The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “I’ve found a few. The rangers up in the national park have found others,” said Randy.

  “Oh, that’s just vile,” said Ash as Tina nodded in agreement.

  “It’s easy to blame Chet, but he wouldn’t be out here if there weren’t customers,” said Randy.

  “That’s the same excuse dope dealers use,” I sighed, then motioned toward the line of pine trees. “I don’t know a thing about archery. How difficult a shot would it have been to hit Everett from there?”

  “That’s almost point-blank range for an experienced bow hunter,” Randy replied. “And here’s something else to consider: It’s dark, so you can’t see it from here, but a hill begins just beyond those trees . . . the same hill where I saw Chet jump into his truck.”

  Tina peered at the trees. “You think that’s where Mr. Lincoln was hiding?”

  “It looks as if Rawlins was facing in that direction when the arrow hit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. For all we know, he might have managed a couple of steps before he fell,” I said.

  “But if Mr. Lincoln was lying in wait there, that shows premeditation—” began Tina.

  “Which would turn a ‘hunting accident’ into first-degree murder,” Ash finished. Hanging her head a little, she continued in a chastened voice, “I’m beginning to think maybe I was wrong about the Saab being involved.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Honey, it’s way too early to rule anything out, especially since we have no proof that Chet has any skill with a bow and arrow.”

  Tina’s portable radio squawked, and she pulled it from her belt to listen to the message. She acknowledged the call and then turned to us. “The animal control guy is here. You want to get started with the crime scene photographs while Randy and I help corral Longstreet?”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Be careful,” Ash added.

  Ash opened a black nylon case and handed me the department’s new Nikon digital camera. I’d have been just as happy working with old-fashioned film, but I could see the advantages of going digital. The new camera allowed you to review each photo as you took it, and best of all, the pictures would be ready just as soon as we could get to the computer at the sheriff’s office. Back when I started in cop work, you might wait the better part of a day before the photo lab developed your crime scene pictures.

  Longstreet shifted his barking into overdrive as Tina, Randy, and the animal control officer went into the house. Meanwhile, I leaned my cane against the patrol car and began snapping orientation photographs of Rawlins’s body, while Ash kept notes of each picture I took. It started to sprinkle again as I moved in for some closer shots of the victim. Suddenly, the barking stopped and I relaxed a little when there was no scream of pain followed by gunfire.

  As I bent to take a photo of Rawlins’s boots, Ash said, “Maybe I’m just not cut out for police work.”

  “Huh?” I lowered the camera to look at her.

  “After the pursuit, I got so jittery, my hands were trembling.”

  “That’s just adrenaline palsy, sweetheart. It used to happen to me all the time. What’s more, you didn’t sound scared during the pursuit.”

  “I didn’t?” Her face brightened.

  “No.” I reached out to brush my fingers against her cheek. “You did a great job and I’m proud of you.”

  “I just wish your leg were well enough so that we could work a patrol car together.”

  “Probably a bad idea, honey. We’d always be looking for a place to park and neck. Now, I’d better get back to work.” Inching forward with my legs spread on either side of the body, I moved into a position where I could take an overhead shot of Rawlins’s chest wound. I took the picture and then said, “Hmm, this is interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You don’t really notice it until you stand right over him, but this arrow came in at a slight downward angle. You see?”

  Ash moved so that our heads were close enough that I could smell her Pure Grace perfume. At last, she said, “You’re right. It’s at a definite angle. Whoever shot the arrow was at a slightly higher elevation than Everett.”

  “Or the arrow was on the downward portion of an arc, which would have to mean it was a long-distance shot. That’s hard to imagine in this darkness.”

  Ash gave me a supporting hand as I carefully stepped away from the body. Then she glanced at the tree line and said, “Those pines are at the same level as the rest of the yard. The arrow probably wasn’t shot from there.”

  “I agree. So, where the hell did it come from?” I scanned the yard.

  “How about the second-floor window of the barn? No, that’s too high.”

  “We’ll check it out, though. But I’m beginning to think it came from somewhere near the bottom of that hill.” I pointed to an invisible spot in the blackness, just above the tops of the pine trees. “Which is just down the slope from where Chet parked his truck.”

  Four

  There was shouting from inside the Rawlins house, and then the front door sailed open with a window-rattling crash. Longstreet was first through the door, followed immediately by the animal control guy, who was desperately trying to maintain his grip on the steel catchpole. The huge dog was furious over the tightening noose around his neck and turned to snap at the kennel cop. A second later, Longstreet saw us standing over his fallen master and things looked as if they were about to go from bad to worse.

  The snarling Rottweiler started in our direction, his progress slowed only slightly by the animal control officer, who couldn’t find any firm footing on the gravel. Randy darted forward to give the guy a hand as Tina yanked her gun from its holster and prepared to shoot the dog if it attacked us. Meanwhile, I was desperately trying to remember if I had one of Kitch’s Milk-Bones in my coat pockets.

  “He’s just scared and upset,” said Ash. Squaring her shoulders, she took several steps toward Longstreet and then stopped and put her hands on her hips. The dog stopped, looked up at her, and seemed to relax a little.

  My wife, the dog whisperer, I thought admiringly. Ash had grown up in a home full of large dogs, and during our marriage we’d owned a husky and then a Bernese mountain dog before we’d gotten Kitch. Every one of our four-footed furry kids suffered from selective deafness when it came to me, but they always listened to Ash. She was the pack leader.

  Ash held out her hand. “Give me the catchpole.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, ma’am,” said the animal control officer.

  “It’ll be all right. He can tell that you’re scared of him.”

  “You’re damn right I’m scared of him.”

  “Well, I’m not. Now, give me the catchpole,” said Ash.

  The animal control guy shot a nervous glance at Tina, who reluctantly nodded. He handed the steel pole to Ash as Randy backed away. Longstreet was panting hard now, and it was obvious that the noose around his neck was too tight. Ash pressed the release mechanism on the catchpole to loosen the cable a little. The dog didn’t try to attack her or escape. Instead, Longstreet looked up at Ash with coal-black eyes that were both sad and grateful. I began to relax and noticed that Tina had holstered her pistol.

  “We need to let him go over and smell Everett,” said Ash. “After that, I’ll take him out to the truck.”

  I slowly backed away from the body as Ash led the Rottweiler over to the corpse. Longstreet snuffled the body and then nudged Rawlins’s left shoulder with his broad muzzle. The dog whined when his master didn’t respond. A few moments earlier, I’d been frightened of the dog; now, I felt sorry for him. Ash bent over to scratch Longstreet between the shoulder blades and quietly tell him that his daddy knew he was a good dog. Then she led the docile Rottweiler away from the dead man and down the driveway. Randy and the animal control officer followed them at a discreet distance.

  Tina came over to me and I said, “That was nearly a doggone tragedy.”

  She ignored the pun. “It’s als
o another example of why I need Ash as a full-time deputy.”

  “Yeah, she is something special, isn’t she? But Ash doesn’t want to become a full-time cop. I’m sorry, Tina. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “How about that you’re interested in the job? Even with your bad leg, I’d rather have you than any of the duds who’ve been applying for the position,” Tina said with a heavy sigh.

  “Thanks, I think.”

  Tina winced. “That’s not how I meant it.”

  “I know, relax. This whole deputy thing is going to work out. Now, I want you to look at something very interesting.”

  I was showing Tina the slight downward angle of the arrow in Rawlins’s chest when Ash and Randy returned. Both of them looked unruffled and—more important—unbitten, so I assumed that they’d secured Longstreet without incident. The game warden crouched down to take a look at the arrow and, after a moment’s inspection, agreed with us. The killer had likely been somewhere on the lower slope of the hillside when he’d fired the arrow.

  “We need to search that hillside for evidence, but I don’t see how we can do it tonight,” said Tina. “It’s just too dark.”

  “So we come back early tomorrow morning, when I can at least see what I’m tripping over,” I said.

  “What next, then?” asked Ash.

  “Well, we don’t need to take any more photos of Everett until the ME gets here. I’d suggest we get some pictures of the inside of the house,” I said.

  Randy pulled a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Tina. “I figured you’d want the hard copy of Chet’s driver’s license and vehicle info. The physical description is still pretty accurate, except for the black hair. It’s all gone now.”

  Tina turned on her flashlight to look at the sheet. “I see he lists a Remmelkemp Mill P.O. box for his address. Where does he actually live?”

  “On Shawnee Camp Road, over on the east slope of Massanutten Mountain,” Randy said. “He has a single-wide mobile home out in the woods near the end of the road. I know he probably won’t be there, but I’m going to swing by his place on my way home.”

  “Call us if you see him,” said Tina.

  “Count on it. Oh, and a word to the wise if and when you do visit Chet’s house . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “Chet is as bald as a cue ball, but nobody is ever gonna confuse him for Mr. Clean. You’ll smell the house before you see it, so you might want to wear a hazmat suit.” Randy’s tone suggested that he was only half joking. The game warden then gave us a casual wave and headed down the driveway.

  Tina said, “I’ll stay out here with the body, if you guys want to look for any evidence in the house.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Before we go inside, let’s take a walk around the exterior,” said Ash. “Someone I love once told me that we don’t know how large the crime scene is until we look.”

  The rain started to come down harder as we went to the front of the house. Even in the dim light, I could see evidence that this had been a well-maintained home. The porch was tidy and the custom front door featured a large oval of leaded and stained glass configured to look like a white rose. Even the vinyl siding looked fairly new. I took some photos and then headed around the corner of the house.

  Now that we were out of Tina’s hearing range, I said, “You did a great job there with Longstreet.”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” said Ash.

  “Sorry, love, but I’ve got to disagree. So does Tina. That’s why she’s thinking about offering you the full-time deputy’s position again.”

  We stopped to look at the side of the house. There wasn’t much to see. Just four windows, more white vinyl, and a row of plump holly bushes growing in the flowerbed next to the house. I handed Ash my cane and took some photos while waiting for my wife to say something.

  Ash finally said, “Brad, honey, I really enjoy being an auxiliary cop and I know that Tina is having trouble finding a new deputy, but I just don’t want the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not?” Ash has a way of cocking her head and gaping at me when I’ve said something she considers irredeemably stupid. “For twenty-five years the only times we saw each other were on weekends—when you weren’t called out to some murder—or when you took vacation. And how often were those canceled because you were needed at a homicide trial?”

  “More times than I’d care to remember,” I said quietly.

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s simply the way things were. But now I have the chance to be with you, and that’s all I really want. Besides, I want to open Ursa Major with you, and I couldn’t do that if I were working as a full-time deputy.”

  Ursa Major was our proposed name for the teddy bear shop and museum we wanted to open. The idea for the business was Ash’s brainchild. She’d unexpectedly come up with the notion back in late September, while dusting some of the antique and award-winning bears from our collection. Ash had idly commented that it was a shame other people couldn’t enjoy our bears, which sparked an epiphany. A few days and obviously a great deal of thought later, she revisited the issue and revealed to me her plan to open a teddy bear emporium that would double as a museum. The business would primarily feature stuffed animals made by the Massanutten Teddy Bear Artist Guild, a crafting club she’d established the previous year, but would also carry a selection of bears made by some of our favorite artists. Her hope was that Ursa Major would become both a tourist attraction and a successful bear shop.

  I was skeptical at first, but her enthusiasm won me over and we developed a business plan. Things had progressed quickly, and we’d identified a possible site for our business—an abandoned Victorian-era home on the outskirts of Remmelkemp Mill. We’d already toured the house once and planned to meet the real estate agent tomorrow to take a second look at the property.

  Ash took my hand. “I enjoy working patrol once a week as an auxiliary, but I don’t want to give up the freedom to pursue our dreams. I’ve waited too long for this part of our lives.”

  “Was it worth the wait?”

  Ash leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “Absolutely. Now, let’s get back to work.”

  We walked around to the back of the house, where we found what I assumed was Everett Rawlins’s Ford F-250 pickup truck parked a few yards from the back door.

  Ash nodded toward the truck. “When we searched the house for other victims and suspects, I checked the hood. It was cold, so he hadn’t driven anywhere for a while.”

  I took a couple of photographs, and then we moved to the east side of the house, which faced toward the mountains. Again, there wasn’t much that was noteworthy. There were another four windows, an electric utility box, and some more holly bushes. The only thing that even slightly caught my eye was a bit of damage in the vinyl siding, about six-and-a-half feet up the wall and near the front corner. It looked as if the bracket from a flag holder had once been mounted there and then been torn off by high winds. The same thing had happened at our house, back during the late spring when a hellacious thunderstorm struck the region. I took several pictures of the wall, and then we returned to the front of the house.

  We mounted the porch steps and went into the home, where we were greeted by both the faint spicy smell of what was probably chili and the sound of Liza Minnelli and Joel Grey singing a sardonic ditty about the joys of money. There was a coat closet near the front door and I opened the door. Inside, I saw a pump-action shotgun leaning against the interior wall.

  “Well, that’s one way to handle annoying door-to-door solicitors,” I said, taking a picture of the weapon.

  “Actually, it’s pretty common for folks to have a weapon like that handy,” said Ash. “Back when I was growing up, we still had bear on our side of the river. Daddy kept a double-barreled shotgun in our front closet.”

  “You want to check to see if it’s loaded?”

  Ash nodded and removed the firearm from the cl
oset. As she began removing cartridges from the shotgun, she said, “It’s a twelve-gauge, loaded with rifled slugs.”

  “Which will make a doughnut-sized hole in a man. So why didn’t Ev take his miniature antitank gun with him when he went outside?”

  “Because he was in a hurry?”

  “Or didn’t feel there was a threat.”

  “So maybe we’re back to this being a hunting accident?”

  “It’s way too early to tell, my love. But you know how much I hate a mystery.”

  Ash worked the gun’s pump mechanism to ensure she’d removed all the rounds. “What do you want me to do with this stuff?”

  “Put the shotgun back in the closet and the rounds on the upper shelf. We’ll collect it as possible evidence later.”

  We went into the living room, where, as expected, the sofa and easy chair faced in the direction of the television. I noted a small logo in the lower right-hand corner of the screen that indicated it was tuned to the Turner Classic Movies channel, which was airing Cabaret. A rectangular end table stood next to the easy chair and on it was a television remote control, a copy of TV Guide, a nearly empty bottle of Yingling beer, and a soup bowl that was about half-full of what looked like canned chili. A lonely man’s lonely meal, I thought. Leaning against the inside rim of the bowl was a spoon, which suggested Mr. Rawlins had been interrupted during his supper.

  Nodding toward the TV, I said, “So what’s wrong with this picture?”

  “How do you mean?” Ash asked.

  “Cabaret? You knew Everett Rawlins. Does that seem like the kind of movie he—or any other guy around here—would watch?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. That probably means he was watching something else when he went outside.”

  “Exactly, which might help us establish a tentative timeline.” I took several photographs of the room and then picked up the TV Guide. Finding the listing for Thursday night, I said, “Cabaret started at seven. Before that, it was She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Interesting choice for a double feature.”