The Crafty Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  “And he says Merrit called him—what, almost an hour ago now?”

  “Yeah, which would have been right about the time the Yakuza were here.”

  “If this turns out to be a murder, we’ll need to get a copy of that message and check the time it was received on his answering machine.” Tina grimaced. “In the meantime, I guess we’d better get started.”

  I led Ash and Tina to the dining room doorway and heard both women inhale sharply. There was a new song playing on the museum’s audio system: “The Camptown Races,” which added a surreal touch to the scene. Ash looked a little green around the gills, but she didn’t turn away, which meant that she was well on her way to handling her first gruesome homicide scene better than I did, twenty-six years ago. I’d lost my breakfast.

  Pointing with my cane, I said, “We can’t see his face, but it’s safe to assume he’s sustained major blunt force trauma. I suspect that’s where most of the blood came from, although there’s the possibility he also got cut by the broken glass.”

  “Probably abdominal injuries too,” said Tina.

  “Yeah, that cupboard’s made from real wood, so it’s damn heavy.”

  I heard Ash swallowing and saw that her face had grown paler. Touching her hand, I said, “Honey, why don’t you move back a little bit and get the camera out.”

  I could tell she was prepared to rebuff the offer, but she surprised me. “All right. Thanks. It’s a little much.”

  “No, it’s freaking awful and you’re reacting like any normal person would.”

  Ash backed away and I heard her put the camera case down on the floor.

  Tina shook her head in puzzlement. “I don’t understand how this could have happened. What was he doing?”

  “And I’ve got another question,” said Ash.

  I turned from the body and saw that Ash was near the fireplace mantle. “What’s that?”

  “Why are these antique teddy bears in the wrong spots?”

  Seven

  “Haven’t they always been up there on the mantle?” I asked.

  “Yes, but the placards show that the Michtom teddy is where the Bruin bear should be and vice versa.” Ash stood on her tiptoes and squinted at the bears. “And it looks as if they were switched recently. You can still see the marks in the dust.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I stopped for a second to look at them on the way in and never noticed that.”

  “So, is the fact the bears have been moved important?” asked Tina.

  “Too soon to say. Probably not, even though they are worth thousands.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Oh yeah, together they’re probably worth eight—”

  “Nine thousand dollars,” Ash cut in. “They’re both over a hundred years old and extremely rare.”

  “And they’re just sitting on a museum shelf without so much as a DO NOT TOUCH sign to keep people away? That’s crazy.” Tina shook her head in disbelief.

  “Maybe, but from what I’ve heard, the museum’s turned into a money pit and security systems are expensive,” I said.

  “Besides, I’ll bet Mr. Merrit thought they’d be safe. He probably assumed no one would guess that a teddy bear could be so valuable,” said Ash. She gave the teddy bears one last admiring look and then knelt down on one knee to open the camera case.

  I went over to join Ash. “Still, we’ll make a note that the bears were recently moved, although I’d be a lot more concerned if they were gone or…destroyed.”

  Noting my contemplative tone, Tina said, “You don’t think this might be connected with the burglary at your house, do you?”

  “Unlikely. On the other hand, what are the odds that you’re going to find teddy bears at two separate felony crime scenes here in Massanutten County?”

  “But these weren’t stolen or damaged. I just don’t see a connection.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. And now we really need to get started with the pictures before the ME gets here.”

  “Sorry about the camera. It’s so old it almost belongs here with the other antiques, but it’s all we have,” Tina said.

  Ash handed me a vintage Canon AE-1, 35-millimeter with a 50-millimeter lens and I was pleased to bump into a relic from my early days as a homicide detective. Solid and pretty much foolproof, the AE-1 was the same model camera I’d first used to photograph murder scenes back in the 1980s. Nowadays most big law enforcement agencies employ digital cameras for CSI work, but I’m old-fashioned and favor using film anyway.

  “The camera is fine.” I popped the back door of the Canon open and said to Ash, “Honey, could you give me one of those rolls of thirty-six exposure ASA two hundred and the flash unit?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “And how would you like to be my scribe?”

  “What do I have to do?” Ash cast a quick nervous glance toward the dining room and I could tell she wasn’t eager to take a closer look at the crushed man.

  “It’s easy. All you have to do is stay here and write down what I say as I take each picture.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Sleep with me if you want a good employee evaluation.”

  “Brad!” Ash’s cheeks were pink, but she was smiling.

  “Tell me Tina, seeing as I’m a consultant for Massanutten County, under the personnel rules was that just sexual harassment, even if we’re married?”

  “Don’t get me involved in this.” Tina held up both hands in surrender.

  I snapped the camera shut, manually advanced the film, and handed Ash my cane. “Then I guess it’s time for our glamour shoot.”

  Starting from the doorway, I began snapping a series of orientation photographs and calling out the picture information to Ash. Next, I carefully worked my way into the room, moving crabwise around the dead man and taking shots from a variety of angles. With each step, I felt pieces of broken glass crackling beneath my shoes.

  I was taking some photos of the ceiling when Tina said, “Ash, you said the mantle was dusty?”

  “You could write your name in the dust. This place is so filthy it’s embarrassing.”

  I turned and saw Tina bent forward at the waist peering down at the body. “Notice something?”

  “Maybe. Somebody cleaned some of the dust on the side and back of this cupboard…right about at the spot where you’d grab it to pull it over.”

  Ash said, “Could it be where Merrit grabbed the cupboard?”

  I squinted at the wood. “No. This surface has been wiped clean. There aren’t any finger marks.”

  Tina nodded. “And his hands are in the wrong place. Is it possible that someone intentionally tipped this thing over onto him?”

  “That’s sure how it looks.” I leaned forward and took a picture of the wood that had been wiped clean. “But I think we also have to assume Merrit was already unconscious or otherwise incapacitated, because I can’t imagine he just stood there and let the suspect send the cupboard crashing down onto him.”

  “My God, who could have done something so brutal?” Ash asked.

  “Jack the Tipper?” Both women groaned and I mimicked the sound of a brief snare drum and cymbal flourish. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all weekend. Try the veal.”

  Although I was trying to be funny, I was anything but lighthearted. The bad pun and third-rate comic shtick was nothing more than camouflage to disguise the fact I was feeling guilty as hell. If I’d called Tina when I’d first seen the Yakuza, Merrit would probably still be alive and maybe even dusting the dirty museum. The only thing I felt I could do to at least partially redeem myself would be to work this case with a laser-like intensity. Which would mean a nonstop commitment to following up all the leads quickly, because it’s a fact that most murders are solved in the first seventy-two hours. At the same time, I wondered if I was physically up to the challenge.

  “Eh?” Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t hear what Tina had just said.

  “I said, I guess I
’d better get some more deputies out here.”

  “Sorry, I was gathering wool. Yeah, we’ll need a cop for perimeter security and a couple more to search the yard for evidence.”

  “And maybe one more to start canvassing the farms along this road for witnesses.”

  “Good idea. We’re also going to need crime scene tape, bags and envelopes for evidence packaging, and a latent print kit.”

  “I’ve got that equipment in my car.”

  “Excellent. And at some point we’re also going to need a big van or pickup truck.”

  “Why?”

  I jerked my head in the direction of the cupboard. “So far as we know, this is the murder weapon and once we’ve wasted our time dusting it for latent prints, we’ll have to collect it as evidence.”

  Tina’s jaw sagged open. “Our evidence storage room isn’t big enough to hold that thing. How long do we have to keep it?”

  “I don’t know how it is in Virginia, but in California you maintain custody of homicide evidence forever.”

  “Wonderful.” Tina jerked a notepad from her breast pocket and made a note.

  I tried to push myself to my feet, but found that my crippled left leg wouldn’t cooperate. Struggling to keep the annoyance out of my voice, I said, “Honey, I’m kind of stuck. Could you give me a hand getting up?”

  “Of course.” Looking away from the body, Ash put her arm out for me to pull up on. “Your leg is hurting, isn’t it?”

  “A little, but I’ll be okay.”

  “And I’m here to help. Remember that.”

  “I will and thanks. Tina, there’s one other thing I need. Does the department have a forensic vacuum cleaner?”

  Tina gave a short bitter chuckle. “Not this fiscal year.”

  “Then we’ll have to collect all this broken glass and china the old-fashioned way: with a broom and dustpan.” I motioned with the camera at the floor. “Whoever pushed this thing over will have glass and ceramic fragments imbedded in the soles of his shoes. We’ll want all the debris for comparison samples.”

  “I’m assuming we need a brand new broom and dustpan.”

  “That would be best.”

  “Well, I think the budget can absorb that. Changing gears, tell me about these Yakuza.”

  I gave Tina brief descriptions of the trio and pulled the napkin I’d used as notepaper from my pants pocket. “This has got the license plate of their vehicle. It was an orange, newer model Hummer.”

  Tina took the napkin. “And they wanted directions to the museum?”

  “Yeah and they left town westbound on Coggins Spring Road, headed in this general direction.”

  “But nobody actually saw them here, right?” Ash asked.

  “No, but we have to assume they arrived.”

  Tina said, “You think I should issue an APB on the vehicle?”

  “It’s your operation, but I wouldn’t. Not yet.” I noticed that Ash had wandered over to take a closer look at a quilt hanging from the wall near the teddy bears. “We may have damned suspicious circumstances here, but until the ME confirms that this was a murder, it’s not actually a crime.”

  “I’ll go ahead and run the plate now,” Tina said. “At least we’ll know the owner’s name.”

  “Huh!” said Ash.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if there’s anything wrong. It’s just this quilt. The sign says it came from the collection of Martha Zinzer.”

  Tina and I went over to the quilt. It was a “Log Cabin” design with a dingy and jarring color mix of calicos and solids that reminded me of a vagrant’s mismatched clothing. Think “Joseph’s Coat of Murky Colors” and you’ll have the general idea. There was a typewritten index card thumb-tacked to the wall saying that the quilt was circa 1875 and had been donated by Martha Zinzer.

  “I’m not following,” I said.

  “Martha lived across the river from us. She had an amazing old quilt collection, but she died about five years ago.”

  “So, she doesn’t need a quilt, especially if she went someplace where it’s very warm.”

  “Don’t even think about saying that in front of Mama. She’ll beat you like a rug.”

  Ash wasn’t exaggerating. I remembered the first time she’d formally introduced me to her family as her fiancé. Ash’s mom, Irene, had waited until we were alone and then quietly promised to skin me alive with a carving knife if I ever hurt her daughter. Don’t get me wrong; I love Irene and I think she loves me, but even though she’s seventy-one years old, I wouldn’t cross her.

  I said, “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Mama and Martha were lifelong friends and Mama told me that Martha donated all her antique quilts to the quilt museum over in Harrisonburg.”

  “Maybe she also donated one to our museum,” said Tina.

  “Maybe.” Ash picked it up by the corner and pinched the fabric between her fingers. “This is supposed to be an antique, but…I don’t know. I’ve handled plenty of old quilts—I grew up in a house full of them—and this one just doesn’t feel right.”

  “How so?”

  “For starters, the batting is too stiff.”

  “You think it’s counterfeit?” I asked. The growing popularity of antiques had resulted in a flood of bogus artifacts. Many of them quite cunningly wrought and then artificially aged.

  Ash flicked the fabric away with her thumb. “I’m no expert, but if this was for sale at an antique shop, I sure wouldn’t buy it.”

  “Even if it is a fake, is it something we want to waste our time on right now?” Tina glanced at her watch. “The ME will be here soon.”

  “Good point. I’ll finish up the orientation photos.”

  Tina pulled her portable radio from her gun belt. “And I’ve got to get the extra deputies over here and talk to Mr. Gage before he decides to leave. Ash, could you give me a hand bringing in the rest of the equipment?”

  “Of course.”

  I said, “Oh, and don’t forget to tell Gage not to mess with his answering machine. We’re going to want to record that message and confirm the time the call came in.”

  “Got it.”

  While the women were gone I finished photographing the body and then took overview shots of the other first floor rooms, including what I assumed was Merrit’s tiny office cubicle behind the admission desk. There was a guest book on the admission desk and I checked to see if the Yakuza had been thoughtful enough to sign in before offing the museum curator. But I was out of luck. The last entry was from the previous Saturday when a husband and wife from Lizton, Indiana—wherever that was—described the museum as “very fascinating,” which told me that Lizton must be a mighty boring place.

  Still, I took a photograph of the mostly blank page and made a note to collect the guest book as evidence. Doing that would reduce the chances of the killer’s future defense attorney claiming that the “real murderer” had signed the guest book and the lazy, inept, or corrupt investigators had overlooked it. As a defense attorney once reminded me, all he needed to do was convince one credulous juror that the cops had botched the case and he’d win a tactical victory for his client with a hung jury.

  The front door opened and Ash came in, a bunch of manila evidence storage envelopes in one hand and the fingerprint kit in the other. “Tina will be here in a second. The Medical Examiner just arrived and they’re talking out front.”

  “Good. I’m done here.”

  “And I have two bits of bad news. First, Tina ran the plate and the Hummer is registered to Olympus Rent-a-Car.”

  “Not surprising. What else?”

  “Mr. Gage told Tina that he’s already deleted the message from Merrit.”

  “Great. Is Gage still here?”

  “No, Tina told him he could go. Why?”

  “If his phone is one of the newer models, it’ll keep an electronic log of all incoming calls. We may not have the message, but at least we’d know when Merrit made the call.” I glanc
ed over my shoulder into Merrit’s office. “Then again, we might not have to go to Gage’s house to confirm the time. Let’s check Merrit’s phone.”

  Setting the camera down, I went into the cubicle and Ash followed. Merrit’s cordless telephone had a built-in answering machine, but the LCD display indicated there were no messages. I examined the specialized function buttons and finally found the one I was looking for.

  “Can I borrow your pen for a second?”

  Ash handed it to me. Even though the chance of recovering a usable latent print from the tiny button was effectively nil, there was no point in giving a defense attorney another area to attack as sloppy crime scene processing. I used the tip of the pen to press the button. The LCD display showed that the last call was made from the phone at 11:14 A.M.

  Ash bent over to look and leaned her head against mine. “Four-three-four area code. That’s on the eastern side of the Blue Ridge.”

  “Can I have the notebook, please?” She handed it to me, I wrote down the phone number, and then pressed the button with the pen again. “Eleven-twelve A.M. and five-fouroh area code; a local call.”

  “I’m pretty certain that’s Gage’s number. Tina has it in her notepad.”

  I wrote the number down and pressed the button again. This time the LCD display indicated an outgoing call on Friday night to the same number in the “434” area code.

  “So, just two phone calls this morning,” said Ash.

  “Two minutes apart and about a half hour after the Yakuza left Sergei’s. Obviously, something happened here before Merrit bought the farm.” I wrote down the second number along with the time of the call.

  “I wonder who the other person was he called.”

  “That’s something we’ll have to follow up on once the ME finishes with the body.”

  “Were there any incoming calls?”

  I pressed an adjoining button with the pen and the small screen revealed the caller ID information. “This morning at ten-oh-three from…Franklin Merrit. Someone must have called from his home.”

  “Any others?”

  “That’s the only one for today.” From outside, I heard footfalls on the wooden steps and the muted sound of Tina’s voice. “And this is something that’s going to have to wait for now, because we’re going to be needed back at the body.”