The Mournful Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “You’re sure? What about the exhaust fumes?” Tina slowed the patrol car and pulled over to the side of the road.

  “I won’t be exposed to them for long and they can’t smell any worse than your backseat. Were any of your prisoners potty trained?”

  Tina stopped the car and pressed the dashboard button to open the trunk. We both got out of the car and went back to the open trunk. She shoved a cardboard box full of road flares and a first-aid kit in an olive-drab metal ammo box to the side to make room for me. Then she held my cane and the knapsack as I clumsily clambered into the trunk. Once inside, I curled my body into a fetal position. It wasn’t going to be very comfortable, but I figured I could tolerate it for a little while—not that I had any real choice in the matter.

  Tina handed me my cane and knapsack and looked down at me pityingly. “Boy, I’ll bet you wish you’d never gotten involved in this.”

  “Nope, I’m still having fun, but that could change dramatically if Trent finds me.”

  “Fun?”

  “Fun. If you’re lucky, that’s what police work is. There were days when I was having such a good time I should have been paying the city to be out there.” My voice grew momentarily somber. “Take if from me: Forced early retirement sucks big time. Now, please shut the trunk and let’s go before I get really maudlin.”

  Tina pushed the trunk lid closed and I heard her get back into the car. It’s a good thing I don’t suffer from claustrophobia, because the trunk was absolutely light-less and as cramped as the section of hell reserved for telemarketers. I felt the cruiser pull back onto the road and I rolled over onto my back and tried to relax. After a couple of minutes, the car came to a stop and then turned left. The cruiser sped up and I knew we were on U.S. Route 33 headed downhill.

  Maybe a minute or so later, Tina shouted, “We’re here!”

  The car slowed and made a left turn and I heard the crackle of gravel beneath me. Then came a more terrifying sound: My wireless telephone began to play the Rondo from Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, signaling that I had a new voice mail message—no doubt the call from Sergei to advise me that Trent had left the Sheriff’s Office. I banged my elbow against the wheel well as I rammed my hand into my pocket to get the phone. Fumbling with the device in the darkness, I managed to deactivate it just as Tina shut the engine off.

  Tina didn’t get out of the car and that meant the cruisers were probably parked with the drivers’ windows facing each other so that they could talk without getting out of their units. I lay there quietly and was a little astonished at how easy it was to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  Tina said, “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “What were you doing up in Thermopylae?” Trent’s voice was as hard as a streetwalker’s smile.

  “I had a ‘livestock in the road’ call earlier today, but I had to leave to go to a crash before I found the cattle. I went back up there to make sure we still didn’t have a problem.”

  “You heard that BOL?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know whose truck that is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “For you and your kids’ sake, you’d better be telling the truth. We know you were over at the gimp’s house last night.” I felt the car jiggle slightly and there was a moment’s worth of silence. When Trent resumed speaking, his voice was panicky and stuttering. “Now, now, I didn’t mean what you think by that.”

  It wasn’t difficult to figure out what happened. Tina had reacted to Trent menacing her children by pulling her pistol. My attitude on whether she should drop the hammer on the brutal sergeant was almost disturbingly equivocal. It isn’t that I countenance murder if committed by a cop, but if she killed him it would be nothing less than an act of self-defense. Furthermore, the world would be a better place without Trent in it. I waited to hear what would happen next. It seemed like a very long time, but it probably wasn’t much more than a couple of seconds.

  Finally Tina spoke and her voice was as cold as a Martian winter. “You threaten my kids again and they’ll be calling you ‘Sergeant Golf Course’ because that’s how many holes you’ll have in you. Understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Get out of here and stay out of my sight. Run home and tell your daddy you may have frightened that San Francisco cop away from investigating that man’s murder, but I don’t scare so easy. I’m going to find that truck and when I do you know I’ll connect it to that dead man. Now, git.”

  “You’re making a damn big mistake, Barron. My daddy will have your badge.”

  “Git, before I change my mind, you pathetic excuse for a man.”

  The engine of Trent’s patrol car roared to life and he shot from the parking lot as if hurled from an aircraft carrier fighter jet catapult. Once he was gone, Tina started her car and drove at a more sedate pace down into the Valley. I felt the cruiser turn onto Route 340 and, after a little while, make the right turn onto Coggins Spring Road. Then I heard gravel beneath me and the car stopped. Tina popped the trunk lid and came back to assist me from the compartment. I was home.

  Gripping her hand tightly, I said, “Tina, you’re a better person than I am. If he’d threatened my kids like that I’d have dropped him like a rabid dog.”

  “I still can’t believe I said it.”

  “It needed to be said, but let me offer you one piece of advice: Be prepared to back those words up with actions. Whether or not it turns out he’s good for the Thayer murder, Trent’s a vicious goon and it will drive him freaking nuts that you—a woman—showed him up. Someday he’s going to try to get even, and when it comes you’d better be prepared to kill him.”

  “Or shoot him so he’ll be able to sing soprano in the church choir.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  I guess Ash saw me climb from the trunk because she came out of the house on the run. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” I hugged Ash. “We got the truck hidden and Tina did something very brave. She offered herself up as a decoy to Holcombe to allow us to continue the investigation.”

  “How?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell right now and Tina has to get out of here.”

  Tina glanced at her watch. “Yeah. I’ve got just over two hours left on what’s undoubtedly my last shift as a sheriff ’s deputy and I’m going to spend that time leading those dirt-bags on the biggest wild goose chase Massanutten County’s ever seen.”

  Chapter 14

  Once Tina was gone, I took Ash’s hand and we headed toward the house. She said, “So, do I want to know why you were in the trunk?”

  “Tina told me she was developing a serious case of the creeps by me talking to my sock puppet and she finally insisted I ride back there.”

  “Right.” Ash held the door open for me and I was lovingly body-slammed by Kitch.

  “Gee, you don’t sound as if you believe that. Hi, boy.” I scratched Kitch behind his ears as I edged my way past him into the house.

  “Picked that up, huh? Did you being in the trunk have anything to do with why Sergei couldn’t get through to you on the phone to tell you about Trent leaving the station in his patrol car? He called here a little while ago.”

  “And you’ve been worried ever since. Sorry, love. There’s no cell service up in Thermopylae, so I didn’t get the call. And then, as we were coming down the mountain, Trent called Tina demanding an eighty-seven.” I used the California police radio code for a rendezvous. “Getting into the trunk was about our only option to avoid me being treated like a piñata.”

  “So, does all this mean you’re going out again?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Tina bought us a couple of hours of time by convincing Trent that he’d bullied you and me into submission, which means I have to go talk to Liz Ewell and her nurse this afternoon.” I looked at my watch and propped my cane in the corner near the door. “The problem is that it’s two-thirty now. I won�
��t be back in time for your meeting with Cleland.”

  “Honey, I’m capable of dealing with Lorraine by myself. Besides, she called and told me she was running late and that she’d be here closer to four.”

  “I don’t doubt for a second that you can handle her.” I lowered myself into a kitchen chair and Kitch sat on the floor beside me, resting a drool-drenched chin on my knee. “That’s not the point. It’s just that we’ve had such tough times over the past year, I was looking forward to seeing something nice happen to us two whole days in a row.”

  “Solving this murder is far more important than whether or not I sell the design rights on a teddy bear.”

  “True.”

  “And if you do, you’ll make something extremely nice happen. Holcombe will be out and Tina will be elected sheriff.”

  “Good point.”

  “But before you go, you’d better have some lunch.” She pulled the microwave oven door open and took out a Black Forest ham and Muenster cheese sandwich with some potato chips on a plate.

  Although I didn’t have any time to waste, Ash was right. I’m not exactly hypoglycemic, but I do need to eat on a regular basis or I get a little twitchy and I couldn’t afford to be anything but completely mentally focused during the interview. This was the only shot I was going to get to talk to Ewell and her nurse.

  Setting the plate before me, Ash asked, “Lemonade?”

  “God, that sounds good. Thanks for having this ready.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She brought two icy glasses of lemonade to the table and sat down beside me. As I wolfed down lunch, I brought her up to date on everything that had transpired since I’d stolen the Chevy. Meanwhile, Kitch lay sphinx-like on the floor looking as attentive as if he were guarding a flock of sheep—animals he’s seen once and that terrify him. He sat in slobbery anticipation of table scraps, a bad habit that I’ve encouraged, to Ash’s mild chagrin. A few months earlier, I’d waited until Ash was drinking something and soberly told her that I wanted to talk to her about how she’d spoiled the dog. The result was a classic Danny Thomas “spit take” with Ash spraying the beverage all over the kitchen counter. It was a funny moment, but also depressing, when I realized I was old enough to remember the Danny Thomas Show.

  Anyway, when I got to the part of the story about Trent threatening Tina’s kids, Ash became thin-lipped with anger and said, “That’s despicable. Do you think he actually meant it?”

  “Not that I’m trying to scare you, but there’s a good chance he did.”

  “He’d hurt a child?”

  “Yeah. Or Tina. Or for that matter, us. Try to look at it from Trent’s point of view.”

  “I can’t. I’m not a sociopath.”

  “But I’ve dealt with enough of them over the years to pretty much guess exactly what he’s thinking. If we solve this case, the very best he can expect to happen is that he’ll lose his power, a reasonably well-paying job for this area, the graft, and his macho-man uniform. The worst case scenario is a murder conviction, prison—”

  “Which is never a fun place for ex-cops.”

  “Or maybe he’s even looking at the death penalty, depending on whether he’s convicted of first degree murder with special circs, or whatever it is they call it here in Virginia.” I put the remaining third of the sandwich down, suddenly no longer hungry. I’d scared myself, but Kitch looked very encouraged. “The bottom line is that he has nothing to lose and with those wonderful chemicals percolating in his system there’s also the potential he could go postal.”

  Ash’s gaze drifted toward the window that looked out onto the driveway. “And we can’t exactly call the sheriff for protection. How about the State Police?”

  “Even if anyone believed us—which they wouldn’t because we don’t have enough evidence—the local office of the State Police wouldn’t do anything today.” I broke off a tiny portion of sandwich and slipped it to Kitch.

  “Why?” Ash watched me feed Kitch and gave me a look that said: How many times have we talked about you feeding the dog from the table?

  “For starters, it’s Sunday and they’d want to consult with State Police headquarters in Richmond before doing anything and nobody would be there and, even if they were, then the office pogues at HQ would need to run the entire thing past the governor.” I fed Kitch another piece of sandwich.

  “Don’t blame me when he drools on your leg at meal-time.”

  “Who? The governor?”

  “Bradley.”

  “We can’t waste table scraps. Dogs in China are starving.” I gave Kitch the remainder of the sandwich.

  “I give up. Now, explain to me why the governor would have to get involved?”

  “Because we’re talking about temporarily shutting down an entire county sheriff’s department for corruption. The political fallout could be huge. Nobody will do that until the bureaucrats are absolutely sure they’ve got their asses safely covered and you do that best by kicking the problem upstairs as far as possible.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “I think the closest office is over in Charlottesville and there’s a greater chance of O.J. finding the real killer on the golf course than we have of locating a FBI agent on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “What about the media?” There was a faint trace of annoyance in Ash’s voice. “Couldn’t we contact the Harrisonburg newspaper or, better yet, the papers in Richmond and Washington?”

  “Again, it’s Sunday. Dustin Hoffman and Robert Red-ford aren’t sitting in the Washington Post newsroom waiting for our hot tip. We’d get voice mail.”

  “So, we’re on our own.”

  “Basically. Tina’s got to watch out for herself and her kids.”

  “What are you going to do if Trent stops you on the way to or from the Ewell place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your gun is upstairs.”

  My gun was a Glock .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol. It was in our bedroom inside a zippered leather pouch, tucked away with my black nylon shoulder holster in the bottom of my sock drawer. The pouch also contained three magazines of seventeen bullets each—enough ammunition to ignite a respectable skirmish. During my years at SFPD, I’d shot expert, but it had been over a year since I’d had the pistol in my hand. Besides, the mere possession of a gun didn’t mean I was any safer. It’d been in my hand when I was shot and crippled.

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about that, but nothing good can come of it.” I swiveled my lemonade glass on the tabletop and studied the wet marks it made. “If he shoots me, he can always claim it was because I pulled my gun on him. If I shoot him, I get arrested for smoking a cop and afterwards very conveniently commit suicide in jail. Better I should go unarmed and hope that if Trent stops me there are witnesses around.”

  “I can’t believe this. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen here where I grew up. And what are you going to do if you get in to see Liz Ewell and she turns around and calls the sheriff?”

  “There’s a chance of that, but we’ve still got to roll the dice, honey. She hasn’t called the sheriff yet, which might mean she doesn’t trust Holcombe herself.” I took her hand. “It’s going to be all right. I promise you.”

  Ash forced a smile. “If you say so.”

  “I do. Now, it’s time I got going. Here’s a question: How exactly do I get to the Ewell House?”

  “Just cross the river on Coggins Spring Road and turn right on Kilday Road. Believe me, you’ll recognize the Ewell place when you see it.”

  “It’s that distinctive?”

  “It makes the Winchester House look cheerful.”

  “Boy, I can hardly wait.”

  The Winchester House is a huge, gloomy, and very peculiar Victorian mansion operated as a tourist attraction in San Jose. We’d taken the kids there back in the late eighties because they’d seen the famous “haunted” house on some TV show and it was a short trip down the Junipero Serra Freeway. I don’t know if any ghosts actually li
ve there, but I can tell you that the rambling old house was as depressing as a child’s wheelchair.

  Before heading out again, I used the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I eyed the sock drawer for a moment and then stumped downstairs. Grabbing the knapsack and my cane, I headed for the door where Ash was waiting for me.

  She gave me a hug and a kiss. “I love you. Please, be careful.”

  “I will. I love you too.”

  It was an old ritualistic exchange and I think we both tried to overlook what had happened the last time we’d spoken those words before I left the house.

  I drove to Coggins Spring Road, turned left and crossed the river. Arriving at Kilday Road, I turned right. The lane was fenced on both sides and lined with cedar trees. I saw a driveway up ahead on the right and slowed down in anticipation of turning, but when I got closer I saw the name “Wm. Pouncey” on the black plastic mailbox. There was also a wooden sign affixed to the wooden gate that read, HEADQUARTERS, MASSANUTTEN RANGERS, csa. Somewhere out there on the farm, Ash’s brother and the rest of the Confederate reenactors were camped.

  A little later, I came to the edge of the Ewell estate and was immediately reminded of a California landmark: Folsom State Prison. A grimly imposing seven-foot-tall wall of large hand-hewn granite blocks surrounded the property and the only things missing were guard towers. I turned right into the driveway and came to a halt before a tracked steel gate. There was a callbox in a stone pillar by the side of the driveway and I pressed the button.

  After a moment, a woman’s voice, distorted by static, answered, “Who is it?”

  “My name is Bradley Lyon and I need to see Ms. Ewell. She doesn’t know me, but it’s important we talk.”

  “Miss Ewell is not seeing visitors.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’ll see me. Tell her I want to talk to her about Robert Thayer and the disappearance of the Mourning Bear.”

  There was a long interval of silence and then the speaker said, “Drive up to the house.”

  Chapter 15

  After the gate rumbled open, I drove inside the estate. The vast rolling yard reminded me of a memorial park, only much less cheerful. There were severely cut hedges forming a low barricade around the house, clusters of tall bluish-tinted evergreens, a lush lawn with mower tracks so straight it looked as if a surveying team had marked out the paths, and not a single flower in sight.