The Crafty Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “I don’t know, and we can’t ask him.” I glanced over my shoulder at Merrit. “So, that’s something we’re going to have to look for in the acquisition records when we search Merrit’s office, which is our next stop once we finish here.”

  “Well, I hope you have better luck in there than I just had with the FBI.”

  “Trouble with the vaunted Bureau? I’m utterly shocked.” Like most street cops, I consider the only thing more useless than the FBI is the inflatable life vest tucked beneath a jet airliner’s seat. “Did you know the initials stand for Famous But Incompetent?”

  “I didn’t, but I do now.” Tina was simmering. “I spoke with the regional duty agent, who talked to me as if I was retarded and suggested I was overreacting. He told me to call back on Monday.”

  “Your tax dollars at work. Any luck with customs?”

  “I left a message, but haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “And Olympus?”

  “Same thing. I’m waiting for a callback from someone in their legal department.”

  “You knew that was coming. Has Allsop collected that cigarette butt yet?”

  “Just a minute ago.”

  “Did he notice the brand?”

  “Winston. Is that important?”

  “It might be, at some point.”

  Tina held out the broom and dustpan. “You wanted these?”

  “Thanks. If you’ll help Ash collect these bears and the quilt as evidence, I’ll start sweeping up the broken glass and china.”

  It didn’t take long to sweep up most of the debris and pour it into an evidence bag. However, I made no effort to collect the glass shards and pieces of broken dishes that lay scattered on Merrit’s body. That stuff would go into the body bag with the corpse. I’d just begun dusting the cupboard for fingerprints when the ME’s transportation team arrived with a metal gurney. Five minutes later, they and the body were on their way to Roanoke.

  Ash came into the dining room and watched for a moment as I moved the fingerprint brush in a swirling motion. She asked, “Anything?”

  “Nah, all I’m doing is making a mess. Between the old furniture oil and dust, you couldn’t find King Kong’s latents. Where’d Tina go?”

  “Out to check on the deputies and to make sure the county is sending out a truck to pick up the cupboard.”

  “Excellent. By the way, you and I aren’t loading this freaking thing into a vehicle. That’s why God created young cops.”

  “Thank goodness. We’ve got the bears and quilt packaged, but we left the hammer for you to collect. Are you going to try to fingerprint it also?”

  “No, there’s too great a chance that we’d lose trace evidence such as blood. I’ll let the lab process it for prints. And this,” I said, tossing the now gummy print brush into the plastic box, “is becoming an exercise in futility. Let me sweep up the rest of the debris and then I’ll get the hammer.”

  Tina came back into the museum as I was sliding the hammer into an evidence sack. She grumbled, “The lawyer from Olympus says that he’d love to help, but we need a search warrant before they’ll tell us where the Hummer is. That’s going to take forever.”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve got a boilerplate, fill-in-the-blanks version of that kind of search warrant affidavit on one of my computer discs at home. If Ash doesn’t mind, she can go and get it while we go to Merrit’s house and make the death notification.” I gave Ash a sidelong glance. “That is, unless you want to come with us.”

  “And witness a wife being told that her husband is dead? No, thanks, but that’s just a little too close to home.” Ash touched my arm. “I’ll get the disc and also let Kitchener out to go to the bathroom.”

  I stuck the bag containing the hammer into a large cardboard box loaded with the other evidence. “Tina, are you comfortable enough with how Allsop is working to let him finish with photographing the inside of the museum?”

  “He seems to be doing a great job.”

  “Okay, let’s do a quick search of the office and go talk to Mrs. Merrit. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something about the bears.”

  We filed into the small office and I took some photos before we disturbed anything. My leg was aching, so I assigned myself the task of searching Merrit’s desk, which meant I could sit down. Ash began searching the four-drawer filing cabinet while Tina checked some document-filled cardboard boxes in the corner of the room.

  The computer on the desk looked like it was in “stand by” mode, but I wasn’t going to mess with it other than to turn it off. There might be other important information in the computer’s files, such as emails or the documents we were seeking, but I’d leave their recovery to the cyber specialists at the crime lab. I opened the top desk drawer, but found nothing of evidentiary value; just pens, paper clips, and a bunch of rolled up little candy wrappers that told me Merrit was addicted to Werther’s toffees.

  Tina held up a sheet of paper. “Here’s something interesting. This form says that Merrit was issued a personal computer so that he could work from home.”

  “Different from this one here?”

  “What brand is that one?”

  I bent over to look at the logo on the computer tower. “A Compaq.”

  “No, this says it was a Gateway. The other one must be at his house.”

  “We’ll want both of them for the crime lab.”

  Going back to work, I came upon a thick folder labeled “Equipment Inventory Forms” in the bottom drawer. However, the folder was packed with something other than museum documents. There were maybe twenty love letters and romantic cards addressed to Merrit and all were signed, “With All My Love, Linda.” I pulled all the amorous correspondence from the file and piled it on the desk.

  I said, “We might want to bring these along when we go to make the death notification to Merrit’s widow. They might provide her some comfort.”

  Tina picked up a card, read the sentiment, and looked thoughtful. “Actually, I don’t think she’ll want them.”

  “Why not?” Ash asked.

  “Because Merrit’s wife isn’t named Linda. Her name is Marie.”

  Nine

  As far as I’m concerned, one of the most consistently wretched things about investigating a homicide is uncovering the tawdry little secrets of murder victims. However, it’s unavoidable. Understanding the victim’s background and behavior are vitally important, because that information can tell us much about the killer. So, we peek into the dark recesses of people’s lives and often discover unsavory things that may have nothing to do with their murder, but must be explored until they’ve been eliminated as a causative factor. Sometimes you can mercifully keep the truth from the victim’s family and save them some additional pain, but I didn’t think that was an option this time. While it was true there was some compelling circumstantial evidence pointing to the Yakuza as Merrit’s killers, we could no longer focus solely on them. Marital infidelity was also an excellent and eternally popular motive for murder.

  “He was cheating on his wife?” Ash said distastefully. She picked up one of the letters and began to read it.

  “That’s sure how it looks, but we don’t want to jump to conclusions,” I said.

  Ash’s cheeks turned pink and she stared in disbelief at the lilac-colored stationery. “We can go ahead and jump to this conclusion. This Linda is certainly very…descriptive.”

  Tina looked over Ash’s shoulder and after a moment inhaled sharply. “Oh my God, I see what you mean.”

  “And it gets worse,” said Ash.

  “Really? Let’s see.” I reached for the letter.

  Ash folded the papers and quickly scooped up the rest of the cards and letters. “Honey, I don’t think you need to waste your time reading this stuff.”

  “But it’s evidence.”

  “And mostly pornographic. Tina and I will review the letters while you keep looking for the paperwork on the bears.”

  I resumed my search for the acquisition do
cuments for the antique bears while Ash and Tina plowed—as it were—through the torrid correspondence. In the end, none of us came up with anything useful. There was no paperwork for the bears and no indication from the letters that Merrit’s love affair with Linda was in trouble or had been discovered. Then something else occurred to me. Opening my notebook, I turned to the page where Ash had written down the numbers of the incoming and outgoing calls.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and as I pressed the telephone number with the “434” area code, Ash asked, “Who are you calling?”

  “Linda, I hope.” I punched the button to put the phone on speaker mode.

  “While we were in here earlier, we checked the incoming and outgoing phone numbers,” Ash explained to Tina. “There were calls last night and this morning to the same number.”

  The phone rang three times and then rolled over to the voice mail salutation. It was a woman’s voice: “Hello, you’ve reached the office of Professor Linda Ingersoll of the University of Virginia. I’m not available to take your call, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  I disconnected from the call. “We’re going to want to talk to her at some point, so I don’t think I’ll leave a message that her secret lover is now flatter than Kansas.”

  “A professor? What do you suppose she teaches, Advanced Motel Gymnastics?” Ash rolled her eyes. “So, what now?”

  “I think we’re done here. Let’s take those steamy letters as evidence and tell Allsop that when he finishes up, to seize Merrit’s computer too.”

  “And then I guess it’s time to drive over to Merrit’s house and make the death notification. I’m not looking forward to that,” Tina said.

  I heaved a huge sigh. “No, it’s never fun…unless you tell the family by turning it into a game of charades.”

  Tina tried not to chuckle as Ash gave me her patented withering I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that look. We went outside where it was still very hot and muggy, but I saw we had weather coming. The western horizon was a solid wall of whitish-gray thunderheads and the freshening breeze told me the front was headed in this direction. It was a good thing that Ash was heading home, because you can add thunderstorms to the long list of things that terrify Kitchener, not that I thought less of him for this particular phobia. Thankfully, we don’t often see tornadoes, but Shenandoah Valley thunderstorms are noisier than an artillery barrage, generate lots of lightning, and can pack some pretty powerful winds.

  “I’ll put lavender oil on Kitch when I get home,” said Ash, giving the approaching storm a worried look. It sounds a little weird, but a few drops of lavender oil applied to his head and ears keeps our dog fairly calm during thunderstorms.

  I handed Ash the truck keys. “And please unplug the computer, so we don’t end up with fried circuits. We’ll call you once we’re finished at Merrit’s place.”

  “I love you and be careful.”

  I got into Tina’s police car and we drove back toward Remmelkemp Mill and turned west on Coggins Spring Road.

  Keeping her eyes on the highway, Tina said, “Since this is our first time working an official investigation together, how do you want to approach this interview?”

  “I’m going to keep my mouth shut—don’t laugh—while you ask the questions.”

  “But you’ve got a lot more experience at this than I do.”

  “And the best way for you to develop your skills as a tactical interviewer is to do it.”

  “What if I miss something important?” Tina sounded anxious.

  “Relax. I’ll say something.”

  The radio speaker crackled. “Mike Control to Mike One.”

  Tina grabbed the microphone. “Go ahead.”

  “Mike One, we’re holding a call to the trash transfer station. The supervisor there says that he may have recovered some stolen property.”

  Tina keyed the microphone. “It will have to wait for now. Tell him to put it in his office and we’ll send someone by tomorrow to get it.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Replacing the microphone, Tina said, “One other thing: Do you think I should mention that Merrit was having an affair?”

  I pondered that for a moment. “My inclination is to hold off for now. We don’t know for a fact that the relationship played any role in Merrit’s murder and his wife is going to be upset enough already.”

  “Okay. Brad, do you think we’re going to solve this murder? I don’t mean to sound selfish, but I haven’t been in office for very long…”

  “And an awful lot of folks are going to be paying very close attention to how well you handle this.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t worry. By next week we’ll have a suspect in custody and a rock solid case.” I only wished that I felt as confident as I sounded.

  The Merrits lived northwest of town near the base of Massanutten Mountain. It took about fifteen minutes to get there and the sky overhead was beginning to grow dark and cloudy as we made the turn onto Meacham Lane. The house was a good-sized, single-story brick rancher with black shutters and stood at the base of a low tree-covered hill. We pulled into the driveway and Tina parked behind a red Dodge Durango.

  Once upon a time, the house might have been nice, but it was now in the kind of sorry shape that’s only achieved by years of neglect. The flower beds were overflowing with weeds, there was a portable basketball backboard and hoop lying on its side in the tall grass and pieces of a radio-controlled toy dune buggy were scattered all over the driveway. There was also a golf club lying nearby and it didn’t take enormous deductive skills to figure out what had happened to the toy. One of the windows was spray-painted black and the glass was visibly vibrating from a Goth the-world-sucks-and-I-hate-everything three-chord anthem to the horrors of life in the most affluent country in the history of the world.

  We got out of the car and Tina shook her head in annoyance. “My kids aren’t saints, but my front yard has never looked like this.”

  I poked at the dune buggy’s broken frame with my cane. “Yeah, but you’re part of a vanishing species: a responsible parent.”

  “And that music.”

  “Nice, huh? Now you know what hell sounds like.”

  As we headed for the front door, I saw a jagged shaft of blue white lightning stab the ground off to the south and about seven seconds later there was a low grumble of thunder. Tina knocked hard on the dented steel door with her fist, but there was no answer, which didn’t come as any surprise considering how loud the music was. Tina tried again, this time a little harder. There was still no response.

  “Can I borrow your nightstick for a second?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to show you the old-fashioned way to let folks know that you’ve come about a loud music call, but I don’t want to damage my cane.” She handed me her black aluminum baton and I began pounding it on the door at about shin level. It sounded like rifle fire and in between the blows, I said, “The secret…is to hit the door…where nobody…is going to…notice the fresh dents…right away.”

  The door flew open and I quickly handed the nightstick back to Tina. A tall, dumpy middle-aged woman, dressed in a faded and sleeveless housedress, stood with hands on wide hips, glaring at us. I assumed she was Marie Merrit. She had to shout to be heard over both the music and Gilbert Gottfried’s nails-on-chalkboard voice blaring from the big-screen HD television in the living room. “What the hell is going on out here?”

  “It’s the sheriff, Mrs. Merrit. We need to talk to you,” Tina half-yelled, as she put her nightstick back into its ring.

  “What about?”

  “It’s important, so it would probably be best if we go inside.”

  “Who’s he?” Marie reached up with her left hand to massage her right shoulder and then seemed to catch herself and dropped her hand to her side.

  “Brad Lyon. He’s a consultant for my department.”

  “You can come in for a second.”


  We followed her into the house and the moment we crossed the threshold, I was sorry that Tina had insisted on going inside. I hadn’t been in a home this filthy since I was a cop. I think the shag carpet in the living room may have once been beige, but now it resembled an oversized Jackson Pollock painting, only this masterpiece was composed of a thousand-or-so food stains and felt as sticky and crunchy underfoot as a movie theater floor. The two armchairs and most of the sofa were piled high with stacks of old newspapers, junk mail, dirty clothing, and a jumbo pack of toilet paper from Costco. Another nice touch was the stylish centerpiece on the coffee table. It was a greasy Domino’s Pizza box topped with a bowl containing the dregs of breakfast cereal and milk well on the way to becoming cottage cheese. Making this a full sensory experience, the air stank of rancid cooking oil, cat urine, and burned popcorn, which is a scent combination that you can bet Glade is never going to offer as a room freshener.

  Marie walked over to the couch and, using her body to block our view, casually picked something up and tossed it to the floor and out of sight. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought it looked like an electric heating pad and I was a little puzzled over the apparent subterfuge.

  “Sorry about the mess, but Frank doesn’t do a thing to help around the house. You can move that stuff if you want to.” Marie motioned vaguely at the junk-filled armchairs as she sat down on the sofa.

  “That’s okay, I’d rather stand,” I said, not adding: Because God only knows what I’ll get on my pants.

  “Any chance we can get the music turned down?” Tina looked in the direction of the bedroom.

  “You can try, but Nathaniel keeps his room locked and doesn’t answer the door.”

  A new song had started and it sounded like a punk rock version of an exorcism, complete with howls, screams, and the foulest language.

  I asked, “So, how old is Nathaniel?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten? And you’re letting him listen to that trash?”

  Marie sniffed. “I don’t believe in censoring his experiences.”

  “Then could we at least please put the TV on mute?” Tina asked. By now I could see she’d been watching that masterpiece of modern cinema, Look Who’s Talking Too. Gottfried was now shouting at a bunch of toddlers while the Elvis Presley song, “All Shook Up” played in the background.