The Treacherous Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “And I’ve already called animal control to come and take Longstreet to the shelter,” Tina added. “It’s sad. I think he knows his master is dead.”

  Randy resumed his tale. “Ev told me that he just happened to be walking Longstreet one night when he came upon Chet doing some illegal hunting. He said that Chet took a shot at the dog for no reason.”

  I chuckled at the improbable tale. “More likely Ev told Cujo it was all-you-can-eat night on the mountain and sent him after the guy.”

  “That’s what I think, too. But it’s Ev’s word against Chet’s.” Randy glanced toward where I presumed the body lay. His voice became doleful. “Or at least it was until tonight.”

  “And this Chet is the same guy you were trying to stop?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Chet Lincoln. I have a warrant for his arrest. Maybe Chet thought he had a score to settle. It was no secret that Ev was dead-set on pressing charges.”

  “Not much of a motive for murder, though, is it? From what I’ve seen, nobody around here goes to jail for illegal hunting.”

  “Most of the time that’s true.” There was a trace of sourness in Randy’s voice. “But lots of folks have had their fill of Chet trespassing on their property, and they know he’s killing way more game than he could ever eat.”

  Tina cut in. “Which brings me to the question I was about to ask when Brad arrived. How did you find Chet out here?”

  “Ev called me on my cell phone at about five-forty-five this evening. Biggest mistake I ever made was giving him the number, because he used to call me day and night. Anyway, he told me that he’d seen headlights up on the ridge.” Randy jerked his head in the direction of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “And the only reason someone would be up there after dark and in this bad weather was if they were hunting,” said Tina.

  “Exactly. I was hoping it would be Chet, so I responded.”

  “And isn’t it an amazing coincidence that you saw Mr. Lincoln on Mr. Rawlins’s land right about the time the murder occurred,” said Tina.

  “But that doesn’t explain why the Saab took off out of here like a bat out of hell,” Ash said impatiently. My wife doesn’t curse, and the fact that she’d employed even a mild profanity told me how upset she was. She turned to the game warden. “Chet may have been up on the ridge, but did you ever see him near the house?”

  “Well . . . no. He was coming back up the slope when I saw him,” Randy replied.

  “And did he have a hunting bow?”

  Randy shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. He was too far away, and you can’t always make out the details when you’re looking through a night-vision scope.”

  “A hunting bow? Honey, you just lost me,” I said.

  “You haven’t seen the body?” Ash asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Poor Everett has an arrow sticking out of his chest.”

  Fortunately, I recognized the quaver in my wife’s voice before I blurted, So, he got the shaft. Instead, I said, “You sound as if you knew him.”

  “I did. He was a grade ahead of me all through school. His sister, Melinda, and I were friends.” Ash sighed. “I guess that’s the other reason I’m so upset. It’s a shock to look down at a dead person and realize it’s someone you used to have water balloon fights with.”

  “I’m sorry you had to experience that.” I squeezed her hand.

  “So am I, which is why I want to find out who killed him,” Ash said sternly.

  “And you think it was the person in the Saab?”

  “What other reason would he have had for rocketing out of here and hitting my cruiser?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tina. “However, we can prove that Mr. Lincoln had the motive, means, and opportunity to commit murder. Add the fact that he fled the scene and we have to look at him as a prime suspect.”

  “I suppose,” Ash said grudgingly. She turned to Randy. “But you told me over the radio that Chet was armed with at least one gun.”

  “I didn’t actually see it, but Chet always has a hunting rifle in his truck,” said Kent.

  “Does he ever use a hunting bow?”

  “I don’t know if he’s ever used it, but I saw a hunting bow one of the times I was at his trailer.”

  “What are you getting at, Ashleigh?” Tina asked.

  “Why take a chance on killing someone with a bow and arrow when you’ve got a high-powered rifle? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Unfortunately, it does, my love,” I said. “A rifle shot can be heard for miles, and maybe Mr. Lincoln didn’t want to make any noise while he was killing Mr. Rawlins.”

  Three

  Ash pondered what I said for a moment and then shook her head. “Brad, honey, I’m sorry, but I have to disagree. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, it’s hunting season, and the woods are full of guys shooting at anything that moves. So why would Chet be worried about his rifle being heard?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” I said, realizing once more that my wife was turning into a first-class detective. “And that makes me wonder about something else. If Everett went out to confront Chet, why did he leave his triple-XL-sized guard dog in the house?”

  “Maybe because he was afraid Chet wouldn’t miss Longstreet this time,” said Tina.

  “If that’s true, it means he thought there was a good chance Chet might open fire. Yet he went out there himself. That sounds a little suicidal, unless . . .”

  “What?” Tina asked.

  “Is there any evidence that Everett was armed?”

  “No, and I don’t think there’s much of a chance we’re going to find a weapon underneath his body.” Ash squinted at me. “You see what I mean? It just doesn’t add up.”

  Randy cleared his throat. “Deputy Lyon—”

  “Please call me Ash.”

  “Okay, Ash, considering that, as you pointed out, it is hunting season, could this have been an accident?”

  “Not likely,” said Tina as she pulled back her parka’s hood. “If we’d found Mr. Rawlins out in the woods, maybe I’d consider it a possibility.”

  “But since he’s in his driveway, next to his house, and there were exterior lights on . . .” said Ash.

  Tina nodded. “Whoever shot that arrow knew exactly where he was aiming.”

  “I wish that were true,” said Randy. “But I’ve worked in these mountains for nineteen years and you’d be flat terrified if you knew how many of the hunters are chugaluggin’ and commode-huggin’ drunk.”

  “Which is why they sometimes mistake a relative or best buddy for a deer,” I said.

  Randy gave a humorless chuckle. “Or miss what they’re shooting at because they’re so hammered on hard liquor that they can’t see. To tell the truth, I’m amazed we don’t have more accidental shootings.”

  “What if that’s what Mr. Lincoln wanted us to think?” said Tina. “Unfortunately for him, there’s no way of getting around the fact that Chet was seen a couple hundred yards from where the man who was going to put him in jail was found dead.”

  I said, “There’s no question, it’s damned suspicious, Tina. But we can’t rule anything out yet, including the Saab.”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to believe that some guy would drive here in an expensive car and then use an old-fashioned weapon like a bow and arrow to kill Mr. Rawlins.”

  “Maybe he was Saab-in Hood,” I innocently suggested.

  Tina rolled her eyes, Randy emitted a tiny groan, and I was relieved to see Ash smile slightly.

  I turned to my wife. “Where was the car when you first saw it?”

  Ash thought for a second. “About halfway down the driveway. It was dark and I wanted to make sure the gravel driveway wasn’t the road leading up the mountain that Chet was on. So I slowed down and used my car’s spotlight. When the light hit the Saab, it took off like a rocket.”

  “Which way was the car facing?”

  “Toward me.”

  “So it was leaving the house wh
en you arrived.”

  “Maybe, but I can’t say whether it was moving or not when I first saw it.”

  “Did you get a look at the driver?” Tina asked.

  “No, it all happened so fast and I think the windows were tinted.” Ash sounded irritated. “The Saab sideswiped me as it came out of the driveway. Then it was off to the races.”

  “And was this a newer-model car?”

  “I’m not an expert, but I’d have to say it was very new. A four-door.”

  “Probably the Nine-Five Sedan,” Tina said meditatively. Then, when she saw that Ash and I were gaping at her as if she’d begun speaking in Swedish, she demanded, “What?”

  “Since when have you been an expert on Saabs?” Ash asked.

  “Well . . . Sergei and I were in Charlottesville last weekend and we stopped at the dealership. He’s kind of thinking about trading in his pickup truck for something . . .”

  “With enough seats for you and your kids?”

  Tina smiled shyly.

  Ash said, “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so happy that everything is going well for you and Sergei.”

  Sergei Zubatov was my best friend in Remmelkemp Mill, but I hadn’t been seeing as much of him since June, when he began dating Tina. Back during the cold war, Sergei had been a member of Soviet military intelligence, otherwise known as the GRU. Nowadays, he owned and operated Pinckney’s Brick Pit restaurant, home of some of the finest North Carolina-style barbecue you’ll ever find.

  “Whoa. I can’t believe Sergei is trading in his four-wheel-drive behemoth for a family car. What’s next, a trip to Disney World?” I asked with an incredulous laugh.

  Tina suddenly wore a deer-in-the-headlights expression. She shot a panicked glance at Ash, who quickly said, “I didn’t tell him!”

  Realizing I’d inadvertently uncovered a secret, I grinned and said, “No! Sergei—our lovable cynic, Sergei—in the Magic Kingdom? Oh, Tina, you have to get me a picture of him wearing Mickey Mouse ears. I’m begging you. Name your price and I’ll write the check when we get home.”

  “And now you know why we kept it a secret from you.” Ash squeezed my hand warningly.

  Despite the gloom, I could see that Tina looked genuinely troubled. “Sergei knew that if you found out, you’d tease him unmercifully.”

  “And you’re nervous that if I torment him too much, he might change his mind about the trip? Don’t worry, Tina. If it’s that important to you, I can keep my mouth shut,” I said.

  Ash gave my hand another squeeze coupled with an amused look that said, I suppose there’s always a first time for everything. I wasn’t insulted. The truth is I have a bad habit of putting my mouth in gear before engaging my brain.

  Tina relaxed slightly. “Thanks. Now, getting back to the Saab that Ash was chasing . . .”

  “And lost,” Ash muttered. “I’ll check the Saab website when we’re done here to confirm whether it was a Nine-Five model.”

  “What about the license plate?” I asked. “You said you didn’t think it was from Virginia.”

  “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t, but all I can tell you is that it had a white background with either black or dark blue letters.”

  “And the Three-Bravo-Juliet sequence?”

  “You remember the partial plate?” Ash was surprised.

  “I pay very close attention when my wife announces that she’s chasing a car on a rainy highway at a hundred miles an hour.”

  “Yes, Three-Bravo-Juliet were the first three characters on the plate. I’m certain of that.”

  “Lots of cops wouldn’t have even gotten that much information. You did a good job.”

  “If you say so.” However, Ash obviously wasn’t convinced.

  Tina turned to the game warden. “Randy, you can clear if you want and send me your report in the morning.”

  “Thanks, but I think I should hang loose until animal control gets here. He may need a hand with Longstreet,” said Randy, glancing meaningfully toward the house, where the dog was still barking.

  “Rain’s letting up a little,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over and take a look at our victim while you guys get the camera and evidence collection kit from the car.”

  “Meet you there,” said Tina as she, Ash, and Randy headed for the sheriff’s patrol car.

  Pulling up the hood of my parka, I limped across the yard and around an intervening fat cluster of yew bushes, toward the spot where the dead body lay. Although there was some illumination from the patrol car’s headlights, I turned my flashlight on for a better look. If Everett Rawlins was only a year older than Ash, that made him forty-nine, but his sparse gray hair and weather-creased face made him look much older . . . almost as old as I looked. I guess both farming—like him—and getting shot—like me—have a way of prematurely aging you.

  Everett Rawlins lay diagonally across the driveway on his back, with his left arm outstretched and his right hand on his upper abdomen, an inch or so away from the arrow that protruded from his chest. Taking a closer look at the left hand, I was surprised to see a simple gold wedding band on the victim’s ring finger. Nobody had mentioned that Rawlins was married, and I wondered where his wife was.

  There wasn’t much blood showing, and I couldn’t tell whether that was because he’d bled internally or because the rain had washed the gore from the gravel. The dead man’s head faced toward the house, while his feet were pointed in the direction of a black wall of tall pine trees that stood on the east perimeter of the yard about thirty yards away. Based on the body’s position, it looked to me as if the arrow that had killed him might have come from the evergreens, which made sense. It was an ideal spot to ambush someone coming out of the house.

  The victim’s wet clothing also told a tale. Rawlins wore blue jeans, a threadbare plaid flannel shirt, and relatively clean work boots. He wasn’t dressed for the wet and chilly weather, which likely meant he hadn’t intended to be outside for very long.

  As Ash, Tina, and Randy arrived with the evidence collection gear, I said, “Hey, I see he’s wearing a wedding ring. What do you know about his wife?”

  “Her name was Lois; she died a couple of years ago,” said Tina.

  “Everett’s girlfriend from high school, Lois Wetterstedt?” Ash asked.

  “I guess. They were married a long time.”

  “Just to satisfy my morbid curiosity, what was her COD?” I asked. COD stood for cause of death.

  “Bad luck. The winter before you and Ash moved here, we had a really bad ice storm.”

  Randy Kent nodded in agreement. “It was nasty. There was so much ice, some folks were stuck in their homes for a week.”

  “Lois Rawlins went out to the barn for some reason and a huge tree limb all loaded with ice fell on her.” Tina hooked a thumb toward a large deciduous tree with an asymmetrical array of naked branches. “I’d like to think she died instantly, but . . .”

  “Oh, how horrible,” Ash murmured.

  Tina looked down at the dead man. “Mr. Rawlins was out in one of his fields, taking forage to his longhorns, so he didn’t find her until he came home later that afternoon.”

  I grimaced. “Talk about walking into a nightmare.”

  “Yep. He started blaming himself and never stopped.”

  “Poor Everett,” said Ash. “Did they have any kids?”

  “Just one son, Kurt. If I remember correctly, he lives somewhere in northern Virginia, near D.C.,” said Tina.

  Using my cane for support, I slowly knelt on the wet gravel to take a closer look at the arrow. I’d never seen anything like it. I was expecting the sort of wooden projectile I’d shot at hay bales during summer camp almost forty years earlier, but this arrow’s shaft was slate-gray and looked metallic. Then something else caught my eye. The passage of the arrow through the shirt hadn’t left a clean hole in the fabric. Instead, there were four small cuts in the flannel that radiated outward at ninety-degree angles from the shaft.

  Randy crouche
d down beside me. “Something catch your eye?”

  “These little cuts.” I pointed to where the arrow protruded from the shirt. “They almost remind me of the kind of stellate tearing you usually see on a contact gunshot wound.”

  The game warden grunted. “I’ll wager this is a broadhead arrow. Think of a hollow arrowhead made out of four reinforced razor blades coming to a sharp point.”

  “Which would account for the slices in the fabric.”

  “Uh-huh. You use broadheads when you’re hunting bear or other big game.”

  “Such as humans, in this case. Sounds lethal.”

  “They are. I won’t be surprised if we find this arrow went straight through him.”

  “Turned into a shish kebab. That’s a hell of a way to die . . . not that there are any good ones.” I pushed myself to my feet. “Where would you buy arrows like that?”

  “Any one of a dozen hunting-supply stores in this part of the valley,” said Randy, standing up, too. “Hardcore bow hunters usually buy the individual parts and make their own. But, like I said before, I’ve never known Chet to use a bow.”

  “So tell me, just what sort of animals did Chet hunt for around here?”

  “There’s deer all over the mountains, but I’m assuming he came to Ev’s land looking for black bears.”

  “Why would they be here?” Ash asked.

  “There’s an old sand quarry down that road.” The game warden pointed toward a dirt lane that led from the farmyard. “It’s been abandoned since the nineteen sixties, and the bears hibernate there.”

  I said, “And it sounds as if Chet came here repeatedly, which raises an interesting question: Just how many dead bears does a guy need?”

  “You aren’t going to believe this, but there’s a huge market for bear gallbladders.” The disgust was palpable in Randy’s voice. “The organs are used to make snake-oil cures for male impotence. I can’t prove that Chet is the one doing it, but . . .”

  “You’ve found dead bears that have been gutted,” I guessed sourly. It was a foolishly sentimental notion, but I’ve loved bears ever since Ash began making teddy bears. Yeah, I know they’re wild animals, that Gentle Ben was just a TV show, and that hunting is supposed to be a sport. But the idea of killing one of those magnificent creatures for no other purpose than to harvest an organ was just obscene.