by John J. Lamb
We continued our search on the west side of the bridge. I was examining the ground, poking at trash with the tip of my cane, when Ash called to me from the other side of the road, “Brad! You need to come look at this!”
She stood in a grassy lot on the north side of Island Ford Road, just west of the bridge and about twenty feet from the pavement. I crossed the highway to join her and bent over to take a better look. A pair of expended brass cartridges lay on the grass within inches of each other, their positions indicative of two shots fired from the same location.
Ash said, “Is this what we’re looking for?”
“Two rounds here and two dings in the windshield. I think so.”
I walked a few yards back toward the bridge, my gaze riveted to the earth. “The ground is too hard to show any tire impressions, but I’m pretty certain the truck was parked somewhere near here.”
“How can you tell?”
“Auto-pistols eject their brass to the right, usually three or four feet depending on the bounce.” I walked back to the cartridges and then took a couple of sidesteps to the left. “Which means the shooter was right about here.”
I got the camera out and took a series of photographs of the expended cartridges. Then I bent over and picked up one of the brass cylinders. I used my bare hands and didn’t bother with that nonsense you see on television where the brilliant detective uses a ballpoint pen or forceps to carefully pick up a cartridge so as not to obliterate a latent fingerprint. And invariably, the TV sleuth finds an amazingly distinct and complete fingerprint on the expended pistol cartridge; however, it’s a little different in real life. In fact, in all the years I’d been a homicide inspector I’d probably picked up a couple of hundred cartridges with a pen and never once did we find a usable latent print.
Anyway, I squinted at the writing that encircled the base of the bullet and said, “It’s Winchester nine-millimeter—the same brand of ammo the Sheriff ’s Department uses.”
“So, the truck was coming west on Island Ford Road and stopped here. Why?”
“More than likely pulled over for running an imaginary red light.”
“Trent?”
“He’d have been on duty at ten p.m.”
Ash looked northward toward Caisson Hill, which was a low green hump in the distance. “And if Thayer was traveling in this direction he might have been coming from his aunt’s house with the Mourning Bear.”
“Makes sense. He was supposed to have delivered it to the auctioneer on Friday night and this is the road you’d take to go to Harrisonburg.” I slowly exhaled and frowned. “However, the problem is that even if Trent is the killer, none of this makes any damn sense. If he robbed and murdered Thayer, why did Trent strangle him instead of shooting him? And here’s an even bigger freaking mystery: Why strangle Thayer here and then carpool his body over to the Henshaw Farm to toss it in the river—”
“Three hours later.”
“Exactly. What do you do with a dead man for three hours? Stick him in the passenger seat of a car so you have enough passengers to use the HOV lane on the Interstate?”
“That’s terrible.” Ash tried to suppress a laugh.
“Trent could have just dumped Thayer here from the top of the bridge. He’s got the muscles to lift a corpse over the guardrail. So, why run the risk of transporting the body?”
“And who has the Mourning Bear?” Ash stroked my arm. “But I have absolute faith you’ll figure it all out.
“Honey, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but there’s no getting around the fact that we have more unanswered questions right now than when we began this morning.”
Chapter 12
I collected the other cartridge from the ground and put both in my pants pocket. Although they’d never yield any latent fingerprints, the bits of metal nonetheless possessed some potential evidentiary value. The primer cap located on the base of each bullet bore a tiny round depression caused by the impact of the firing pin. This indentation was a unique tool mark that could be matched to a specific pistol by a firearms criminalist. However, unless Trent—and Holcombe for that matter—loaned us their pistols so that we could submit them to the Virginia State Police Crime Lab for examination, that identification wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
On the way back to the boat, I took some more orientation photos of the western bridge approach, the span itself, and then finally some of the trash-strewn lot next to the river. I’d put the camera away and was preparing to climb back into the boat when the wireless phone trilled.
“This is Brad.”
“Where are you guys?” Tina asked urgently.
“At the Island Ford Bridge—”
“Oh God! Get out of there fast! Sheriff Holcombe just called out over the radio and said he was on his way to the office from home.”
“So?”
“So, he lives over at the base of the Blue Ridge and uses the Island Ford Bridge to get to town.”
I motioned for Ash to untie the boat. “Do you think he knows what we’re up to?”
“I don’t know, but he never works on Sunday.”
“How much time do we have before he gets here?”
“That depends on when he radioed that he was in service. If he was at his house, maybe ten minutes, but if he called along the way—”
“He could be here any minute. I’ll call you later, Tina.”
I hung up and climbed into the boat. “Let’s be shepherds and get the flock out of here.”
“Sheriff Holcombe?” Ash held the rope until I was seated and then climbed in.
“Yeah, on his way to the office from home and he uses this bridge.”
“I really don’t like tucking tail and running,” said Ash as she yanked on the starter rope and the engine grumbled to life.
“Me either, but if we stay here we’ll lose the evidence and once he finishes looking at the pictures on our camera he’ll throw it into the river.”
We pulled away from the bank and headed northward at top speed, which probably wasn’t much more than fifteen miles-an-hour. I was seated near the prow facing to the rear, watching the bridge intently while Ash kept her eyes on the river. We’d traveled about seventy-five yards and were entering a looping curve that led eastward when I saw a white and gold police cruiser appear. The car slowly crossed the bridge from east to west and then came to a stop on the side of the road at approximately the same place we’d recovered the expended cartridges. I got the binoculars out of the knapsack and used them to view Sheriff Holcombe climb out of the patrol car. For a second, I was frightened that he’d hear our boat’s motor and notice us, but he didn’t pay the river any heed. Instead, he began to walk around, hands on his hips and bent over slightly at the waist, examining the ground.
“Has he seen us?” Ash said.
“No, I think we’re fine.”
“What’s happening?”
“Either he’s developed a very sudden interest in the litter problem or he’s looking for the cartridges. And the only way he could know their precise location was if Trent told him about waylaying Thayer . . .”
“Or he was there when the shots were fired.”
“That too. However it happened, he’s definitely not a happy boy right this moment.”
The distance was too great for me to discern the expression on Holcombe’s face, but the rigidity of his posture and the impatient way he occasionally shook his head told me he was annoyed or perhaps anxious over not being able to find the cartridges. Then suddenly my view of the bridge was obliterated as our eastward turn took us behind a stand of trees. I briefly considered asking Ash to turn the boat around so I could watch some more, but instantly dismissed the idea. We’d been lucky to escape and there wasn’t anything we might see that was worth the risk of Holcombe spotting us.
I put the binoculars away. “He’s very worried.”
“About us? Maybe somebody in one of those cars that crossed the bridge recognized us and called him.”
“Yeah, but if that’s the case, he’d have been looking for us, which he wasn’t.” I tapped a finger on the aluminum bench. “I think he’s nervous about Trent and, hell, I’d be too if I were in his place. Trent has probably never been the brightest bulb in the box and it’s hard to focus on cleaning up a murder scene when you’re in steroid nirvana. Leaving those expended cartridges there was just plain sloppy.”
“But now that Holcombe can’t find them . . .”
“Once he learns about our investigation, he’ll have to assume we found them.”
“What happens then?”
“He’ll probably get a search warrant issued on a fraudulent affidavit—I’ll bet you didn’t know that we’re drug dealers—and tear our house apart. And just to be vindictive, he’ll cut up all our teddy bears, claiming we had drugs hidden inside them, and believe me, he’ll find dope because he’ll plant it. Even if he doesn’t find the cartridges, we’ll be in jail and no longer in a position to hurt the Holcombe family business.”
Ash’s jaw got tight. “So, what do we do?”
“Find a safe place for the evidence and you go stay with your folks until the case is solved.”
“Not happening.”
“But—”
“Brad, I am not being driven from our home by filth like them and I’m certainly not going to let you act as some sort of decoy while I hide. Is that clear?”
“You know what I think?”
“What’s that?”
“That the monument in town to the Confederate soldiers is a big humbug. If anybody saved that mill from being burned back in eighteen sixty-four, it was the women of the Remmelkemp family.”
A few minutes later we approached the Henshaw Farm. I saw Tina’s patrol car parked behind the pickup truck and she waved as we motored past. Ash guided the boat to the spot where we’d made landfall earlier and soon we were back at the Chevy.
Tina looked relieved. “Hi, I was beginning to get worried. Did you see him?”
“We just managed to get away,” said Ash.
“And you’ll find this interesting: He stopped at the bridge to look for these.” I pulled the expended cartridges from my pocket. “Fortunately, Ash found them first. Can you do me a favor and let me borrow one of your pistol magazines for a second?”
Tina unsnapped one of her leather ammunition pouches, pulled out a magazine, and handed it to me. “Where did you find them?”
“On the ground on the west side of the Island Ford Bridge. It’s probably where that happened.” I nodded toward the bullet-scarred windshield. I slipped one of the bullets from Tina’s magazine and compared it to the cartridges we’d just recovered. The bottom portions were identical.
Tina was watching intently and sighed. “Oh, Lord.”
“Tell me about Trent. How long has he been using the steroids?”
“Probably about a year.”
“Have you seen any evidence of ‘roid rage’? ”
“No, but then again we don’t work the same hours—thank God for small favors.”
“Has there been any talk about it among the other deputies?”
“If he were going ballistic on people, I’d be the very last person to know. Nobody tells me anything. You think Trent killed him, don’t you?”
“I think it’s probable, but it doesn’t sound as if you do.”
“Look, I’m not sticking up for him, but we’re talking about a murder here. The Holcombes collect graft but . . .”
“So, what you’re saying is that they’re capable of extortion, but not premeditated murder? No offense intended, Tina, but that’s so naive it’s endearing. People have been killing to protect their piece of the good life ever since Cain gave Abel the first dirt nap. Besides which, it might have been an accident. Maybe Trent set out to scare Thayer and something went wrong.”
“That’s possible.”
I glanced at my watch. “Look Tina, we’ll have to continue this discussion later because we’re running out of time, both figuratively and literally. Ash has to be back at our house before three and we have to get this truck processed for prints before somebody tells Holcombe it’s here.”
“I’ll go get the kit.”
“You don’t keep a toolbox in your unit, do you?”
“No, why?”
“Because I need a big flathead screwdriver and a hammer.” I turned to Ash. “Honey, would you do me a big favor? While we dust this thing, would you find one of the Henshaws and see if we can borrow some tools?”
“Sure, but you still haven’t told us why.”
“Because when we’re done printing the truck I’m going to punch the ignition and drive it out of here.”
“You’re what?” Tina asked.
“I’m going to hide it until we can get it into a crime lab to be processed for trace evidence. As things stand right now, we can’t exactly have it towed to the Sheriff’s Department parking lot.”
“Well, no.”
“So, we have to make it disappear until we have enough information for an indictment and then you can have it towed to the state crime lab.”
Ash’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Brad, you are not going to steal that truck—”
“I’m not stealing it.”
“Well, technically, you are,” said Tina.
“Okay, but I’m stealing it for a good reason.”
“And what happens if you get stopped by Sheriff Holcombe?” Ash demanded.
“I take one of my socks off, turn it into a puppet, and have it talk for me. Holcombe will decide I’m crazy and let me go.”
“I don’t need to see a sock puppet to know that you’re nuts. This is too dangerous.”
“Do you have a sock puppet?” Tina eyed me warily.
“Ash collects teddy bears; I collect sock puppets. Why . . . do you think that’s weird?”
“Truthfully?”
Ash flung her hands skyward. “He doesn’t have any sock puppets! He just says bizarre things like that to divert you from thinking about how bad everything can turn out.” She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Brad, let’s just say you manage to get out onto the road without the sheriff or Trent seeing you, where are you going to hide the truck?”
“Actually I had an idea about that. Sergei lives up in Thermopylae . . .”
“And you’re going to ask him to store a stolen truck for you? Why would he agree to do that?”
“Because he’s a bored retired spy and he doesn’t like Holcombe. I’ll bet he’ll be thrilled to help.” I took her hand and waited until our eyes met. “Ash honey, we don’t have any other options and that piece of evidence has to be protected. It will be all right. I promise.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“You can’t. You have to take the boat home because I don’t know how long this is going to take and I don’t want you to miss your appointment.”
“We can always reschedule.”
“There’s no need. Tina will follow me up there and bring me home.”
Ash folded her arms. “I’m the one that’s nuts for listening to you, you know that? I’ll be back in a few minutes with a screwdriver and a hammer.”
“Thanks, my love.”
As Ash departed along the road into the cornfield, Tina went to the patrol car. She opened the trunk and returned a moment later with a small and dingy-looking plastic fishing tackle box. I took it from her, opened the lid, and surveyed the contents: a small plastic jar of black powder, a couple of rolls of clear lifting tape, some white latent cards, a Ziploc bag containing a bunch of latex gloves and a wooden-handled camelhair brush stored inside a clear plastic tube. I put the tackle box on the police cruiser’s hood, pulled on a pair of the gloves, and took the brush from its case.
“Let’s start with the side and rearview mirrors.” I began to roll the round brush handle between my palms to separate the long soft camelhairs. “Most people automatically adjust them when they drive a strange vehicle and you’d be surprised how many crooks fo
rget to wipe them down afterwards.”
“How can I help?”
“Start filling out the back of the latent card.”
“Is Sergei really a retired spy or was that another sock-puppet moment?”
“I don’t know for sure, but would you do me a huge favor and forget you ever heard me say that? He’s a good man and he doesn’t need any grief just because I’ve got a mouth the size of Wyoming.”
You don’t need much powder to reveal a fingerprint. I tipped a tiny amount of the black powder into the jar’s cap and dabbed at it lightly with the brush. Then I began to make gentle oval sweeps with the brush in pretty much the same manner Ash applies foundation powder to her cheeks. Ridge patterns, some of them smeared, and at least one big thumbprint appeared on the glass. Several of the fingerprints looked classifiable and I used the clear tape to collect the prints. Then I moved inside the truck where I filled another three of the white cards with fingerprints from the rearview mirror. It had been over a year since I’d lifted any prints and I was a little surprised to learn that I hadn’t lost any of my skill.
Next, we went to the rear of the Chevy. The truck-bed interior was covered with a textured plastic liner, so there wasn’t any point in dusting there, but I did find some more classifiable prints on the outside of the tailgate. By the time we finished, we’d filled seventeen cards with fingerprints, some of which might have been left by Trent, Holcombe, or Poole, but they weren’t going to do us a bit of good until they were submitted to a latent fingerprint examiner for analysis. And in the meantime, I had to find a hiding place for our growing pile of evidence. For now, I’d keep the print cards in our knapsack.
I was putting the print equipment back into the tackle box as Ash reappeared from the corn, carrying a foot-long screwdriver and a claw hammer. Handing the tools to me, she said, “Will these do?”
“Yeah. Thanks, love.”
“I can’t believe I’m facilitating this. And does this truck have an automatic or manual transmission?”
It was a Homer Simpson moment. “I forgot to look.”
We went to the driver’s door and I was enormously relieved to see it was an automatic transmission. My bad leg prevents me from operating a clutch pedal and if I couldn’t drive the truck, Ash would have to do it. That was an option I dreaded and would noisily but unsuccessfully forbid because Ash could turn right around and point out that I’d assured her the trip wasn’t going to be dangerous.
