by John J. Lamb
We were traveling almost due east and at last that damned fence turned inland and away from the river. Caisson Hill was now directly to our left, and ahead, the upper ramparts of the Blue Ridge Mountains were visible above a dying cornfield that adjoined the river. Then the Shenandoah curled southward again, and as Ash guided the boat through the turn, we both saw something that definitely qualified as a clue.
On the east side of the river, a metallic red Chevy S-10 pickup truck was parked behind a colossal pick-up-sticks jumble of fallen tree trunks.
Chapter 9
“Well, isn’t that interesting.” I got the binoculars out and scanned the terrain surrounding the S-10 for any signs of other people, but soon saw that we were alone. “Honey, just how much farther upriver is the Island Ford Bridge?”
Ash peered southward. “A couple of miles.”
“Okay, let me get this straight: In order to buy the sheriff ’s theory, we’re supposed to believe that the dead guy parked his—”
“He wasn’t dead yet.”
“You know what I meant, my love, and please don’t interrupt—I’m a soliloquizing detective just like in those silly mystery novels of yours, and if life were like fiction, Kitch could talk with a voice like Sebastian Cabot’s and he’d tell us how the guy really died. Anyway, we’re supposed to be stupid enough to believe that the soon-to-be-dead guy—”
“Much better.” Ash tried to suppress a giggle.
“Parked his truck here in the middle of nowhere and then hiked a couple of miles to the bridge—”
“In the dark and through muddy fields.”
“Correct. And then jumped from the bridge to drown himself.”
“Yet, you don’t sound as if you believe that.”
“Oh, you think? So, can we land over there and take a closer look?”
“Sure, but not right next to the truck. The bank is too steep.”
“That’s just as well because I wouldn’t want to risk destroying any shoe impressions we might find in the mud.”
A couple of minutes later, we’d tied the boat to a tree and were picking our way through the dense undergrowth toward the truck. Actually, Ash wasn’t having any problems and she was carrying the knapsack. However, I was finding the going increasingly tough and was relying more and more on my cane as my leg began to ache. Gnats and large flies buzzed around our heads and I swatted uselessly at them. Finally, we came to the clearing and saw that the Chevy had been abandoned at the end of a dirt lane that was invisible from the river. The road led up the low bluff and into the cornfield. The truck was exactly as Sergei described it, with the exception of a pair of two-inch rounded scars on the driver’s side of the windshield that I knew were caused by bullets striking, but not penetrating, the sloped safety glass.
I glanced into the cab and cargo deck and was immensely relieved not to find a bullet-riddled body beginning to turn into corpse pudding in the warm weather. You haven’t lived until you encounter the cloying stench of a dead body that’s been inside a car for a couple of days in the summer sun. It permeates everything. You can smell it on your clothes, on your skin, and in your hair. It’s one of the few things about being a homicide inspector I definitely don’t miss.
“I take it I’m not supposed to touch anything,” said Ash.
“Not until we get Tina to process the truck for latent fingerprints.”
Since the passenger window was open about five inches, I decided to take a closer look inside the cab. The first thing I noticed was a handheld Uniden Bearcat police radio scanner lying on the front passenger seat—standard equipment for a professional burglar. Other than that, there wasn’t much to see. The glove box was closed, there were no vehicle keys visible, and the ignition system hadn’t been punched or hotwired.
“It’s got to be the victim’s truck. There’s a scanner on the seat.”
“And who goes out without one of those?” Ash nodded in the direction of the windshield. “Are those marks what I think they are?”
“Yup, somebody capped a couple of rounds at the truck. Probably with a pistol or revolver.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your average handgun bullet doesn’t have the mass or enough velocity to puncture safety glass—which is pretty tough stuff. What usually happens is that the projectile gouges the glass and ricochets off.”
“But I don’t understand. If the killer had a gun, why did he strangle the guy?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe he was a practical choker.”
Ash laughed and rolled her eyes. “Brad, that’s terrible.”
“Thank you. It’s a relief to know I haven’t lost my talent for gallows humor. And by the way, you asked a damn good question. The gunfire doesn’t make any sense. Why crank off a couple rounds and run the risk of drawing attention to yourself when you intend to quietly strangle your victim?”
“So, what do we do now?”
“First, we find out who the registered owner is.” I dug the phone from my pants’ pocket and pressed the number for Tina. The phone rang and rang and then switched over to her voice mail. I listened to the salutation, waited for the beep, and then said, “Tina, this is Brad and I need you to run a vehicle plate for me ASAP. It’s Virginia license three-William-Lincoln-Mary-six-one-five and should come back to a late model Chevy pickup. We’re on the east side of the river about—I don’t know—maybe a mile south of Caisson Hill. Call me and I’ll explain the rest.”
“I wonder why she didn’t answer.”
“Probably out on a call and couldn’t pick up. At least, I hope that’s the reason.”
Ash pointed toward the ground near the front of the truck. “I noticed these while you were on the phone and I think you’ll find them very interesting.”
I joined her and nodded in agreement. The marks in the muddy soil pretty much told the entire story of what had happened here. It was like a connect-the-dot puzzle or one of those dreadfully unfunny “Family Circus” Sunday comic strips where you can follow Jeffy’s path on a black dotted line as he meanders through his neighborhood.
The trail began at the ground beneath the driver’s door. There were prints from what looked like maybe a man’s size ten boots, and they led to the rear of the truck where the person wearing those boots had undoubtedly pulled the dead man from the cargo bed. I knew this because the segment of boot impressions that led away from the tailgate clearly indicated the person was walking backwards, since the boot heels had made much deeper impressions in the mud. Running between the boot prints now, and sometimes obscuring them, were two shallow grooves in the dirt, a trail made by the dead man’s tennis shoes as he was dragged past the barricade of fallen trees and toward the river. We walked a parallel course, careful not to obliterate the physical evidence. The path led to the edge of the river where the drag marks abruptly stopped and the boot marks turned back toward the gravel lane and the cornfield beyond.
Ash also understood the cuneiform tale etched in the dirt and said, “So, he was killed someplace else, brought here in the back of the truck, and dumped in the river. But why here?”
“Excellent. You’re beginning to think like a homicide inspector. You tell me why.”
“I suppose because the killer was familiar with how to get here.”
“Correct. And we also know the killer is in good physical shape because he moved the dead man by himself.”
“Trent’s got those kind of muscles.”
“I hate to remind you of this, but so does Pastor Marc, and for that matter, Sheriff Holcombe looks wiry enough to have done it.”
“That’s true,” Ash said grudgingly.
The phone rang and I answered it. “This is Brad.”
“Hi, it’s Tina. Sorry I didn’t get your call, but I was up in Thermopylae.”
That explained her being unable to receive the wireless call. Thermopylae is a collection of farms and cabins hidden in a narrow gap between Hanse Mountain and the Blue Ridge. I said, “That’s all right. Did you run the
vehicle?”
“I did. You clear to copy?”
“Give me a second.” I pulled the notebook and pen from the knapsack. “Okay, Tina, go ahead.”
“The plate comes back to a 2004 Chevrolet truck registered to a Robert Thayer with an address in Warrenton.”
“Well, what do you know, maybe the guy’s name actually was Bob.”
“You sound as if you know him.”
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but someone mentioned that name yesterday at the teddy bear show and it was in conjunction with him having disappeared along with a one-hundred-seventy-thousand-dollar teddy bear.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope and if we’re talking about the same guy, he’s Elizabeth Ewell’s nephew. Did you run him through DMV?”
“Yes, and the physical description tallies with that of the victim.”
“How about local warrants and NCIC wants?”
“He’s got a felony warrant out of Fauquier County for breaking and entering and grand larceny.”
“There’s a shock.”
“So, where are you exactly?”
I looked at Ash. “Honey, where are we exactly?”
“I think somewhere on the Henshaw’s land, but it’s been over twenty-five years, so I don’t even know if the Henshaws are still here.”
I told Tina, “She thinks we’re on the Henshaw farm.”
“That’s on Wallace Road off of Route Three-forty.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Okay, I’ll be—hang on.” In the background I heard a transmission come in over Tina’s police radio and then she acknowledged the call. “It’s going to be a little while ’til I get there. I’ve just been dispatched to an injury crash over in Lynwood.”
“Not a problem. We’ll hang loose here but, before I let you go, one question: Do you have a latent-print kit?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have much experience with it.”
“Don’t worry, I do. We’ll see you when you get here.”
The moment I disconnected from the call, Ash asked, “What does this have to do with the Mourning Bear?”
“Yesterday, the auctioneer’s gofer told me that Liz Ewell’s nephew was supposed to be bringing the bear to the show. His name is Robert Thayer—”
“And this is his truck?”
“Well, the registration says he lives in Warrenton, but that isn’t really very far from here. And the real kicker is that he’s got—had, I suppose, in light of his present condition—an arrest warrant for burglary.”
“Oh my God, do you think someone killed him to get the Mourning Bear?”
“Well, the bear is missing and, believe me, one-hundred-seventy-thousand bucks is plenty of motive for murder. And if it is the motive, that puts Poole right back at the top of our suspect list.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the nexus. He was Thayer’s partner-in-crime and apparently knew Lorraine Cleland.”
“What does Lorraine have to do with all this?”
“Maybe nothing, but she wanted the Mourning Bear—remember, she told us that the main reason she’d come to the teddy bear show was for the auction—and I saw her leaving Poole’s house.”
“And you think Pastor Marc robbed and killed Thayer so he could give the Mourning Bear to Lorraine?” Ash sounded incredulous.
“I don’t know what the hell to think, Ash. Too many pieces just don’t fit and I guess it’s pointless to speculate until we know more.” I looked from the truck toward the cornfield. “Tina’s been sent to a traffic collision, so she won’t be here for awhile yet. You up for a little walk?”
“Sure, but how about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your leg hurts, doesn’t it?”
I lifted my left leg a little and rotated it as far as I could outwards. “Yeah, but it’s going to hurt no matter what we’re doing out here and I want to take a look at that road leading through the cornfield to see if there’s any evidence or tire tracks showing there was a secondary vehicle.”
“How about some ibuprofen?”
“Three, please.”
Ash slipped the knapsack from her shoulders and, a moment later, handed me the pills and a bottle of water. “This is the girl-cootie-free water, although I think it’s a little late for you to be worrying about that now.”
“Tell me.” I popped the painkillers into my mouth and took several big gulps from the bottle. “You want to know how bad my girl-cootie infection is? I dream up cute costumes for teddy bears, I have an intelligent opinion on textured plush fur with glitter highlights, and I even know the many uses of jacquard ribbon.”
“And you’re enjoying every bit of it.”
“Yeah, I am. It beats the hell out of looking at dead bodies and I get to spend all my time with you.” I handed the bottle back to Ash. “How about I carry the knapsack for awhile? Oh, and thanks for being here, honey. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world because, after all these years, I finally get to see how you investigate a murder.”
“We’re investigating a murder.”
We followed the Chevy’s tire tracks to where they ended at the lane, and I quickly concluded that even if there had been a second vehicle involved in the body dump, we’d never find physical proof of its presence. There was too much compacted gravel in the roadbed to leave any tire impressions. It would have been easy to call it quits and not follow the road any farther. A lot of investigators might have done so in good faith, believing they’d truly and thoroughly examined the “scene of the crime.” However, I have an unorthodox view of that misunderstood expression. The scene of a crime isn’t merely a place; it’s a continuum that extends across both time and space. It springs into existence when the idea is first formed to commit a crime and the scene conceivably has no terminus point.
Yeah, I know that sounds like sappy New Age psychobabble, but consider: The scene of this crime began when someone decided to kill Thayer. Maybe that was also where Thayer died, but there was no way of telling yet. However, the one thing I did know for a certainty was that after the contact between killer and victim, the crime scene began to expand like the Federal budget. The route to the body dumpsite, the abandoned truck, the three miles or so of the Shenandoah that carried the corpse northward, and the site where Thayer’s body was gaffed from the river—all were part of a contiguous “scene of the crime.” And if the killer stole the Mourning Bear, his subsequent path was also part of that still-growing scene. Ultimately, you really have no idea of how large a crime scene is until you begin to really look, and that was why we followed the road farther into the dead cornfield.
I’d never been in a cornfield before and I didn’t like it. I couldn’t see anything, yet my peripheral vision kept registering movement because the desiccated stalks and leaves were trembling in the soft wind. Despite the breeze, the air was unpleasantly heavy and tasted faintly of dust, mold, and hidden corruption. Then there was the bleak, parched, and almost spectral rustling of the corn shocks, a despairing sound easy to imagine as polite applause from an invisible audience of skeletons.
I wasn’t the only one oppressed by the atmosphere. Ash was silent, and wore an expression that was both alert and pensive. I leaned closer and rasped, “If you build it, he will come.”
She jumped and pretended to swat my arm. “Don’t do that.”
We came to a slight rise and about fifty yards ahead we saw a ramshackle two-storied barn that looked as forlorn as the cornfield. The building’s white paint had faded to a muddy gray and the tin roof was badly rusted and visibly sagging on the side closest to us. There were a couple of huge black walnut trees just beyond the barn, and even at this distance you could see the green nut pods in the branches.
Ash said, “Okay, this was the Henshaws’ farm. That was their old barn. I’ve just never seen it from this angle.”
“Picturesque.”
“And dangerous. When
I was in high school I used to babysit on Saturdays for the Henshaws while they went into Harrisonburg. Their number-one rule was that the kids were not allowed anywhere near the old barn.”
Another minute of walking brought us to the barn, and as we approached the large livestock door, I thought I caught a faint whiff of smoke.
Ash took an experimental sniff. “Something’s burning. It smells like a campfire.”
The inside of the barn was as black as an electric company’s profit sheet during a phony energy crisis. We heard something move inside and froze. Then a large tabby cat emerged. It gave us a long and insolent stare and slowly sauntered away from the barn and into the corn, brown tail flicking back and forth.
Ash’s nose wrinkled. “The smoke is coming from that direction.”
We walked around the side of the barn and stopped to stare. A five-foot-tall shining copper device that looked like a hybrid between an overgrown samovar and a tactical nuclear missile nose cone sat upon a small brick stove. In stark contrast to the deteriorated barn, the metal was meticulously maintained and gleamed like a newly minted penny. There was a pressure gauge attached to the top of the bubbling contraption and a copper reflux tube, bent in the shape of a curlicue, that led to a three- or four-gallon copper pot. A neat stack of firewood, precisely cut to fit the small oven, was piled beside the giant percolator.
“And now I know why the Henshaws never wanted their kids to come back here,” said Ash.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day: a still for making corn liquor. I had no idea that people still made white lightning, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“No, folks have been making moonshine for a couple of hundred years here in the Valley. It’s part of the culture.”
I bent over to sniff the contents of the copper pot and began to cough. When I recovered my breath, I gasped, “My God, this stuff would remove varnish from a table. Where can I buy some?”
