Case of the Holiday Hijinks

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  “Colin can go for hours,” Hannah said, giving me a smile. “That’s why that boy puts away so much food, I’m sure.”

  “He had a healthy appetite, that’s for sure,” I added, eyeing the one lonely piece of pizza still sitting in the open box. “Anyway, I suggested to Vance that it was almost like Santa Claus was taking back all the presents, since neither of us could figure out how the perp got inside.”

  “I’ll wager they used a transporter,” Jillian giggled.

  “Dork,” Hannah snorted, letting out a small giggle. “Could they have had a key?”

  “How?” I asked. “We’ve already verified there weren’t any keys hidden around the property.”

  “What if the thief found something unlocked and made sure to lock it once they left?” Jillian asked.

  I shook my head, “I heard Vance ask that question at each crime scene. Each time the occupant swore inside and out that there was nothing left open or unlocked.”

  “What else is there?” Hannah asked.

  “Chimney!” Colin blurted out as he sprinted by. Both corgis were still in pursuit.

  “Good idea, kid,” I called out as Colin disappeared from view. “Only I’m pretty sure Santa didn’t do it,” I muttered once he was out of earshot.

  “I’d say that leaves only one option,” Jillian announced. “Someone picked the lock.”

  “Vance said that the locks didn’t look like they had been tampered with,” I reminded her.

  Colin and the dogs came back into the room. The boy was out of breath and still laughing as he claimed one of the recliners in the room. Sherlock and Watson padded up to him, saw that their prey was now motionless, and slid into ‘down’ positions. After a moment or two they keeled over, as if their wind-up keys had finally wound down.

  “I know two someones who will be sleeping well tonight,” I observed.

  Hannah looked at her son and smiled.

  “Better make that three.”

  “Back to lock picking,” I said. “I’ve always assumed that picking a lock would leave telltale signs on the lock itself that would prove it had been tampered with.”

  “Maybe for an amateur,” Jillian said, “but what about a pro? If you knew what you were doing, could you pick a lock and not leave any marks or scratches on the locks?”

  “Look it up.”

  We all looked over at the boy and saw that he had pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and was tapping and sliding his finger across the screen. He waited a few moments, tapped another set of commands, and then smiled. He held the phone up for us to see.

  “See? It’s possible.”

  “What did you do?” Hannah asked her son.

  “I just Googled the answer, mom,” Colin said. “You always tell me to ‘look it up’ whenever I have a question and want to know the answer. Well, that’s what Google is for. If you don’t know, you ask it and it’ll tell you.”

  “Google is not a person,” Hannah corrected. “You can’t speak about an inanimate object like it has feelings.”

  “It says right here that it is possible to pick a lock without leaving any traces, provided you’re an expert in lock picking. It takes a lot of expertise.”

  Colin handed me his phone as I made my way over to him. I looked at the article he was looking at. He had pulled up one of those Wiki websites.

  “It also says that it takes time to do it without any noticeable marks. Thanks, Colin. That’s incredibly helpful.”

  The boy beamed at this.

  “Could the police take apart the locks and see if there are any scratches inside?” Hannah suggested. “Would they be able to tell if the lock was picked?”

  I shrugged, “I guess it’s possible. I do think that it’s definitely worth passing along.

  My phone rang just as I pulled it out of my pocket. I looked at the display and grunted. Well, well. Speak of the devil.

  “Vance. Hey, I’ve got something you might be interested in. Is it possible to take apart the locks on those two burglaries and see if the lock could have been picked?”

  “Maybe. Forget about that for now. Do you know where Birch Street is?”

  I thought for a moment.

  “South of Main?”

  “Right. Get down here on the double.”

  I felt a chill go down my spine. Something was wrong. Vance was spooked and I didn’t want to know what it would take to spook a police detective.

  “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  “There’s been another burglary. And this time we have a body.”

  SIX

  “Do we know who it is?” I asked as soon as I arrived on scene and managed to get Vance’s attention.

  The dogs and I had been standing outside the scene of the third burglary for about twenty minutes now. Vance had informed me since the house was now the scene of a homicide, we wouldn’t be allowed inside until the crime scene techs had done their preliminary investigation. I was pretty certain that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to find anything once the CSTs had finished their work but I also knew it couldn’t hurt to try.

  “The DB was a relative of the homeowner,” Vance informed me, pulling out a familiar notepad. He flipped a few pages. “Mr. Jeremy Rutton, Portland. He’s a nephew to Mr. Horace Rutton, owner of the house.”

  “DB?” I repeated, frowning.

  “Dead body. Jeez, Zack. I thought you were a writer.”

  “I’m not a crime writer, thank you very much,” I snapped in reply.

  “What kind of books did you say you write again?” Vance asked, turning to look back at the house as police continued to swarm around it.

  Swell. How was I going to get out of this one?

  “Detective Samuelson!” a voice called out.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been saved by some woman who had just exited the house.

  “Yes?” Vance said.

  “As per your request, I contacted the locksmith. He said he’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  Vance nodded his thanks.

  “We’re leaving no stone unturned this time,” Vance told me. “I want to know if the lock has been picked, so we have PV’s new locksmith stopping by.”

  “As long as he doesn’t give copies of the keys he makes to…”

  “He doesn’t and he won’t,” Vance assured me. “Apparently he’s a retired policeman who’s just looking for something to do. And to top it off, he’s a friend of the captain, so if anything happens it’ll be the captain who looks bad.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” I decided.

  The last locksmith to call PV home had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Apparently he had been making copies of all the keys that had come through his store and had been helping himself to their valuables whenever the homeowner went out of town. Call me paranoid, but I had every single lock changed yet again after that news broke, even paying through the nose to get a locksmith from Medford out to my house.

  “So the VIC is from out of town,” I said. “That really stinks. So what do you think happened? Do you think the VIC surprised the burglar by coming home early or do you think maybe the burglar thought the house was empty and made the mistake of breaking in?”

  “Neither, although you’re closer with option two.”

  “So the victim was home and the burglar surprised him,” I deduced. “This marks the first burglary of an occupied house, doesn’t it?”

  “You didn’t hear me,” Vance pointed out. “You’re close but not quite right. The burglar hit this house and stole all the presents, only there wasn’t one person home but two.”

  “What? Does that mean we have a witness that can identify the murderer?”

  Vance shook his head, “No. The VIC’s girlfriend was upstairs, taking a nap. She slept right through the break-in and the murder.”

  I whistled in amazement, “And I thought I was a heavy sleeper.”

  “She insists she’s a very light sleeper,” Vance argued, “and t
hat she was only upstairs for about fifteen minutes. Do you get that, Zack? This guy, whoever he is, managed to gain access to the house, steal the presents, and shoot the VIC with what the ME thinks is a 9mm pistol. All without waking up the girl upstairs and in only a few minutes.”

  “How the hell did he do that?” I demanded.

  “That’s why you’re here,” Vance told me. “Third time’s the charm. I’m hoping Sherlock finds something or else he’s gonna lose his rep as Wonderdog.”

  A man appeared in the open doorway of the house and waved Vance and I over.

  “There’s our signal,” Vance said, heading towards the house. “Apparently they think they’ve learned everything they need to and will allow you and the dogs in. Same rules as before. Don’t touch anything. If Sherlock spots something then let me know, okay?”

  “You got it. Sherlock, Watson, are you ready? Let’s go see if we can find anything.”

  Both corgis, who had been sitting complacently on the sidewalk on either side of me, rose to their feet, shook themselves off – almost in perfect unison – and trotted alongside me as I headed towards the front door. We crossed into the house and I paused as I gave all the extra slack in the leash to the dogs. Sherlock glanced once up at me and immediately moved off. Watson followed closely behind.

  One of the crime scene techs walked past us just then. The guy nodded his head when he saw me. The jingle of a collar caused him to look down and smile at the dogs.

  “Which one is Sherlock?” the tech asked.

  I pointed him out.

  “He’s the one with the black fur.”

  “I hope he finds something,” the tech confidentially told me.

  “Why?” I asked, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Couldn’t find anything in here?”

  The tech shook his head, “Not a damn thing. Look around. This place should’ve been a smorgasbord for a thief yet they only took what was under the tree.”

  “Just like before,” I softly mused.

  “Except for the DB. The perp must’ve thought this place was empty.”

  The tech moved off as I followed Sherlock around the single-story home. We checked out bedrooms, several bathrooms, and the laundry room. Then we did a walk-through of the kitchen and garage. I eyed the living room and the large Christmas tree it contained and sighed. Lying dead center in the… Hmm. Poor choice of words. Directly in the middle of the room was the DB. There was also, thankfully, a circle of people around the body that hid it from sight. Good. The only problem was, the dogs and I still needed to check out the living room. Might as well get it over with.

  “Come on, buddy,” I said, giving Sherlock’s leash a light tug. “Let’s go see if there’s anything worthwhile in the living room, okay? Ignore the thing in the middle of the room and try not to fixate on the tree, okay? I know you like Christmas trees.”

  And don’t like mine, I mentally added. The little booger. Whatever.

  Sure enough, as soon as we neared the tree Sherlock slowed and gazed up at it. He probably stared at it for a good ten seconds or so before turning to look at me as though I was a dumbass for missing the obvious. I couldn’t hide my groan.

  “It’s just a tree, pal. Nothing more. Let it go, okay?”

  Surprisingly, Sherlock turned and then stared at a large potted plant sitting just inside the living room closest to the foyer. He pulled on his leash. If he wanted to look at a plant, fine. We’ll look at the plant.

  Sherlock nosed the pot a few times and then turned to look up at me. Well, color me intrigued. Remembering that we weren’t supposed to touch anything I looked for Vance and saw him standing a dozen feet away, talking on his cell. I waved at him to get his attention.

  Vance looked at me and mouthed, what? I pointed at the plant. Vance hurriedly terminated the call and rushed over.

  “What did you find?”

  “Not a clue. Sherlock stopped here and nudged the pot. Thought you ought to know. I wasn’t about to go fishing around inside there to see what might be there.”

  Vance pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on. He squatted down next to the plant and gently pushed aside the foliage. He uttered a grunt of surprise. He reached inside and pulled out a 9mm shell casing.

  “Well, well, well. What have we here?” Vance held the casing up to his nose and sniffed a few times. “Gunpowder. This shell has been fired recently. Zack, I do believe we have the shell casing from the gun that killed our VIC.” Vance turned to look at Sherlock, who was returning the stare. “Good job, boy. That’s a damn good job. Our boys missed this.”

  We heard a knock at the door. Since we were already standing near the foyer, all we had to do was look up. A clean-cut older man wearing a pressed green business shirt and khakis, holding a large toolbox, was standing in the doorway.

  “Excuse me, fellas. Did someone call for a locksmith?”

  Vance nodded. He straightened, pulled out an evidence baggie from within his jacket pocket, and sealed the shell casing inside. He pulled off his glove and shook the man’s hand.

  “Detective Vance Samuelson.”

  “Jim Bennett. How can I help you, Detective?”

  Vance pointed at the open front door.

  “I need you to take that lock apart and tell me if it’s been picked. We’re trying to figure out how this jackass got into the house unnoticed.”

  Jim nodded, “Happy to help. I’ll get to work.”

  “So what kind of gun is that from?” I asked as we stepped away from the locksmith and back into the living room. “Can you tell?”

  “It came from a 9mm pistol,” Vance said as he pulled the plastic baggie from his pocket. He held it up for me to see. “I don’t think we’ll be lucky enough to find a print, or even a partial print on this thing but it’s at least the first bit of evidence we have on this guy. I’ll sic the lab boys on this just as soon as I get back to the station.”

  “This guy has gotta be stopped,” I muttered as I looked around the house. “This is the third house he’s hit in the last week. How long do you think it’ll take before this town starts freaking out?”

  Vance shook his head, “Not long at all. People are already calling in to report what they think is suspicious activity. The captain is gonna have to do something to address all these rumors. We’ve had people volunteering to go on patrol – armed of course – to which we have to tell them that we have this under control. Do you want to know what the problem is?”

  “You don’t have it under control,” I guessed.

  Vance nodded, “Right. We don’t. Hey, out of curiosity, did Sherlock show any interest in the tree?”

  “Yep. He went straight to it, like a moth to flame. I wish I knew what he was looking at.”

  A smirk formed on my friend’s face.

  “Zack? He’s looking a tree. That’s all.”

  “Possibly, but I can’t help feeling like we’re missing something.”

  Vance shrugged, “Perhaps. For now, I’ll settle with knowing that the locks were picked.”

  “They weren’t,” Jim’s voice said.

  The locksmith motioned us over and showed us the disassembled lock he had pulled from the front door. He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and began pointing at various pieces of the lock.

  “If the lock had been picked then we’d see tiny scratches on the metal here, at the key hole, and in here, on the tumblers. There are several ways to pick a lock. Assuming that we’re dealing with a pro, then they’d know this is a multi-tumbler lock. You’d insert a tension wrench in the bottom of the keyhole and then the pick is inserted at the top. To get the tumblers into position the pick is run back and forth, otherwise called ‘scrubbing’. That sort of action would leave marks. I see no evidence of that here.”

  “So much for that theory,” I grumbled.

  “There is another option,” Jim continued. “The lock could have been bumped.”

  “By what?” Vance asked.

  “No, it could have been bumped ope
n.”

  “The door can be bumped open?” I asked, appalled. “Talk about your shoddy workmanship. You’d think a front door would be more secure than that.”

  The locksmith shook his head, “No, not the door but the lock.”

  “The lock can be bumped open?” Vance skeptically asked.

  Jim nodded, “With the correct key, it can. You’d need a bumping key for that. Bumping keys can be made for each type of lock. Do you follow me?”

  Both Vance and I shook our heads no.

  “You take a key that’ll fit the lock,” Jim carefully explained. “You cut small grooves into the key, so that it looks like a miniature saw blade. The teeth in a bump key are set really low so that it can be fit into locks where the tumblers have been set low. The teeth are steep and jagged, so when you ‘bump’ the key while applying a little bit of torque, for a brief moment, the tumblers will bounce up into their unlock positions, thus allowing a window for you to open the lock. The torque you apply will make the tumblers stop once they reach the desired height.”

  Vance and I stared at each other in shock. Was this an actual viable method of obtaining entry into locked houses? How many people knew about this?

  “Does a bumped lock leave any traces behind?” Vance wanted to know.

  Jim shook his head, “No. If an amateur were to try bumping a lock, especially for the first time, then I’d say yes, but a bumping key, in the hands of an experienced professional, typically wouldn’t leave a trace.”

  “How hard of a bump does it take to make the tumblers move?” I asked. “And what do they use to make the bump? A special tool?”

  Once more Jim shook his head.

  “There are special hammers that will do the job but all it really takes is a firm tap on the key. All the demo videos I’ve seen shows the tool used is the handle of a screwdriver.”

  “How many bumps does it take?” I asked.

  “It depends on the lock,” Jim answered. He had finished installing the dead bolt and was now working on the door knob. “It could be one bump or several. I will tell you that the most I’ve seen is four bumps.”

  “Which could be disguised as someone knocking on the door,” Vance surmised.