Case of the Chatty Roadrunner

by Jeffrey M. Poole

  Just then, we heard the wail of a police siren. A quick check behind us confirmed one of Phoenix’s finest was now tailing us. I nervously looked over at Vance.

  “They think we are the bad guys here. You need to tell them that we’re on their side!”

  “Get my cell. See it on my belt?”

  I pulled Vance’s cell off its holder and held it out to him.

  “Okay, now what?”

  “What do you think? Dial 911, and put it on speakerphone.”

  I did as asked, and when the operator came on the line, Vance identified himself as a police officer from Oregon, and that he was pursuing a suspect.

  “I am showing that one of our units is also in pursuit. Can you confirm?”

  “It’s confirmed,” Vance announced, as he raced around a slow-moving dump truck. “Have you been able to verify my credentials?”

  “We’re checking into that right now. Stand by.”

  The call was placed on hold.

  “What happens next?” I wanted to know. “I mean, once they verify you’re a cop, are they going to leave you alone?”

  “I’m out of my jurisdiction. While I could argue that I’m obligated as a Peace Officer to intervene, if an arrest were to be made, I would call the local cops as soon as possible. No one wants to encroach on…”

  “Detective Samuelson?”

  “That’s a good sign,” I mouthed to Vance.

  Vance nodded, “I’m here.”

  “Your identity has been confirmed. How can we assist you?”

  “Would you kindly put me in touch with the unit that’s currently following me? And give them a heads-up that I’m a cop.”

  “One moment, please.”

  We were put on hold a second time. I couldn’t help but notice the van we were pursuing seemed to be taking riskier and riskier moves. It looked as though the driver was getting desperate to shake us, and the last thing any of us wanted was to make the driver do something foolish.

  “This is Unit Charlie-15, Mountain View Precinct. Who is this?”

  “Detective Vance Samuelson, Pomme Valley, Oregon. I’m in the white Challenger, in pursuit of a suspect.”

  “Roger that, Detective. Describe the vehicle you’re pursuing. What is the nature of his crime?”

  “Theft of incriminating evidence against a large corporation, which more than likely resulted in a murder cover-up.”

  “Acknowledged. Do you have a make and model on the suspect’s vehicle? Where is it now?”

  “Late model, dark colored panel van. I’m sorry, I don’t have a plate for you.”

  “Copy that. Is that your van, turning onto Indian School Road?”

  “That’s it,” Vance confirmed, as he stomped on the accelerator. “I’m trying to get close enough to ID the plate.”

  “Be careful, Oregon,” the Phoenix cop warned us. “We’re heading into some serious congestion. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to safely pursue.”

  “Acknowledged. I… shit. Shit! I lost him! Do you have a visual?”

  “Negative, Oregon. There are too many vehicles on the road. I’m afraid we’ll have to call this chase off.”

  “I copy. Dammit! Maybe we can…”

  An ear-splitting bark caused us both to practically jump out of our skins.

  “What was that? Have you a K-9 unit with you, Oregon?”

  I looked back at Sherlock. Both he and Watson were on the driver side of the car, staring out the windows at something on the left side of the road. I couldn’t tell what they were looking at, but something had attracted their attention. Had the van pulled off the road and was trying to hide from us? Was that why we had lost it?

  “Umm, yeah, you could say that,” Vance slowly answered. “In fact, I have two of ‘em in here, plus their handler.”

  “Acknowledged. Listen, Oregon, there are simply too many cars on the road. We have to call this off.”

  Vance down-shifted, bringing the Challenger to a respectable 40 mph. He glanced briefly at the dogs in the rearview mirror and saw that something had attracted their attention. Then he looked over at me with a questioning look on his face, which I nodded affirmatively.

  “Listen, man. I know this is gonna sound weird, but I think we both need to pull off the road up here. My dogs have, er, found something. Well, they might be on to something.”

  “I don’t follow, Oregon.”

  “Actually, do just that. Follow me.”

  We proceeded to take the first left that we could, which was namely into a Square L convenience store. As soon as we were both parked, we exited the cars. Much to my surprise, not one but two uniformed officers emerged from within the patrol car. The first cop was short, but extremely muscular. He was in his late twenties, had closely cropped black hair, and thankfully, had a smile on his face. The second officer was female, younger still, and had her brown hair pulled up into a tight bun. Vance flipped open his badge as they neared, verified that both saw it, then held out a hand.

  “Detective Vance Samuelson, Pomme Valley, Oregon. This is Zack Anderson, police consultant.”

  “Officer Brad Harding. This is Officer Elizabeth Gutierrez.”

  We all shook each other’s hands. Then, if you’re familiar with Sherlock and Watson’s history, you’ll know what happened next. A black, red, and white head appeared in the Challenger’s window and let out a bark of sheer displeasure. Both Phoenix cops glanced over at the car. Officer Harding grunted by way of acknowledgment. But, I did see Officer Gutierrez smile as she saw the dogs.

  “Is that a corgi?” she hesitantly asked. “I wasn’t aware such a small breed could be utilized as service dogs.”

  “They’re both corgis,” I confirmed, “and they are, uh, consultants. Would you come here a second? I have to introduce you two or else Sherlock won’t shut the hell up and stop his barking.”

  “Your dog’s name is Sherlock?” Officer Harding asked. He finally nodded. “Cute.”

  As soon as we all neared the car, a second head popped over the window sill. Both dogs panted contentedly as I opened the door. Grabbing their leashes tightly in my own, I lifted each of them to the ground. Vance dropped into a squat and offered the dogs a biscuit.

  I stared at the doggie treats with amazement. Did he always travel with a pocketful of those things?

  “Sherlock, Watson,” Vance formally began, “this is Officer Harding and Officer Gutierrez. Officers, may I present Sherlock and Watson, Pomme Valley’s most efficient team of detectives. And yeah, I know how that sounds, being a detective myself. Officers, these two are the reason why we’ve pulled over. We’ve lost the van, right? Well, I think these two might be able to find it for us.”

  “How?” Officer Harding demanded.

  “The more I explain, the crazier it’ll sound,” Vance assured the two local cops. “Instead, I ask for your indulgence as we check out the area.”

  “That van is long gone,” Officer Harding stated, matter-of-factly. “There is no way your dogs could find it.”

  “Perhaps not,” I added, as I fondly gazed down at my dogs, “but they both suspect something is up. There’s something nearby that they want us to check. Can we? Take a look around?”

  The two officers shared a look. I couldn’t help but think both of them thought we were insane. Vance noticed the look of resolve that was forming on Officer Harding’s face. Correctly guessing that he was the senior officer among the two of them, Vance cleared his throat.

  “Okay, look. If we strike out, then I’ll personally… er, let’s see. Zack, help me out here. What could I wager?”

  Being the devious SoB that I am, and since I’m always eager to throw my friend under the bus, I grinned as I realized what I could get Vance to do.

  “If we strike out,” I slowly began, fighting valiantly to keep the glee out of my voice, “then Detective Samuelson here will hereby voluntarily undergo Wilson’s Wing Challenge.”

  Both cops lit up like Christmas trees. Heads were nodding, an
d just like that, in the blink of an eye, both cops had dropped their objections. Now, for those of you that aren’t familiar with Phoenix and some of its more popular customs, the Wilson’s Wing Challenge was an infamous food eating contest, where the challenger agreed to down 9 wings and then wait 9 minutes, all without having anything to drink. Vance, I could see, was nodding nonchalantly, as though he thought it’d be a piece of cake.

  What Vance didn’t know was that this particular challenge had only been won by 2 people. Why so few? Well, most sane people would see the words ‘ghost chilies’ in the description and wisely back away. Ghost chilies, in case you weren’t aware, were quite literally some of the hottest peppers on the planet. I believe even India’s military had approved the pepper’s use in hand grenades.

  I kid you not.

  Anyway, Vance shrugged off the challenge, the local cops were amused, and I was allowed to give the dogs some slack on their leash to see where they led us. Almost immediately, Sherlock turned toward N. Browne Ave. and started trotting towards it, like we were out for a Sunday walk. Vance fell into step beside me.

  “Okay, pal. Tell me about this challenge. What did I just agree to?”

  “Wilson’s Wing Challenge consists of some spicy chicken wings,” I told him. I glanced behind our procession to see the two Phoenix cops trailing behind us. They were carrying on a hushed conversation among themselves, no doubt questioning the hiring practices of small Oregon towns. “Anyway, the challenge is well known throughout the city, because only two people have ever completed it.”

  “Only 9 wings? What’s the catch? How hot are these things?”

  “Do you like spicy food?”

  Vance shrugged, “Sure, who doesn’t?”

  “I mean, really spicy food.”

  “Sure.”

  “Really, really spicy food.”

  Vance suddenly groaned, “They’ve used those super-hot chilies, haven’t they?”

  “The hottest there are,” I agreed. “Ghost chilies.”

  “That’s just great. Thanks, pal. Sherlock and Watson had better come through, or else I’m making you eat those things with me.”

  Overhearing our conversation, Officer Harding smirked. “That can be arranged.”

  My smile melted off my face, the same way I was sure my skin would if I so much as touched those ghastly wings. There was no way I was gonna willingly subject myself to that particular horror, so my two dogs had better come to my rescue. Again.

  We walked along Browne Ave. for nearly ten minutes before the dogs turned on E. 2nd St. During that time, I got to listen to Vance bitch. Then he bitched some more. A few seconds later, he launched into a full-scale rant about how someone could have known the laptop was in his casita.

  “Someone blabbed,” Vance was saying. “Someone clearly knew it was there. There’s no other possible way that Semzar could’ve known about it.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the female cop, Officer Gutierrez, looking at me.

  “You’re not talking about Semzar Pharmaceuticals, are you?”

  I nodded, “We are. My wife used to work there, as a sales rep.”

  “Used to work there?” Officer Harding cautiously asked.

  “She passed away,” I solemnly answered.

  Officer Gutierrez was instantly contrite, “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “She passed away almost two years ago,” I continued. “And we’re pretty sure she was murdered to keep something covered up.”

  “You think Semzar is trying to hide something?” Officer Harding incredulously asked. “They are one of the largest businesses in Phoenix. You’d better have irrefutable proof before you even think about going after them. Their legal team has some of the most vicious lawyers I have ever had the misfortune of encountering.”

  “We do. Er, we did. That’s why we need that laptop back. It belonged to his wife. We believe she had discovered something about the drug she was selling.”

  “So you think Semzar stole it from you?” Officer Gutierrez asked.

  “Yep,” I agreed. “Somehow, they knew we had it, so they arranged to have it stolen while we were asleep, only my dogs alerted us just after it happened. That’s how we were able to tail the guy this far.”

  Officer Harding’s face had hardened and his eyes flashed fire.

  “A buddy of mine on the force had an uncle who took medication made at Semzar.”

  “Had an uncle?” I repeated, concerned.

  Harding nodded, “Yeah. He was never right in the head after that. Donny always said there was something wrong with the meds. This laptop you’re looking for, will it really prove that Semzar has been up to no good?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” I confided to the officer. “My wife was selling some revolutionary new diabetes drug. I think she thought there was something wrong with the drug and had started her own investigation.”

  “We have to get that laptop back,” Vance was saying. “Semzar must be guilty of something. Why else would they go to such lengths to swipe it right from under my own nose?”

  “We don’t know for sure it was Semzar,” I argued. “But, it’d be a damn good guess that it was,” I hastily added, after Vance shot me an incredulous look.

  Another ten minutes of walking led us straight to a surprising discovery. We were standing before a large instantly recognizable four-story complex. Sherlock and Watson had led us to a museum. An art museum, which explained why I had never stepped foot inside.

  I questioningly looked down at the dogs before looking over at Vance. My detective friend had a dark expression on his face, as though he believed he had already lost the bet. He fired an angry look my way before turning to look at the museum.

  “What are we doing here? There’s no way the van is parked in there.”

  “Maybe they have a parking garage somewhere?” I hopefully asked, as I turned to see if the local cops had an opinion.

  Elizabeth, the female cop, turned to point north, “The visitor parking lot is one block that way.”

  I turned to look down at Sherlock, who only had eyes for the museum.

  “Maybe the dogs think the suspect is hiding in the museum?”

  Both cops were shaking their heads no.

  “The museum doesn’t open until 10am,” Officer Harding told us. “However, the lobby is open to the general public, only all the wings will be closed off with security gates. You won’t find our perp in there. There’d be nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.”

  The dogs pulled on their leashes. They wanted to go inside. I looked at Vance and shrugged. I gave the dogs some slack in their leash and was guided to the museum’s lobby. Bemused, the two local cops followed us in.

  “What are we doing here, guys?” I asked the dogs, as I pushed our way through the front doors. At this time of the morning, there was no one in the lobby. “See? There’s no one here. There’s no place to hide.”

  Sherlock snorted and led me over to several rows of public storage lockers. Evidently, the museum had a rule which forbid any of their guests from wearing a backpack, or carrying any type of bag. If you happened to have one, then you were expected to utilize one of their free lockers for the duration of your visit. I nodded. It made sense. The last thing the museum wanted was for one of their priceless artifacts to go waltzing through the front door, undetected.

  “Are you suggesting the perp stashed the laptop?” I dubiously asked, as I gazed down at my dogs. “Come on, guys. That’s a long shot, even for you two.”

  We arrived at the lockers and within moments, Sherlock was sniffing the lower row. He promptly sat in front of one. Watson was a little more selective when it came to deciding which locker she’d like to sit by. And, I noticed she made her choice without checking to see which locker Sherlock had selected. In this case, they each had selected the same one.

  “Okay, I’m convinced,” Vance was saying. He was reaching for his phone when he remembered that two members of the Phoenix police were al
ready present. “Guys? I think we need to open this locker.’

  Officer Harding checked his watch.

  “We have a few hours before the museum opens, but I believe we can call a member of the security staff. They should have someone monitoring the grounds at all times. Give me a moment.”

  It took longer than a moment. In fact, it took nearly a full hour before a representative from the museum’s security staff walked through the door. Evidently, the security guards watched the premises offsite after hours. It was yet another example of the power of the Internet.

  “What can I do for you gents?” a middle-aged man with short gray hair asked. He noticed Officer Gutierrez and smiled politely. “And miss. How can I be of service today?”

  All four of us pointed wordlessly at the locker both dogs were still sitting by. The security guard looked questioningly at the four of us, like he was preparing to give us a scripted reason why he wouldn’t open it, when Vance pulled out his badge and flashed it to the guard. Then both Phoenix cops also indicated they wanted the locker opened.

  The security guard grunted once and pulled out a huge ring of keys. After fishing through various keys, one was singled out, inserted into the lock on the locker, and just like that, the locker opened. Nestled inside, with the power cord still wrapped around it, was Samantha’s ultra-sleek laptop.

  “I’ll be damned,” I heard Officer Harding say.

  “Well, aren’t you two both good doggies?” Officer Gutierrez cooed, as she squatted next to the corgis and stroked their fur.

  Sherlock and Watson writhed on the ground in sheer ecstasy.

  I started to reach for the laptop when Vance, Harding, and Gutierrez all shouted ‘No’ at the same time.

  “It has to be dusted for prints,” Vance explained.

  “Then, it’s gonna be put back in there,” Gutierrez told me. “We’re gonna find out who’s planning on coming back to pick this thing up.”

  NINE