“Have you ever seen light bounce off a chalk board before?”
“Well, no,” Vance admitted. “Maybe that board came with glass on the other side?”
“And that marker?” I insisted.
“I saw you looking at that marker,” Vance recalled. “I was going to ask you about… captain? Yes, hello. I didn’t realize you were on the line. Sorry. Anyway, I need a search warrant. Well, because we need to look around inside Mrs. Barterson’s house. The marker? You heard that? Okay, hold on. I’ll put you on speaker. All right, Zack. What about that marker?”
“Well, it was a black marker with a yellow cap,” I began. “Have you ever seen one of those before? Wouldn’t that cap suggest the ink is yellow?”
“It is,” Captain Nelson confirmed over the speaker. “I know what that pen is, and I’m surprised as hell you found it inside a senior citizen’s house.”
“Wait a minute,” Vance sputtered. “What are you guys suggesting? That a little old lady, who could be my grandmother, is using an invisible ink pen to write things on a piece of glass?”
I nodded, “Exactly. She got really nervous when she spotted me looking at it.”
Vance perked up, “She did?”
“She did?” the captain echoed.
“That’s why she pushed it across the kitchen. She wanted to get it away from me once she saw I had noticed that marker. Vance, I think we need to get back in there and look at that board.”
“Getting a search warrant will take a minimum of five hours, and that’s contingent on me being able to write it without any interruptions. Then it’ll have to be reviewed, then probably reviewed again, and then placed before a judge. If he deems there is good probable cause, then he’ll sign it.”
“Detective, are you sure about this?”
Vance was nodding, “Absolutely, sir. In addition, I caught her in a lie.”
Puzzled, I turned to my friend.
“You did? What lie?”
Vance leveled a gaze at me.
“Zack, she’s no teacher. She’s a former bus driver from Portland.”
ELEVEN
“A bus driver? She’s a bus driver? Vance, how in the world could you possibly know that? Are you from California, too?”
“That’s the lie I’m referring to,” Vance matter-of-factly stated. “And no, I’m not from California. Neither is she, for that matter. Captain, are you still with us?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Gertrude Barterson used to be a school bus driver for the Beavertowne School District in Portland for many, many years. Trust me on this.”
“You realize that we’ll need to verify this before we place that warrant in front of Judge Masterson, don’t you?”
“I know, Captain. I know I’m right, but to cover our bases, could you have someone give that school district a call, just to back me up?”
“I’ll take care of it, Detective. Just promise me you’ll find Sydney’s dog.”
“You can count on it, Captain,” Vance vowed.
The captain dropped off the line.
“How long do you think it’ll take to get the warrant?” I asked.
“It all depends on how quickly we can convince Judge Masterson that we have probable cause,” Vance explained. “He usually doesn’t give us any trouble.”
“So how do you know Mrs. Barterson?” I wanted to know.
“I saw her drive several times. You see, growing up, my mother was a single parent. She and another lady, who was also a single mother, made an agreement to watch each other’s kids. Her son, Dale, and I became best friends in school. So, during the school week, I rode two different buses. Mrs. Barterson was Dale’s school bus driver. She may have aged, but I knew I had seen her somewhere. By the way, good job on noticing that marker.”
“It stood out on a tray full of chalk,” I commented, feeling rather pleased with myself. “I just thought it was odd that there’d be a marker on a chalkboard. I hadn’t really considered what was on the other side of the board until the sun hit it. That’s what tipped it off for me.”
“Stay by your phone,” Vance ordered, as we pulled into the police station. Vance hopped out of my Jeep and turned to look back at me through the window. “I’ll let you know as soon as the warrant is ready.
Once the dogs and I arrived home, I decided to research what was involved in writing – and obtaining – a signed search warrant. I was dismayed to learn that it could take anywhere from 3 hours, at the very earliest, to oftentimes more than several days. It all depended on the judge and whether or not he/she thought there was suitable probable cause. I was about ready to try my hand at looking up past cases of this Judge Masterson when my cell rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Anderson?”
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
“This is Alan Mathers, with John Deere of Medford. Do you remember me, Mr. Anderson?”
“Of course,” I laughed. “I typically remember people that take 15K of my money.”
Now I had the salesman laughing.
“That’s definitely one way to look at it. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that your tractor has arrived at our dealership. Our mechanics have gone over it and have given it the green light. Would you like to pick it up or would you like for us to deliver it to you?”
“Hmm. I don’t have any way to get that thing out here. How much would it cost to deliver it to the winery?”
“I was really hoping you’d say that. I’ve been authorized to charge you one case of Syrah.”
I started to laugh and was ready to agree with the simple demand when the teeny tiny part of my brain responsible for my math skills woke up.
“Let’s see. That’d be twelve bottles of wine, at close to $80 per bottle, would make it almost $1,000.” You could’ve heard crickets chirping on the phone. “I would imagine,” I continued, “that your dealership already has a truck and a flatbed trailer, so the only expense you’d be out would be time and fuel. Does that sound about right?”
“I, er, see where you’re going with this, Mr. Anderson. I apologize. I was simply hoping that…”
“You didn’t let me finish, Alan,” I interrupted. “As I was saying, the most your dealership would be out would probably be in the neighborhood of a couple hundred. So, let’s do this. You throw in some type of extended warranty, which would cover the engine, hydraulics, and any other mechanical contraption which could break on that thing, and I’ll agree to a case of wine a year for as long as you guys service my tractor. Deal?”
“Holy shit! I… um, pardon my language. I’m almost positive the owner will go for that deal, but I will check, just in case. Tell you what. Unless you hear otherwise from me, consider it a done deal. When would you like this delivered?”
“Could you make it out here tomorrow? That’d work best for me.”
“Absolutely. We’ll be there tomorrow, around noon. Thank you very much, Mr. Anderson. I look forward to working with you in the future.”
I’ll bet you do, I thought, as I hung up the phone. Well, that’s one less thing I have to worry about. A single case of wine a year was a price I was more than willing to pay, provided I didn’t have to worry about the health of that tractor.
I had to admit, I was looking forward to seeing what my fifteen thousand dollars had purchased. Alan had mentioned what the model my new tractor was, so perhaps a new search on Google wasn’t out of the question? Before I could bring up the search engine, however, my phone rang for what had to be the umpteenth time today.
“Zack? It’s Vance. I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got what?”
“The warrant. I’m heading back to Mrs. Barterson’s house. Meet me there, on the double.”
“You already have it? What’s it been, less than two hours?”
“Once Judge Masterson learned Captain Nelson’s granddaughter lost her dog, he couldn’t sign that thing fast enough. I don’t have to remind you how important it is that we’re right, do I?�
�
“Do you think we’re wrong?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll meet you there.”
Being closer to my side of town, I arrived at Mrs. Barterson’s house first. I arrived just in time to see three elderly women walk out the front door. Contrary to what Vance would say, my memory really wasn’t that bad. I recognized two of the three women right off the bat. They were part of that group Vance and I had encountered in the woods while looking for that Beagle. Coincidence?
Vance’s Oldsmobile sedan pulled up beside my Jeep Wrangler and parked.
“How long have you been here?” Vance asked as he stepped out of his car.
“I just got here myself. Quick, do you see those three ladies? Two are getting in that minivan and the third is getting into that Prius?”
Vance squinted his eyes as he gazed at the nearby parking lot.
“Yeah. What about them?”
“I just watched them leave Mrs. Barterson’s house.”
“Okay. And? Maybe they’re part of her knitting club.”
“Except I saw two of the three in the woods with you a few days ago.”
Intrigued, Vance whipped out his notebook and surreptitiously jotted down the license plate numbers of the two vehicles as they drove away. Then he checked his watch and slowly started pacing along the sidewalk.
“What are you doing?” I asked, confused. “Mrs. Barterson is right over there. Come on!”
“We’re not going to serve a search warrant without backup, Zack. It’s procedure.”
“What’s she gonna do to us?” I scoffed. “You saw her. She’s a little old lady. I doubt very much that she’ll be a problem.”
“I don’t know. I really shouldn’t.”
“It’ll be fine, buddy. Trust me.”
“What are you doing back here?” Mrs. Barterson nervously asked, once we knocked on the door.
“We need to take a look at your kitchen,” Vance formally announced. “More specifically, we need to check out that chalk board of yours.”
Mrs. Barterson gasped loudly. After a few moments, she composed herself, crossed her arms over her chest, and frowned at us.
“I’m sorry, Detective. I think I’ve been more than accommodating today. The only way you’ll be able to step foot inside my door is if you have a warrant. Until such time, you have yourself a good day.”
Gertrude Barterson made a move to close the door, only Vance stepped forward and jammed his foot in between the door and frame in order to prevent it from closing. He casually reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a somewhat ruffled piece of paper and smoothed out the creases that had appeared. Without preamble, he presented it to the elderly woman.
“Do you mean one of these? Lucky for me I happen to have one. Look. Do you see that? There’s your name, and there’s the address of this house. Do you know what that means?”
Mrs. Barterson gasped again, dropped the warrant, and sprinted for the chalk board, which was still resting up against the counter where we saw it several hours earlier. I should mention, though, that Gertrude’s ‘sprint’ was nothing more than a slightly fast walk. Being in her late 70s, the elderly woman had the walking speed of a tortoise, along with the dexterity of a hippo. In her ‘haste’, she bumped into practically everything that stood in her way, spilling it onto the ground in the process. Then I realized she was doing that deliberately as she tried to prevent us from reaching the counter first. As she passed her sink, she quickly reached in to retrieve the frying pan that was currently drying on a dish rack.
“I guess that means we’re in pursuit, right?” I snickered, as we both moved to follow Gertrude Barterson.
Trying valiantly to remain professional, Vance refrained from commenting and easily caught up with Mrs. Barterson. She was a full ten feet from the counter and the board. Vance started reaching for the fleeing form of the home owner when Gertrude turned to see him directly behind her.
“Don’t touch me, you brute! Don’t make me use this!”
“Mrs. Barterson, don’t make it any harder on yourself,” Vance soothingly told the woman. “Drop the frying pan, okay? Whether you like it or not, we have to take a look at that board. We suspect there might be some important information we need to see on the other side.”
“I will smash that board before I let you people have a chance to see it,” Gertrude vowed, giving Vance the fiercest snarl she was probably capable of. What we both saw – and heard – was Mrs. Barterson grunt and then frown at us.
Vance drew to a stop. Satisfied, and with her frown morphing into a smirk, Gertrude came to a stop, too. She was now about five feet from the counter, only she had her back turned to it so she could keep an eye on Vance.
“That really won’t be necessary,” the detective began. “You see, we already…”
“One more step and I’ll destroy the board!” Mrs. Barterson ordered, her voice becoming shrill. She was now wielding the frying pan as though it was a club.
Vance pointed over at me. While Gertrude had been confronting Vance, I had simply walked around the two of them and placed myself in front of the board. Gertrude turned, saw me next to her prized board, and shrieked with dismay. Then, and this next part gets weird, she did the only thing she must’ve thought she was capable of doing.
She started throwing things.
Have you ever been in an old person’s house? There are things everywhere. Suddenly, there was so much shit flying through the air that you would’ve thought there was a poltergeist in the house. Figurines, commemorative plates, dolls, books, and anything else within reach was launched through the air. Oh, and the frying pan? That was the first to sail by my head. She might not have been able to run that fast, but boy howdy, she had an arm on her.
Once the small ammo was exhausted, Gertrude moved on to larger shells, namely small appliances, dishes, and so on. Ever get hit with a blender? For that matter, have you ever seen the movie Scrooged? Like Bill Murray, I can now say the line, ‘The bitch hit me with a toaster’ and keep a straight face.
“See?” Vance asked, as he turned to me. “This is why we always have backup when executing a search warrant.”
“How was I supposed to know that she’d go bat-crap crazy?” I demanded, as I ducked to avoid getting creamed by an electric can opener.
“Mrs. Barterson,” Vance tried again. “This is not going to end well for you if you don’t stop resisting.”
We both ducked as a waffle iron sailed over our heads.
“Mrs. Barterson, I’m going to have to ask you to stop trying to cause us harm or else you’re going to end up wearing a shiny new set of bracelets, if you get my meaning. Do you understand?”
“Do you have one with you?” I hastily whispered.
“What, handcuffs?” Vance quietly asked. “Of course. I have two, actually.”
We both ducked again as the glass decanter from Gertrude’s coffee pot smashed against the cabinets, spraying us both with glass and coffee.
“You give that board back to me right now,” Gertrude screeched.
I was holding on to the board with my left hand and was dragging it along with me as both Vance and I continued to dodge airborne projectiles.
“I can’t do that,” I told the elderly woman. I spun the board around and confirmed my suspicions. On the flip side of the chalk board was a cork board, only it had been covered by a sheet of glass. I couldn’t see any writing on the glass, but that wasn’t surprising, as I would need an ultraviolet light to be able to see anything that marker would’ve written. I pointed at the marker, which was still on the tray. “I know full well what that’s used for. There’s something written on this glass. We need to see what it is.”
Gertrude was approaching a knife block when Vance finally reached her. With a practiced move, Gertrude’s arm was twisted behind her back and she was gently – but firmly – pushed down until her face was resting on the counter. I heard the metallic clicking of cuffs being locked into place.
&n
bsp; “I tried to warn you,” Vance was telling the crying old woman.
“Please,” Gertrude sobbed. “You can’t. You mustn’t! So many women will suffer if you don’t let me break the glass. Or else wipe it clean. What do you say? Will you help an old lady out?”
A look of utter resolve appeared on Vance’s face, “Absolutely not, Mrs. Barterson. A lot of people are relying on us to return their beloved pets to them. If this board will help us locate those responsible, and I’m sensing you’re somehow tied up in this, then it must stay intact. Zack? Would you watch her? I’m gonna find out what happened to our backup.”
Vance had only been gone for a few moments before Gertrude Barterson, the cookie-loving grandmother to most kids in the neighborhood, freaked the eff out. With a high-pitched scream, the old woman frantically pushed herself away from the counter and rushed at me in what I suspected was a last ditch effort to destroy the board. However, do you remember me mentioning that she had a top speed which rivaled a slow-moving tortoise? Well, all I had to do was walk in circles around the island in the middle of her kitchen.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Vance demanded as he hurried back inside.
He saw a look of fury on Gertrude’s face and slid to a stop. His right hand dropped to land on a gun holster strapped to his belt. I heard the snap of the buckle as Vance prepared to draw his weapon.
Right about then, the first of Vance’s backup arrived. The black and white unit must have been nearby, because within thirty seconds of Vance’s call, two uniformed policemen were rushing inside the house.
“Restrain her,” Vance ordered, as he pointed at Gertrude. “She’s already in cuffs. Keep her away from that wheeled chalkboard. And I don’t suppose either of you has an ultraviolet light handy, do you?”
Both cops shook their heads no. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Barterson sat, handcuffed, at her dinner table and glared at the two of us. Vance was pacing inside the house as we waited for the PVPD’s one and only crime scene team to arrive. Both of us knew that each of the two techs would have a UV light in their kits.
“Look,” I began, as I caught Vance’s eye, “she’s got the marker, she’s got the board. Wouldn’t that suggest she would have some way to be able to see what she’s doing?”
Case of the Pilfered Pooches Page 18