The False-Hearted Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  I guessed Mulvaney’s age as about fifty years old and she would have been reasonably attractive if it weren’t for the fact that her cheeks were so immobilized with skin-paralyzing cosmetics that it called to mind Jack Nicholson as the frozen-faced Joker in the Batman film. Her hair was a dark brunette with barely discernable maroon highlights and her hazel eyes were as cold as the waters of San Francisco Bay in January. She wore brown, cuffed slacks with a tiny plaid pattern; a long-sleeved burgundy pullover knit top, and a camel-colored woolen blazer. The coat hung open enough for me to see the silver badge hooked to her belt and the auto-pistol in the cross-draw holster on her left hip.

  Delcambre was more the archetypal burly veteran cop—big shoulders accentuated by the black leather jacket he wore, no waist, and alert brown eyes that moved constantly as he scanned the room and passersby for any signs of a threat. His face was round with a rich caféau-lait complexion, his short black curly hair was flecked with gray, and he wore a full salt-and-pepper moustache and wire-framed eyeglasses.

  At last Delcambre’s eyes settled on me and he stuck out his hand. “Your wife told us that you’re a former San Francisco PD homicide inspector.”

  “Yeah, up until my shin got FUBAR-ed.” The sanitized version of what the acronym FUBAR stands for is “Fouled Up Beyond All Recognition.” However, cops usually employ a more expressive word than “fouled.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “Gun fight with a murder suspect.”

  “You mind if I ask if you’re CCW now?” Mulvaney asked. The initials stood for carrying a concealed weapon.

  “I haven’t carried a gun in a couple of years and don’t miss it either. So, how can we help you guys?”

  Mulvaney said, “We came here from the hospital. The emergency room physician is almost certain that Jennifer died from a toxin that basically shut her lungs down. However, we won’t know what kind of poison it was until tissue samples are collected at the autopsy and the ME’s office runs toxicological tests.”

  “And it usually takes five or six working days before we get the results from the lab,” Delcambre added.

  Mulvaney frowned slightly at what she clearly considered an interruption. “So naturally, we’re interested in how you knew she’d been poisoned.”

  “That’s because my wife smelled a strange chemical odor when she was giving Jennifer rescue breaths.”

  “Yes, she told us that.”

  “And before that, there was Jennifer’s reaction when she took a huff from the inhaler. She wasn’t expecting whatever it was that came out, because she looked shocked. Then there’s the fact that the inhaler disappeared while we were doing CPR. Put it all together and I thought it looked suspicious.”

  Mulvaney nodded and looked thoughtful. “I strongly agree. That’s why I’d like to have Sergeant Delcambre conduct a pat-down of you while I search your wife.”

  “Excuse me, but why would you want to search us?” I asked, attempting to keep my voice congenial.

  “To eliminate the possibility that you might have the inhaler.”

  Ash recoiled slightly in surprise. “Why would we have it?”

  “I’ve received certain information that I have to follow up on.”

  Suddenly, it began to make a little sense. The detectives had just arrived from the hospital, which meant that the only witness they’d had the opportunity to interview was Tony, who probably had a great deal to gain by shifting responsibility for Jennifer’s death onto us. I said, “Tony told you that we were responsible for his wife’s death, didn’t he?”

  “Mr. Swift provided me with a preliminary statement.”

  “What did he say?”

  “As an ex-homicide detective, you know I won’t tell you that.”

  “But whatever it was, the fact that you want to search us, tells me you believed him. Do you have any idea of how strange this is?”

  “I have a sworn duty to follow all investigative leads…even if they point in the direction of a former cop and his wife.”

  “Let me get this straight: Are you actually looking at us as suspects in Jennifer’s murder?”

  Ash looked stunned and asked a more pertinent question. “And are you utterly nuts?”

  The atmosphere surrounding our small group had quickly grown very tense. I shot a quick glance at Delcambre, who wore a blank expression, but there was something in the slight downward tilt of his head and rigid set of his mouth that told me he didn’t agree with his boss’s conclusions or tactics. At the same, he didn’t look very surprised, which told me that he’d seen this sort of ambush interview technique from her before.

  Mulvaney threw her shoulders back authoritatively. “No, I’m not accusing you of murder…at this time. Nor am I nuts, Mrs. Lyon. But there are a number of things that puzzle me.”

  I wanted to say: If you actually believe we had anything to do with the murder, I’ll bet that things like printing your name and tying your shoes puzzle you. Instead, I said, “Such as?”

  “Isn’t it true you had a violent confrontation with the Swifts yesterday morning in the hotel parking structure?”

  “No. I interrupted them in the middle of a domestic dispute and stopped Tony from slapping his wife into low earth orbit.”

  “What were they arguing about?” Mulvaney sounded mildly interested.

  “From the little I heard, Jennifer was concerned over some sort of situation and Tony got mad because he thought she was going to mess it up. There wasn’t much talk before he went ballistic and I had to step in.”

  “What if I told you that we’d heard you threatened the Swifts with your cane?”

  “Then I’d say Tony was talking out of his ass because his mouth knew better.”

  Delcambre chuckled and Mulvaney frowned. She said, “So, you’re denying it.”

  I sighed. “Yes, I deny it.”

  “Were there any witnesses that can confirm your version of the incident?”

  “No, and this is getting ridiculous.”

  “Not from where I stand. You say you allegedly witnessed this crime, yet our records indicate that you never called the police.”

  “Of course I didn’t call. Why would I?” I began ticking the reasons off on my fingers and resisted the powerful urge to shift into “rant” mode. “A, there was no actual battery, so the crime was a very thin misdemeanor. B, like many domestic violence victims, Jennifer wasn’t exactly thankful that I’d interceded and undoubtedly would have denied the incident ever happened. C, Tony threatened to kick my ass, but I wasn’t interested in pressing charges. D, I had a truck full of stuffed animals and other stuff to unload and didn’t feel like waiting for a patrol car to arrive and then wasting another half-hour giving information for a report that would never be investigated. And E, my cell phone probably wouldn’t have worked in the parking structure.”

  As I spoke, Mulvaney pulled a small notepad from her coat pocket and jotted down some information. Without looking up, she said in a thoughtful, yet slightly smug voice, “Huh. So, you essentially admit that you didn’t want the police to know about your encounter with the Swifts.”

  “That’s not what he said.” Ash glowered at Mulvaney. “And lady, a word to the wise: Don’t try to play word games with my husband, because you’ll lose.”

  “Since it’s obvious you’ve already bought Tony’s version of the incident, did he also think to tell you why he didn’t call the cops to report being assaulted by a cripple?” I asked.

  “Anything that Mr. Swift may or may not have said to us is confidential.” Mulvaney snapped the notepad shut and shoved it back into her coat pocket. “Moving on. Can you explain why you ordered a certified EMT to stop treating Mrs. Swift, so that you and your wife could take over?”

  “Because Tony thought that the EMT—whose name is Todd Litten, by the way—was playing ‘hide the kielbasa’ with his wife. Tony was behaving like a complete fool and exacerbating the situation, so there wasn’t any option but to have Todd step aside. But you
don’t have to take our word for it.” I waved toward the crowded exhibit hall. “There were over a hundred witnesses.”

  “We’ll get to them.”

  “And as long as you’re on a fishing expedition for suspects, you might want to take a good look at Todd. The Good Samaritan was nowhere to be seen when things went south.”

  “That’s because you told him to go and, for your information, Mr. Litten came to the hospital and was very helpful…unlike you.”

  “You want help? Here’s an idea: you might want to spend a few moments figuring out just what our motive would be to kill a woman we didn’t know.”

  “And then tried to save her life,” said Ash.

  “As I said earlier, I’m not accusing you of anything, yet. So, any speculation about your motive would be premature. Right now, I suspect everyone and no one.”

  The situation was becoming progressively more surreal, because Mulvaney had just unwittingly quoted Inspector Clouseau from the old comedy film, A Shot in the Dark, and imagined she sounded profound.

  I took a deep breath. “Listen carefully, Lieutenant. We didn’t kill anybody and frankly, it amazes me that you didn’t do a little digging into Tony’s background before you came over here to roust us.”

  Delcambre cleared his throat. “Actually, we’ve confirmed that Mr. Swift has two prior convictions in Pennsylvania for spousal battery and that he just got off probation.”

  “That’s confidential information,” Mulvaney snapped.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. I can’t tell you how comforting it is to know that at least one of you thought to do something as basic as check and see if Tony had a criminal record.” Turning back to Mulvaney, I continued, “If Tony has two priors for D.V., why isn’t he at the top of your suspect list?”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t on my list, but with your background as a cop, you know as well as I do that wife-beaters tend to remain very MO constant. They punch, they kick, and they throw their spouses against walls because the motive is domination and terror. They almost never break from pattern to poison them.”

  “Okay, so he doesn’t fit the profile. How come we do?”

  “Look at it from my point of view. Out of all the people at this teddy bear show, who possesses the most knowledge about methods of committing and concealing murder?”

  I thought for a second. “Me. But—”

  “That’s right, you—the same person who had a violent showdown with the victim and her husband yesterday and then prevented an EMT from helping the victim this morning.”

  “All of which he explained, if you’d been listening,” Ash snapped.

  “You, be quiet.” Mulvaney pointed a warning finger at Ash.

  “And if you speak that way to my wife one more time, I’ll end this interview right now.”

  Mulvaney took a deep breath. “I apologize, but I don’t know why you’re making this so difficult.”

  “I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with the fact that it looks like you’re trying to frame us for murder. We’re standing here answering pointed questions, while Tony the Tiger—the guy who brought Jennifer the inhaler, I might add—is probably at the breakfast buffet.”

  “That’s not true. He’s upstairs, standing by while another team of my detectives searches his room. So, we’re not just ‘rousting’ you,” Mulvaney said testily.

  “That was mighty fast work getting a search warrant.”

  “He gave us permission, and when we’re done here, I want your consent to search your room.”

  “Why? You have no reason.”

  “If you’re innocent, it’ll help me eliminate you from consideration as a suspect.”

  “It seems to me that you’re a little turned around on our system of law, Lieutenant. It’s your job as cops to collect the evidence, investigate, and identify potential suspects. I, on the other hand, don’t have any duty to prove my innocence to you.”

  Mulvaney’s lips became compressed and pale. “Mr. Lyon, I’m very busy and I’ve tried to be nice. Now, I want your cooperation or you’ll force me to pursue a more aggressive course.”

  “It isn’t cooperation if I consent because you’ve threatened me. That’s called coercion.”

  “I’m going to search your room.”

  “Then I think it would be best if you got a search warrant because I’m not giving you permission.”

  “Why, do you have something to hide?”

  It took every ounce of restraint I possessed not to answer: Only my contempt for you. I’d spoken with Mulvaney long enough to understand that she derived unsavory enjoyment from exercising power over other people and viewed any resistance to her agenda as a personal affront. The fact of the matter was that searching our room was no longer as important as satisfying her intense need to assert dominancy.

  Finally, I said, “No, I have nothing to hide and you’ve exhausted my patience, so we have nothing further to say. You can refer any further inquiries to our attorney.”

  “Fine. You want to lawyer up? See if I care.”

  A woman walked up to our table and picked up Brenda Brownie. Smiling, she began to ask Ash something about the bear. Mulvaney pulled her coat open so that our prospective customer could see the gun and shield on her belt and said, “These people are busy with us right now. Come back later. They might still be here—that is, if I don’t book them.”

  “Was that necessary?” I asked, watching the potential customer scurry away and knowing that it wouldn’t be long before the word circulated throughout the exhibit hall that Ash and I were under investigation by the cops.

  “You’re the one that decided to play hardball and I’m not going to waste any more time on you. Put your hands behind your head and interlock your fingers, so that my partner can conduct a pat-down for that inhaler.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Pardon me?” Mulvaney’s jaw jutted out.

  “You aren’t going to touch my wife, or me, because this isn’t Nazi Germany and you don’t have the right to search people at random. And, if you insist on trying to conduct a pat-down, I will resist, so you’d better be prepared to physically subdue me and take me into custody.”

  “Both of us,” Ash added as she moved next to me.

  Delcambre began, “Lieutenant, maybe we’d better—”

  “I’m in charge here.”

  I said, “Then you—as the on-scene commander—should know better than anyone else that you have absolutely no evidence or valid information to establish the ‘reasonable suspicion’ necessary to conduct a cursory pat-down search for weapons. That’s prehistoric case law—Mapp versus Ohio. So, if you proceed, you’re in clear violation of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution.”

  “Don’t lecture me.”

  “Somebody should have, at some point in your career. What are your options? You can take us into custody for interfering with your investigation and search us incident to a ‘lawful’ arrest—except we all know it won’t be a lawful arrest. So, that will put you in violation of the Fifth Amendment of the Constitution, too.” I held my hands up in mock surrender. “But hey, if the Baltimore City Police Department has six or seven hundred grand to settle the ten-million-dollar false-arrest and violation of civil rights lawsuit we’ll file—and you don’t mind reading about your recklessly criminal behavior in the Washington Post—let’s get this party started.”

  “He’s right, Lieutenant,” Delcambre said quietly. “Maybe we should back off a little and rethink this.”

  “I don’t back off from anyone, especially not from some wise-ass gimp who thinks he’s F. Lee Bailey,” Mulvaney said as she reached behind her back and fumbled for something.

  “This is insane!” said Ash.

  “Close your eyes and hold onto my hand, honey.”

  I hoped Mulvaney was reaching for handcuffs, but had a feeling she was grabbing her pepper spray and I got ready for the sensation of having my eyes lit on fire with a road flare. I’d been accidentally sprayed with
the stuff several times during my police career and I don’t have the words to tell you how much it hurts. However, we’ll never know what she was going to do, because we were interrupted.

  “Lieutenant! We think we’ve found something important!” said a man as he jogged up the aisle carrying a brown-paper lunch sack. He wore blue coveralls, latex gloves, and a ball cap that bore the embroidered letters, BCPD CSI, which meant the guy was an evidence technician.

  I heard Delcambre quietly sigh with relief as Mulvaney turned to the tech. “What do you have?”

  “He did a great job of hiding it, but we found it hidden behind the ventilation duct grate in the bathroom,” the tech said proudly as he carefully lifted an asthma inhaler from the bag. “Check this out. There was a tiny hole drilled in the canister and then he tried to reseal it, so that it wouldn’t be noticed.”

  “But the repair didn’t hold,” said Delcambre, squinting at the inhaler.

  “Exactly. We also found the drill—eighteen volt, battery-operated and a box of bits.”

  “What is that clear stuff oozing out?” asked Mulvaney.

  “Not medicine, that’s for sure. We’ll obviously have to wait for the crime lab, but if I had to guess…”

  “What do you think it is?” Mulvaney demanded.

  “It could be superglue.”

  “If she inhaled enough of the fumes, what would happen?”

  “It would likely immediately freeze the cilia of her lungs and she’d quickly drown in her own fluids,” I interjected.

  Everyone looked at me and Mulvaney asked, “How do you know that?”

  “Back in the nineties, I knew an evidence tech that was doing the superglue process to raise prints from a gun. He got a big huff by accident and was in the hospital for two weeks. His lungs never completely healed.”

  Delcambre was shaking his head angrily. “Jesus, and remember that residue we noticed on Tony’s hands? Now that I think about it, it might have been dried superglue.”

  “Where is Swift?” Mulvaney asked the tech.

  “Still in the room with Detectives Oleszak and Crawford.”