous witness saw Thayer jump into the river.”

  “Yeah and I’m beginning to wonder if Holcombe mentioned the bridge because he’s concerned about a real witness that saw Thayer’s truck on the bridge,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “What if the sequence of events began on the bridge? We know it didn’t start here. Thayer was already dead or incapacitated because he arrived here in the back of the truck.”

  We emerged from the cornfield and I stopped talking to negotiate the descent to the riverbank. From the cautious way I moved, you’d have thought I was descending the narrow trail that leads to the bottom of the Grand Canyon instead of a fifteen-foot-tall and mildly sloped muddy embankment. I got down without falling and limped toward the Chevy. The crime scene was as we’d left it.

  Ash said, “So, you think Thayer may have met the killer on the bridge and that some genuine witness may have seen his truck there.”

  “From what I’ve seen, Island Ford Road is pretty well traveled, so someone may have driven by. Maybe the driver of the car didn’t notice anything—most people don’t.”

  “But Holcombe couldn’t depend on that, could he?”

  “No, he’s too careful.” While looking over the truck to see if we’d missed anything during the first inspection, I continued, “He would’ve wanted an iron-clad excuse for why Thayer’s truck was there, just in case someone remembered. So, he invented the convenient anonymous witness that can never be identified or called upon to testify in court.”

  Ash took a moment to digest the information. “So, are we back to the sheriff and Trent being the probable suspects?”

  “Possibly. Or try this one on: Poole, Trent, and Hokie—that nickname is so appropriate and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it—are in it together.”

  Ash sighed. “I guess that’s possible too.”

  I took the backpack off and opened it. “You know, before we head upriver, I think we should take some crime-scene photographs of the truck and shoe impressions.”

  “Whatever you think best, baby doll.”

  “Let’s give Tina a call first.” I took the phone out and pressed her number.

  Tina picked up after two rings and said, “Sorry, Brad, I’m still here at the crash.”

  “That’s okay. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Maybe a minute.”

  “I want to bring you up to speed on what we’ve learned. We are on the Henshaw farm and we’ve made contact with Abigail and Claire. I take it you know them?”

  “Slightly. I thought they were friends of Sheriff Holcombe, so I never had much to do with them,” Tina said stiffly.

  “They aren’t friends, just clandestine business partners. The Henshaws make moonshine and Holcombe collects three hundred dollars a month from them in protection money. Sweet, huh?”

  “Jesus, you’re—hang on.” The voice grew more remote as she talked to someone at the crash scene. “Yes, he’s going to Rockingham Memorial Hospital and she’s going to UVA Medical Center by chopper.” Then she spoke to me again, “How did you find all this out?”

  “It’s way too complicated to explain right now but don’t worry, the Henshaws have promised that the still and the guns will all be put away by the time you get here.”

  “And I’m supposed to be reassured by that?”

  “Don’t worry. They know th
e score and they’re on our side.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Item of interest number two: Claire told us that she saw the truck around zero-one-hundred hours on Saturday morning. It drove past the barn and she assumed that Thayer was entertaining a woman by the river.”

  “Classy.”

  “What? Like you’ve never made out in a car?”

  “If I have, it’s none of your business!”

  Ash sputtered, “Brad!”

  “Sorry, Tina. As my wife can tell you, sometimes I’m a smart-ass.”

  Both women said simultaneously, “Sometimes?”

  “Yeah, but I’m only that way with people I like. Now, getting back to business, did I tell you that the truck has a couple of bullet marks in the windshield?”

  “No. I guess with you being so focused on my personal life, you kind of forgot to mention that.”

  “Well, it does. The rounds didn’t penetrate and from the position of the truck we’re certain the rounds weren’t fired down here. Anyway, Claire told us that she heard a couple of gunshots on Friday night, sometime around twenty-two-hundred hours. And, she’s almost certain it was a nine-mil being fired.”

  “And a nine wouldn’t go through a windshield.”

  “Exactly. And just to satisfy my curiosity, does the sheriff ’s department issue a standard handgun to deputies?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I think there’s a good possibility the shots were fired by either Holcombe or Trent.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. Yes, we all carry Smith and Wesson nine-millimeters.”

  “And was Trent working Friday night?”

  “His shift started at four.”

  “Getting back to the guns, do you guys have standardized ammo too?”

  “Uh-huh. Winchester one-hundred-and-fifteen grain semijacketed hollow-points. Could Claire tell where the shots came from?”

  “Yeah, and I know you’ll be shocked to hear this, but she’s certain they came from the direction of the Island Ford Bridge. So, after we get done taking some photos here we’re going up there and scout around.”

  “Want me to meet you there?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be seen together yet. When you clear the crash, head over to the Henshaw farm and hang loose until we get back. We’ll process the truck for prints together.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you in a little bit,” she replied and we disconnected from the call.

  “I can’t believe you actually said that to her.” Ash did her best to sound stern but there was amusement in her voice.

  “Of course, you can. I’ve always been a smart-ass and it’s too late in the game to change now. Besides, it’s one of the things you love most about me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I put the phone away and got the digital camera out. “Well, let’s get started with the photos.”

  “I downloaded the pictures we took yesterday and deleted them from the camera, so we should have plenty of space on the memory card.”

  “Thanks, honey.” I scanned the scene and walked back over to the base of the embankment. “First we start with the orientation pictures: the truck, the river, the cornfield, and the road leading out. After that, we’ll do the close-up shots.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes I shot twenty-two orientation pictures and drained two AA batteries. Now the hard work would begin of capturing more detailed images of the boot impressions and drag marks in the mud. Barring the recovery of latent and classifiable fingerprints from the Chevy, the shoe prints were the most valuable evidence here because they might eventually be linked to the suspect’s boots. However, I needed something to set the scale for the size of the tracks and I hadn’t thought to bring a ruler. Reaching into the knapsack, I removed the notebook and placed it on the ground next to one of the patterns in the mud.

  Ash leaned closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Using the notebook as a scale. It’s a standard-sized steno pad—nine-by-six—and we’ll keep this one as evidence. It isn’t perfect, but the notebook shows approximately how big the boot prints are.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be, sweetheart. This is about as amateurish as it gets. A defense attorney would begin filing his teeth in anticipation of a deliciously bloody cross-examination if these were offered as the official crime-scene photos.”

  I took another thirty-seven pictures of the marks in the dirt and used up four more AA batteries. After that, I took some close-up images of the bullet gouges in the windshield, several of the cab’s interior through the truck windows, and then a couple of the empty storage bed. I was expending our supply of batteries more quickly than I’d expected. I briefly toyed with the idea of submitting an itemized bill to the Massanutten County Sheriff ’s Department requesting reimbursement, but knew that the only version of a battery I’d receive from Holcombe would be preceded by and combined with assault. Anyway, by the time I finished, there were only four fresh batteries left and I didn’t want to use them in the event we found something worth photographing at the Island Ford Bridge.

  “Okay, I think we’re finished here. Let’s head upriver,” I said.

  “What time is it, honey?” Ash looked slightly worried.

  “Eleven-twenty. We’ll be home in time, I promise.”

  We again churned southward on the Shenandoah. Before, we’d had the river to ourselves, but now we occasionally saw fisherman standing on the bank or in the shallows trying to hook a contaminated trout. Most of the anglers smiled at us and waved, but one guy scowled because our boat motor scared the fish away. This was an uncharitable reaction since we actually did the guy a favor. Nobody with a functioning brain would eat one of those fish. If the folks from the Virginia Department of Environmental Quality are correct, the trout have enough mercury in them to be used as thermometers.

  A little while later, we spooked a flock of about a hundred red-winged blackbirds. They rose from the undergrowth on the west bank in a mass of fluttering wings and squeaky discordant cries. I don’t know what sort of bird’s call Paul McCartney used in his old song “Blackbird” from the Beatles’ White Album, but it sure wasn’t any blackbird from around here. The only sound less lyrical than a flight of startled red-winged blackbirds is that of a food processor chopping raw carrots.

  A couple of miles to the west we could see the summit of Massanutten Mountain, while to the east were rolling hills carpeted with emerald green alfalfa. At last, the stark rectangular concrete form of the Island Ford Bridge appeared from around a bend. It was maybe three hundred feet long, supported by twelve tall round concrete pillars, and the roadway was about twenty feet above the river. Envision a two-lane expressway overpass and you have the general idea.

  “So, this is where we’re supposed to believe that Thayer took his suicide plunge.”

  Ash measured the distance with her eyes and said, “You’d run a bigger risk of spraining an ankle in the shallow water than killing yourself.”

  Ash steered the boat under the bridge and beached it on the other side at a vacant public access lot on the eastern bank. We began our hunt there because the site was lonely, isolated, and at nighttime, probably darker than the prospects I’ll be cast in Gene Kelly’s old role if they ever remake Singin’ in the Rain. In short, it was an ideal spot to commit a violent crime without being seen. The half-acre clearing was a mixture of gravel, rutted mud, and tufts of grass, bordered on one side by the river and on the other by a wall of tall sycamores and oaks.

  I was also annoyed to discover that big corporations weren’t the only ones desecrating the river. The ground was littered with an assortment of beer and soda cans, broken glass, fast-food packaging, candy wrappers, and cigarette butts. I shifted some of the rubbish with my cane, scanning the ground while trying to keep an eye on the traffic that intermittently crossed the bridge. Although neither man was on duty, I was on the lookout for Holcombe or Trent—even though I did
n’t have the faintest idea of what we’d do if they appeared. Running, at least for me, wasn’t an option.

  The atmosphere was depressing and I made a feeble attempt to lighten it. “Hey, I didn’t know they still made Abba-Zabba bars. But what’s with all the Yukon Jack bottles?”

  “This is absolutely disgusting and the worst part is that I know this wasn’t just caused by tourists,” said Ash as she nudged a half-crushed Pepsi can with her foot. “Why do people do this?”

  “You can thank Holcombe. Folks don’t obey the little laws if they see the big ones routinely violated, especially by the cops.”

  “Well, the first chance we get, we’re coming back here with some work gloves and big trash bags.”

  That’s one of the things I admire about Ash. She’s short on noisy outrage and long on action, unlike me. I’m the same as most people. I don’t like litter and will noisily complain about it, but it would never occur to me to pick the trash up myself. And, if it did and I actually got up off my butt to do something, I’m honest enough to admit that I’d want everyone to know what a noble fellow I was. Ash isn’t like that. She simply does the right thing quietly.

  We searched the river access lot for another ten minutes, but there was nothing of obvious evidentiary value, so we walked up the lane to Island Ford Road. There were wide gravel shoulders on both sides of the road just before it transitioned into bridge. Ash crossed the highway to check the north side while I began to search the south. Other than more trash, we came up dry again. That left the bridge itself and its western approach.

  The ibuprofen hadn’t done much to diminish the pain in my leg, so I wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of the hike. Still, I knew we had to go. Remaining on opposite sides of the road we started across the bridge. There weren’t any sidewalks, so we carefully walked along the narrow spaces between roadway and guardrail, checking the cement pavement as we went. In fact, I was paying such close attention to the ground that I failed to notice the approach of an eighteen-wheeler as it careened across the bridge on my side of the road. There was the sudden roar of a diesel engine and I clutched the guardrail as I was buffeted by the wind from the passing truck.