The Clockwork Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  Whoever had rented the grim little room was traveling light. There was nothing in the tiny closet, and the only toiletries visible on the bathroom sink were a toothbrush and a travel-sized tube of Colgate toothpaste. A glance at the unmade bed, strewn with prepackaged food, told me the room’s occupant must have been having dinner when things went south. There was a half-full plastic container of sushi on the nightstand along with an open bottle of that rascal of the vineyard, Boone’s Farm Blackberry Ridge wine.

  Next, I quickly scanned the room and counted the bullet holes. There were three in the far wall, two in the wall where the door was located, one in the ceiling, and another two in the victim. That made eight, which was a lot of ammo expended in a room that wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet.

  Gregg, Aafedt, and Garza were huddled in quiet conversation as the ME completed his preliminary inspection of the corpse.

  I waved to signal I had news and the three cops came out. I asked, “Have any witnesses said anything about a woman having a screaming fit outside this door about ten minutes before the One-Eighty-Seven went down?”

  “First we’ve heard about that,” said Gregg.

  I recounted how I’d met Kim and quickly outlined what she’d told me.

  When I finished, Aafedt said, “I’ll get a tech started on processing the door. With any luck we’ll get both latent prints and biological evidence from the tears.”

  As Aafedt left, Garza glanced back at the corpse. “She said she was going to make him ‘pay in blood’? That’s a pretty definite statement of intent. So is our victim a philandering husband?”

  “I’m assuming you still haven’t IDed him yet,” I said.

  Gregg shook his head. “No. He didn’t have a wallet and nobody recognized him, so it looks like we’re going to have to submit his fingerprints for analysis.”

  “Which could take hours. I’m suddenly concerned our victim might be the son of a teddy bear artist that Ash and I know,” I said.

  Garza gave me a sharp look. “Why would you think that?”

  I pointed toward the Chevy. “There’s a bear costume inside that car. It’s the same one a guy wore during a Two-Eleven I witnessed at a teddy bear show in Sonoma earlier today.”

  Garza watched my face and waited for the punch line, but when it didn’t come, she said, “A robber dressed as Winnie the Pooh. You’re kidding.”

  “Nope, and I’ve got a bruise on my butt to prove it happened—not that I think you want to see it. The suspect flat ran over me.”

  “But how does this relate to our murder?”

  “I believe the thug in the costume was connected with Merv the Perv Bronsey, who was also there.”

  Garza reacted as if she’d just caught a faint whiff of raw sewage. “I couldn’t believe the state gave Bronsey a PI license.”

  “And apparently, now Merv has a client with very deep pockets. Lycaon Software.” I went on to describe the robbery, how Bronsey had threatened Lauren Vandenbosch, and the tale she told afterwards.

  “And you think our vic might be Kyle Vandenbosch?” asked Gregg.

  “I hope not, but maybe Kyle wasn’t telling his mom the truth about how he left his job. What if he actually stole that robotic bear from Lycaon?”

  Six

  “It’s an interesting theory, but aren’t you jumping to some major conclusions?” said Garza. “For starters, how do you know that Lycaon even made that thing?”

  “I don’t. But Lycaon—a Silicon Valley powerhouse—hired Bronsey to recover something, and that teddy bear robot represents cutting-edge computer technology. It can talk and looks like it’s designed to walk,” I said.

  “It talks?” Garza lifted an eyebrow.

  “Whether it’s clever programming or genuine artificial intelligence, Patrick talks.”

  “Patrick?” Gregg gave me a quizzical look.

  “Patrick the Polar Bear. He told me his name.”

  “O . . . kaaay,” said Garza, who was obviously a little creeped out that I’d been chatting with a teddy bear.

  “But why would Bronsey or whoever it was kill this Kyle to recover the bear?” Gregg sounded doubtful.

  “Toys are a multibillion-dollar industry. What if Lycaon developed a teddy bear that could walk and talk? What if it could actually play with a child and maybe also double as an electronic watchdog? You think it might be worth a few shekels?” I asked.

  Gregg’s eyes widened. “It could be Tickle Me Elmo squared.”

  “Give that man a cigar.”

  “Let’s get a photo of Kyle Vandenbosch to compare against our dead guy.” Gregg turned to an evidence tech. “Get on the computer in your van and print me a copy of his driver’s license photo.”

  As the tech left, Garza said, “In the meantime, we found car keys on the victim. We might as well find out if they go with the Chevy.”

  Gregg took a small manila evidence envelope from his pocket and removed a key ring. He unlocked the car with the first key he tried.

  “So, the car is definitely connected to our dead guy,” said Garza.

  “I think we’d better run this guy Vandenbosch for warrants,” said Gregg. He spoke into the radio and a moment later emitted a low whistle.

  “Ten-Thirty-Seven-Frank?” I asked, using the radio code for a felony arrest warrant.

  “Yep,” replied Gregg. “Santa Clara SO has charged him with multiple counts of grand theft, computer fraud, and felony vandalism. His bail is one million dollars.”

  “Man, that seems like a pretty high bail for nothing more than hibernating,” I said, keeping a poker face.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Garza.

  “If Patrick belongs to Lycaon, the only thing Kyle’s really done is . . . bear-napping.”

  “Drop the pun or I’ll shoot,” said Gregg.

  “Both of you are brain-damaged.” Garza reached up to massage her left shoulder. “So, how did the robo-bear end up out in the parking lot?”

  I was about to apologize for bruin-ing Garza’s night, but decided against it. Instead, I said, “Because whoever ran from Room Four dropped the bear when they tripped and fell. I found a small amount of blood and blue fibers on the pavement near the Chevy. Your tech collected the evidence.”

  “But why didn’t the shooter pick up the bear afterwards?” Garza asked.

  “He or she may not have even seen that it was dropped. You know what it’s like when you’re in a firefight. You develop tunnel vision.”

  “Yeah, and they were probably running for their life, and in a hurry to get the hell out of here,” said Garza.

  A man called out “Inspector Mauel!” and I turned and saw my daughter Heather and her partner Colin Sinclair striding toward us across the motel parking lot. It was obvious they had news.

  Gregg asked, “What’s up?”

  “We got some pretty interesting info at the liquor store down the block.” Colin pointed eastward.

  “The Jolly Jug. They’ve been Two-Elevened twice in the past four months,” said Gregg.

  “Yeah, and the owner just installed a security TV camera that covers the parking lot. That’s how the clerk could see there was an occupied car backed into a parking space near the rear of the lot.”

  Heather took up the narrative. “The clerk thought they were scoping the store out in advance of robbing it. Then he heard gunfire coming from this direction.”

  “A few seconds after that, someone ran up to the car and got into the front passenger seat. Then it took off like a bat out of hell.” Colin pulled out his notebook. “The vehicle is an oh-seven Dodge Avenger with Cal plates of seven-ocean-charles-ocean-zero-two-six.”

  “The clerk saw all that over a tiny TV monitor?” Gregg didn’t try to hide his skepticism. Like me, he knew that witnesses were often notoriously inaccurate.

  Colin grinned. “No, we did. The camera is hooked to a digital recorder and we replayed it. One of the store’s overhead lights lit up the front plate enough to read it. The Avenger i
s registered to a Burgess Fleet Leasing out of San Jose.”

  “Which probably means they lease cars to companies all over the Bay Area,” said Gregg. “Any chance we can make an ID on the person in the video?”

  “I’m no expert, but I don’t think so,” said Heather. “It’s shot from a funny angle and takes place so fast that you can’t even really tell whether it’s a man or a woman. It’s just someone in dark clothes.”

  “Did you notice anything else from the video?”

  “We think the vehicle is black in color. But it’s a black-and-white video, so it just shows up as dark,” Colin replied.

  Heather added, “The clerk got a quick look at it out the window and he was pretty certain it was black.”

  “But he didn’t get a look at the occupants?” asked Gregg.

  “No, the only thing we can tell is there were a minimum of two people in the vehicle,” said Colin.

  “The clerk said the Avenger took off eastbound on Lombard Street—not that that means anything as far as where they were going. With this traffic, it would have been all but impossible to make a left turn out of the lot,” said Heather.

  Gregg glanced at the gridlocked highway and nodded slightly. “So, this probably isn’t the dark-colored sedan that someone reported fleeing southbound on Pierce.”

  “We need that digital recording,” said Garza.

  “We already seized the recording machine and monitor and gave it to one of the techs.” Colin pointed toward one of the white CSI vans outside the crime scene tape barrier.

  “Good work,” said Gregg.

  “Thanks. We’ll get back to our witness canvass,” said Heather, giving me a look that said she’d see Ash and me tomorrow.

  As the vice cops departed, the evidence tech returned from the van and handed Gregg a sheet of white paper. “Here’s Vandenbosch’s DL photo.”

  Gregg held the sheet so that Garza and I could look at it, too. It was obvious to all of us that the man pictured in the photo looked nothing like the murder victim. Still, we’d double-check to make sure we were right. The ME was packing up as we came back into Room Four. Gregg held the photograph, close to the dead man’s face and the ME agreed with us. The victim wasn’t Kyle Vandenbosch.

  “Any preliminary findings?” Gregg asked the ME.

  The ME pushed his glasses up. “I think there’s a strong possibility he was shot with two different guns. Neither of the projectiles that hit him was through-and-through, so we’ll know for certain after the postmortem.”

  “I thought the entry wound in the head looked smaller than the one in his back. Which one was the primary killing wound?”

  “If you’re asking me to speculate,” the ME said in a voice that suggested he didn’t like the idea of being rushed to any sort of judgment, “it was the head shot. I don’t think the round he took to the back hit anything that would have killed him immediately. And the gun was fired at fairly close proximity to the victim. There are powder burns in the T-shirt fabric.”

  “Any guess as to the caliber of the round used for the coup de grace?”

  “Unofficially, a twenty-two.”

  “The gun preferred by professional assassins,” I said, without thinking. “It isn’t very noisy, the bullet bounces around inside the head, and often the projectile is so damaged and splintered that you can’t match it to a gun.”

  The ME gave me a quizzical look. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  “Brad Lyon. I’m the department’s teddy bear expert.”

  “Oh, the suspected bomb. Teddy bears . . . that’s an interesting field of specialization.” The ME made interesting sound exactly like pathetic. He gave me a feeble, chilly smile and turned to Gregg. “The post is tomorrow morning. I’ll call you when I know the time.”

  Once the ME was gone, Garza said, “Since this isn’t Kyle Vandenbosch, we need a different theory as to what happened here.”

  “Not necessarily. That bear costume is pretty strong evidence linking the robbery in Sonoma with our murder.” Hooking a thumb at the victim, I said, “The costume was in his car, so there’s a good chance he could’ve been the one wearing it at the teddy bear show.”

  “Even it that’s true, that doesn’t mean Bronsey was here,” Garza reminded.

  “Or Vandenbosch,” I admitted. “Still, I think it would be a good idea to talk to Vandenbosch’s mother, tonight.”

  “You think she was lying earlier when she told Bronsey that she didn’t know where Kyle was?” Gregg asked.

  “There’s no way of telling. But I think it’s safe to assume that if Kyle was here, he would have called his mom to warn her that a gunfight had just gone down in his room and . . .” A sudden and ugly thought occurred to me and I slapped my forehead. “Oh, Lord, I am so stupid for not thinking of this sooner.”

  “What?”

  “What if our shooter went to Lauren’s house?”

  Gregg snatched his portable radio from his pocket. “I’ll run her driver’s license and get her residence address.”

  “If it’s in the city, have dispatch expedite a unit to check her welfare,” Garza said.

  Gregg nodded as he began talking into the radio.

  “And if she’s all right, I really think I should help whoever’s going to question Lauren,” I said. “Otherwise, I don’t think there’ll be an interview.”

  “How do mean?”

  “She’ll tell you to pound sand and not say a word. However, things might work out a little better if I’m there. I’m not a stranger, and if I really worked the limp, Lauren might even feel a slight sense of obligation, considering I got knocked on my butt this morning trying to rescue her cashbox.”

  “God, you are a manipulative SOB,” Garza said admiringly.

  I waved my hand dismissively at the compliment. “Furthermore, I know all the questions to ask Lauren and I’m plugged into the teddy bear industry. Most importantly, I might be able to convince her that the smartest thing Kyle can do is turn himself in. That way, you can interview him and find out what happened here.”

  Gregg looked up from the radio. “She lives in the Sunset District and we’ve got a patrol car en route. You want me to grab Danny and head south?”

  “No, I’ll stay and finish processing the scene with Detective Aafedt,” said Garza. “You take Rasputin here and interview Ms. Vandenbosch.”

  Seven

  As I limped across the parking lot, I suggested to Gregg that he could reduce our response time if he got the car and picked me up. A couple of minutes later, we were driving east.

  “I’m going to call dispatch and have them run a DMV check of vehicles registered to Bronsey,” I said as Gregg swerved to avoid a city bus that had just pulled away from the curb.

  “Good idea. So, tell me, are you having a good time?”

  Before I could answer, the Impala went airborne for a split second and then bounced off the pavement as it rocketed over a dip at an intersection. Afterwards, I said, “Gregg, make sure you enjoy this now, because you’re going to miss the hell out of it when you’ve pulled the pin.”

  I radioed in the information request and a half minute later the dispatcher told me that Bronsey had only one vehicle currently registered in his name. It was a 2004 GMC Sierra 1500 pickup truck, the sort of big vehicle that the farmers back home drove. It had California personalized plates of SYDWYNDR, and an unpaid parking citation on file told us the truck was white in color.

  Gregg laughed scornfully when I passed along the information about the truck. “ ‘Sidewinder’? Why do the losers always have macho personalized plates?”

  “Actually, his isn’t that far off the mark. Bronsey is a rattlesnake.”

  “That’s true. The huge pickup truck is priceless, too. How do you work an undercover op in a vehicle like that?”

  “Hey, nobody ever noticed Magnum in that red Ferrari.”

  Gregg turned right onto Fell Street and we headed westward. The road took us through the southwest corner of Golden Gat
e Park and past Kezar Stadium, the old home of football’s San Francisco 49ers. Off to the left and in the distance I could see Mount Sutro with its enormous television-broadcasting tower silhouetted against a night sky that was now almost pearly from the coastal clouds.

  An SFPD police cruiser was double-parked on Lauren Vandenbosch’s street in front of what I assumed was her house. The patrol cops were standing by the black-and-white and they came over to meet us as we got out of the car. Their names were Hong and Siliotti and they weren’t happy campers.

  “Everything Code Four?” Gregg asked the cops.

  Hong made a sound of disgust as he motioned toward a two-storied townhouse. “We got the call and blasted over here. We knock on the door, telling her we’re there to check on her safety and she won’t let us in.”

  “She’s all frantic and we figure the guy is in the house holding her against her will, so we Eight-Forty-Foured the door,” said Siliotti, using a California cop argot term to describe kicking a door open. “The door frame got all messed up.”

  Hong hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. “Good news: no bad guy. Bad news: she went ballistic, screaming about how she’s not going to take any more police harassment.”

  “And then she throws us out, yelling that she’s going to file a complaint against us for trespassing and vandalism,” Siliotti said morosely.

  “You did the right thing. If she actually files a complaint, tell the IA investigator to talk to me,” said Gregg. “You guys can go Ten-Eight.”

  “Thanks, Inspector,” said Hong as the cops returned to the patrol car and took off.

  I sighed. “I’d have kicked that door in, too, but it’s going to make it that much more tough to get Lauren to talk to us.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t think she’ll be any friendlier if she sees you wearing this.” Gregg reached over to pluck his police department ID card from my jacket pocket.

  “So, how do you want to work the interview?”

  “Considering I don’t know anything about teddy bears and you’re familiar with the woman, I’ll let you run with the ball.”

  “Great, but you do realize the DA’s office is going to have a meltdown when they read your report and find out you let a civilian play such a pivotal role in a murder investigation?”