The Crafty Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “It’s your call, Tina, but once you’ve sent that fax, why don’t we call it a day? We’ve done everything we can for now and we’ll need a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me. I’m bushed.” Tina pulled into her parking spot at the station. “There’s no sense in you guys coming in. Go on home and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  When Ash and I got home, she went upstairs while I took Kitch outside and admired the fireflies as he made his final latrine call of the night. By the time I got upstairs, Ash was in the bathroom and just finishing washing her face.

  “Long day,” I said.

  “I can’t wait to get into bed.” Ash dabbed at her face with a towel.

  I turned on the shower and began stripping off my clothes. Back when I was with SFPD I always took a shower after working at a death scene, and it was a little comforting that I’d slipped back into that old habit. It meant that I’d temporarily recovered my persona as a homicide inspector. Even though I love my new life making teddy bears, there are times when I really miss cop work.

  When the water was hot, I got into the shower and pulled the curtain shut. But as I was letting the water splash on my head, I felt Ash’s hands on my back as she climbed into the shower behind me.

  Turning around, I said, “Hey, I thought you said you were tired.”

  Ash smiled slyly. “No, what I said was: I can’t wait to get into bed.”

  We slept late. It was almost eight A.M. when the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and said, “I hope for your sake this is Sheriff Barron.”

  “Brad! OnStar just called and we know where the Hummer is.” Tina was excited.

  I quickly sat up. Meanwhile, Ash raised herself onto one elbow and pressed her head against the opposite of the phone receiver so that she could listen too. I said, “Where?”

  “At a motel on Steinwehr Avenue in Gettysburg, and Olympus will give us updates if it goes mobile.”

  “I don’t want to keep Kitch in the crate all day. Can your kids watch him?”

  “They’d love it.”

  “Good, then we’ll be at your house in about twenty minutes.”

  Eleven

  Actually, it was closer to a half hour. Ash knew we were going to be busy and that I can become a little prickly when I’m hungry, so she made us a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and soy sausages before we left. Then we drove over to Tina’s house and let an overjoyed Kitch out to play with the waiting kids. Tina met us at her police cruiser and handed us each a plastic embossed card.

  Ash asked, “What are these?”

  “Official ID cards. I thought that as long as we were going to be outside the county, it might be good if you both had some sort of department identification.”

  My card featured the Massanutten County Sheriff’s six-pointed gold star on the left and a small color photo of me on the right. My name was underneath the picture along with the title of “Criminal Investigation Consultant.” As I slipped the card into the wallet containing my SFPD retiree badge, I said, “How did you make these things without having our photos?”

  “They’re your drivers license photos. I had the DMV email me copies last night,” said Tina.

  Ash was beaming and waved her ID card in the air. “Look, I’m a detective.”

  “I know, and you did a magnificent job undercover last night,” I said in the most earnest tone I could muster.

  Tina looked skyward and tried not to giggle. Meanwhile, Ash’s cheeks turned pink and she said, “Brad!”

  “What? What did I say? All I did was commend my investigator wife on her ability to, um…get her man.”

  “Not another word.”

  We got into the patrol car and Ash insisted I sit in the front seat, because there was almost no legroom in the back. I didn’t argue, because I wanted to be able to walk when we got to Gettysburg. We stopped long enough to pick up cups of coffee, then headed westward toward Interstate 81.

  As we drove, I looked at Tina’s road atlas. Gettysburg was in southern Pennsylvania and about 160 miles north of Remmelkemp Mill. The town is famous as the site of the climactic battle of the American Civil War, and later, Abraham Lincoln’s celebrated speech commemorating the opening of the national cemetery there. It was one of the places that Ash and I had always wanted to visit after moving to the Shenandoah Valley, but between making bears and solving the occasional murder, we’d never made time. The atlas had an insert with a more detailed map of Gettysburg on the next page and I squinted at it.

  I said, “It looks like Steinwehr Avenue is the business loop for U.S. Fifteen.”

  Tina nodded. “I know. I’ve already talked with Gettysburg PD. The motel is on the south side of town near the National Park headquarters and they’re going to have one of their cops meet us there.”

  “Good idea.”

  Ash leaned forward to speak through the thick Plexiglas barrier that separated the front and back seats. “What I don’t understand is, why did they go to Gettysburg? I mean, if they just committed a murder…”

  “I know,” said Tina. “I would have expected them to be on the next flight back to Japan.”

  “Maybe Mr. Ota didn’t think we’d be able to link him to the Hummer.” I took a sip of coffee. “Another possibility is that they aren’t running because they have no reason to. Hopefully, we’ll find out in a few hours.”

  Soon we were northbound on Interstate 81 and Tina slowed all the traffic down by only driving five-miles-an-hour over the posted speed limit. It was another hot morning and the air was so hazy with humidity that the mountains looked spectral. After just over an hour, we got off the interstate and took secondary roads that led cross-country toward the town of Harper’s Ferry and the Potomac River.

  We’d just passed some deliciously kitschy dinosaur statues that stood outside a store and the extinct reptiles reminded me of something important. I said, “Tina, can we talk for a second about how you want to handle this interview?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Yakuza is almost exclusively male and like most crooks, they have some pretty old-fashioned attitudes toward women.”

  “Which means they’re Neanderthals. Are you suggesting that you should be the lead interviewer?”

  “Ota might be more comfortable talking to a guy, but it’s your decision. I’m just offering options.”

  “Well, I don’t really care if they don’t like uppity women. I’ll be the primary interviewer.”

  “Good. That’s how you learn.”

  “You’ll do great,” said Ash.

  Tina gave me a nervous smile. “But, I want you there, just in case…”

  “You need a cavemen interpreter. Don’t worry.”

  We drove past Harpers Ferry and I noticed that the state line separating Virginia and Maryland isn’t where you’d logically expect it to be, at mid-channel of the Potomac River. From bank-to-bank, the river is part of Maryland; Virginia stops at water’s edge on the southern shoreline. Twenty minutes later, we arrived in Frederick, Maryland, where we got on U.S. Route 15. This was the road north to Gettysburg and a road sign said it was only thirty-five miles away.

  As we approached Catoctin Mountain State Park, Tina’s mobile phone rang and she asked me to answer it. I said, “This is Sheriff Barron’s number, can I help you?”

  A man said, “This is Montrel from the OnStar control center and we’re notifying you that the Hummer has gone mobile. It’s traveling southbound on Steinwehr Avenue.”

  “Got that. Can you stay on the line and give us regular updates?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Putting my hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, I relayed the news to Tina and Ash.

  Montrel said, “The vehicle is continuing southbound from Steinwehr onto Emmitsburg Road now.”

  Checking the atlas, I said, “All right, I see that on the map.”

  “Now passing Barlow Road.”

  “I copy.”

  There was a long pause a
nd then Montrel said, “Okay…the vehicle turned west onto Cunningham Road and has stopped.”

  “How close is it to Emmitsburg Road?”

  “Not far. I can’t tell from the computer map, but it looks like they pulled off-road.”

  “Thanks, Montrel. I need to clear the line so I can call the Gettysburg Police. Please call us if they go mobile again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Looking up, I saw we were passing Mount Saint Mary University and a sign that said the Pennsylvania state line was only three miles ahead. I also noticed that Tina had now slowly eased the cruiser up to about eighty miles an hour.

  I said, “The Hummer has stopped south of town on Cunningham Road. We need to call the Gettysburg cops and give them the new location.”

  “The number is in that steno pad.” Without taking her eyes from the road, she pointed to a notebook that was wedged between her car seat and the center console.

  I called Gettysburg PD and was apologetically informed that, since the Hummer was no longer within the borough limits, it was therefore out of their jurisdiction, so they couldn’t help. However, they did give me the number for the Cumberland Township Police, which was responsible for the area where Cunningham Road was located. I then spent the next several minutes talking to the Cumberland Township police dispatcher. After convincing her that I represented the Massanutten County Sheriff’s Office, I described our situation and also had to explain the difference between Yakuza and ninjas. By the time I finished and she’d agreed to send an officer, we were several miles into Pennsylvania and about to get off on the Emmitsburg Road off-ramp.

  Disconnecting from the call, I said, “They’ve got a cop en route.”

  “Good, because I think we’re almost there,” said Tina.

  Emmitsburg Road was a winding and tree-lined two-lane highway with a surprising amount of traffic going in both directions. We passed rolling farmland, the occasional home, vacant and boarded-up Civil War artifact shops, and an ever-increasing number of historical markers with information about the Battle of Gettysburg. Then I noticed a blue sign for a tourist attraction up ahead and to our left.

  Ash saw it too and said, “You don’t think…”

  “We’ll know in a second and, if so, this investigation just got exponentially weirder.”

  “Cunningham Road,” Tina called as she slowed down and made the left turn.

  We rolled past a wall of tall evergreens and Tina then pulled over to the side of the road to gape. In the middle of a lush pasture about a quarter-mile away was a red barn with a stone foundation that looked as large as an aircraft carrier. The rectangular building was at least eighty-feet-tall and almost a football field in length. On the end of the structure facing us there was a mural the size of a drive-in movie screen, depicting a huge brown teddy bear leaning on a split rail fence and waving. The words BOYDS BEAR COUNTRY were painted in tall white letters on the wall above the glass entrance doors.

  I broke the silence. “So…I guess we can safely connect the Yakuza with the teddy bears.”

  Boyds is one of the premier manufacturers of mass-produced teddy bears in the world and this was their famous flagship store, a place that countless bear collectors all over the globe considered a sneak preview of heaven. We own about a hundred of their sweet teddies and this store was one of the reasons we’d wanted to come to Gettysburg. But who could have guessed that our first visit to the enormous bear emporium would be as part of a homicide investigation?

  The parking lot appeared about a third full—I estimated maybe eighty vehicles—but it was filling quickly. Cars, SUVs, minivans, and the occasional tour bus passed us in an almost continuous stream and made the right turn into the bear Mecca. I looked for the Hummer, but couldn’t see it.

  Tina said, “This place is amazing.”

  “Yeah, as amazing as the idea that three Japanese mobsters are inside shopping for cute teddy bears,” I said. “How do you want to handle this?”

  “I think we should wait here until the Cumberland officer arrives.”

  “Then can I get out and stretch my legs for a minute?” Ash asked.

  We got out of the cruiser, and after nearly three hours in air-conditioned comfort, the muggy heat came as an unpleasant surprise. In the distance, I could hear the old Petula Clark song, “Downtown,” playing over the store’s exterior PA system, but the tune was rendered all but inaudible by the eerie buzzing of the cicadas in the nearby trees.

  I said, “I know it’s supposed to be here, but I don’t see the Hummer.”

  Tina opened her trunk and removed an oversized pair of OD green military binoculars. She scanned the lot and finally said, “It’s over on the far end of the lot. Take a look.”

  I pushed my sunglasses up on my head and used the binoculars to look where she was pointing. “Okay, I see it now.”

  Tires crackled on the pavement behind us as a blue and white Cumberland Township patrol car pulled up. Tina quickly briefed the young cop about our mission, stressing that all we wanted to do was talk to the Yakuza. Then we returned to our cars and drove into the parking lot. A minute or so later, we were walking toward the glass entrance doors of the self-described “humongous” store.

  I quietly said to Ash, “The Yakuza don’t usually fight with cops. But just in case this goes south, I want you to find a safe place and stay there.”

  “And the same advice applies to you.”

  “Hey, my nickname is Mr. Prudent.”

  “Right.”

  Inside, the store was decorated with a lovely mixture of stonework, polished wood, stained glass, and thousands of teddy bears. Another nice thing was that the ventilation system seemed to be pumping air from Antarctica. There was a tall oak reception desk just inside the door and the two female employees working there eyeballed us a little nervously as we came in. Their expressions didn’t grow any more serene when Tina quietly asked if there was a Boyds security officer on duty and, if so, could he meet us immediately.

  The guard arrived a minute or so later. Even though he wore a sunshine yellow polo shirt with the Bear Country logo embroidered on the left breast, the young guy might as well have been wearing a nametag that said, “Hi, I’m an off-duty cop.” My suspicions were confirmed when the guard and Cumberland officer greeted each other by first names.

  When Tina told the guard about our investigation and described the Yakuza, he jerked his head in the direction of a large doorway leading to a salesroom to the left and said, “I just saw them. They’re in there.”

  “Doing what?”

  “What everybody else does here. They’re shopping for teddy bears.”

  Tina quickly went over the plan one more time. Our goal was to make contact in a low-key manner and ask Mr. Ota if he’d volunteer to accompany us to the Bear Country security offices where we could interview him and his bodyguards about their visit to the Massanutten History Museum. If they refused, we didn’t have any legal right to detain them and they’d be allowed to leave.

  Tina stared hard into the faces of the two young cops. “Most importantly, we don’t want any violence. Got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” they both replied.

  “Okay then, let’s do it.”

  It’s never comforting to begin a police tactical operation with Gary Gilmore’s last words before he was executed for murder, but I didn’t say anything, because I could tell that Tina was very tense. Tina and the cops took the lead, while Ash and I followed. The salesroom was as big as the inside of a good-sized family home and decorated in red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. There was one tableau of costumed bears marching in a parade, another with teddies posed at the beach, and probably a thousand or so bears for sale.

  We found Ota and his two bodyguards standing in front of a display that featured a small Civil War cannon. It was a ludicrous sight. The two young tough guys were carrying fabric mesh bags full of stuffed animals, while Ota scrutinized the face of a teddy bear dressed in a blue Union Army uniform. Stil
l, I found myself lowering the grip on my cane to use it as a bludgeon, just in case things turned ugly.

  Flanked by the guard and the cop, Tina walked up and said, “Mr. Ota, I’m Sheriff Barron from the Massanutten County Sheriff’s Office. I’d like to talk to you about what happened at the museum yesterday.”

  Ota put the bear back on the shelf and without looking at Tina said, “I have no desire to speak to the police. Good day.”

  “But, Mr. Ota…”

  Tina suddenly knew what it felt like to be a unicorn, because as far as Ota was concerned, she didn’t exist. The gangster walked past her, closely followed by his bodyguards. They gave us cold stares that silently dared us to do anything. I saw the security guard flexing his fist and was afraid he was going to accept their nonverbal challenge. The situation had to be defused now, otherwise we’d have a donnybrook on our hands and we’d never get the information we needed.

  As the trio walked past, I said, “Mr. Ota, the museum director was murdered and you and your men don’t look gurentai.” Roughly translated, gurentai means “hoodlum,” something most Yakuza loathe being called.

  The gangster noticed me for the first time and stopped. “You were at the restaurant yesterday.”

  I nodded.

  “Why do you think I would know that word, gurentai?”

  “Because your clan pin tells me you’re a member of Yamaguchi-gumi and I know that men such as you don’t fear identifying yourself to the police.”

  Ota gave me a stern, searching look. “What do you know about the Yakuza?”

  “A little. One of the most important things is that you call yourselves machi-yakko—servants of the people. But some say that isn’t true anymore.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Bradley Lyon.”

  “Are you a federal policeman?”

  “No, sir, I was a San Francisco Police homicide inspector. Now we live here.” I nodded toward Ash. “And we collect teddy bears too.”

  “Mr. Merrit is truly dead?”