The Mournful Teddy (3 page)

“Dear Lord, what a tragedy. Sister Ashleigh, are you all right?”

14

John J. Lamb

“I’m fine, Pastor Marc. Just a little upset.”

“Still, it must have been a horrible shock. Is there anything at all I can do to provide some spiritual comfort?”

“Getting the body out of the river would be a good start,” I muttered under my breath and resisted adding:
And don’t even think about hugging my wife.

Poole turned his empathetic gaze on me. “And Brother Bradley, how are you dealing with this terrible occurrence?”

“Oh, I think I’m holding up pretty well under the circumstances.”

If Poole noticed the dry tone in my voice, he chose to ignore it. However, Ashleigh recognized the sarcasm and shot me a look that said:
He’s harmless, behave.

Off to the northwest—over on U.S. Route 33, if I judged correctly—a new siren began to wail. Poole glanced in that direction and said, “That’ll be the Sheriff ’s Department.

Our dispatcher called them.” Then he made a big production out of squaring his brawny shoulders. “Well, it’s time to get to work.”

“Please, be careful,” said Ash.

And God help me if Poole didn’t sound exactly like Buzz Lightyear from
Toy Story
when he replied, “Don’t worry. Recovering a body from the river can be very dangerous, but we’re experts.”

As Poole returned to the fire truck and began to pull on a pair of hip-waders, Ash whispered, “Honey, I know he’s a little full of himself . . .”

“Oh, you think?”

“But I truly don’t believe he meant anything by that hug.”

“If you say so, love.”

“And I think it’s really sweet that even after being married all these years, you still act like a high-school kid ready to fight behind the gym because he thinks someone The Mournful Teddy

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is making a move on his girlfriend.” She took my hand.

“But you don’t have to worry because I wouldn’t trade you for anyone or anything.”

“Thanks, Ash, and I’ll try to behave.”

Poole had finished putting on the waders and was now adjusting the straps of a sturdy nylon harness that fit over his shoulders and around his waist. Two long and thick ropes were attached to the back of the harness and the chubby firefighter carefully tied them to the trunk of a sycamore tree. Poole smiled, gave us a thumbs-up, and took the twelve-foot-long gaff pole in hand. Then both firefighters went to the river’s edge and Poole proceeded cautiously into the murky water. The pastor moved very deliberately, using a fallen tree for a handhold as he moved farther into the rushing stream. You could see the water pushing against his legs and I’ll give the guy this: going out into that river took some real
cojones.
I wouldn’t have wanted to attempt it, even with two good legs.

Down at the end of the lane, I heard the approaching siren shut off and a few seconds later a white and gold Massanutten County Sheriff’s car pulled up behind the fire truck. The female deputy was tall—right around six feet—with black curly hair and a round, sweet face that belonged on one of Ash’s teddies. She paused to speak briefly with the firefighter on the riverbank and then she joined us.

“Hi, folks. I’m Deputy Tina Barron. Can I get some information from you?”

“Sure.”

“Who found him?” The deputy pulled a pen and notepad from her breast pocket.

“That’d be me,” I replied.

After I’d provided our names, address, and phone number, Barron asked, “So, Mr. Lyon, when did you first see the body?”

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John J. Lamb

“I don’t know—call it six-forty.”

“Any idea of who he is?”

Ash knew what I was thinking and squeezed my hand.

“Well, I know it’s definitely not Bob.”

Barron gave me a searching glance and I thought I saw a brief, suppressed smile. Then we turned our attention to Poole. The pastor now stood hip-deep in the cascading water and had gotten to within a few yards of the body. Gradually and carefully, he extended the metal pole toward the corpse and expertly slipped the large metal hook inside the back of the dead man’s jacket collar. Poole twisted the hook slightly and then began to pull the body free from the tree branches. A few seconds later, he was towing the corpse to shore.

Barron helped Poole and the other firefighter drag the body up the riverbank and lay the dead man on our front lawn. Poole checked the guy for vitals, but it was a waste of effort.

“No wallet or ID,” said Barron, checking the victim’s pockets.

I could tell the dead man hadn’t been in the water for very long because his skin hadn’t yet begun to turn adipose—that is, looking waxy and fatty. He was a runty little white guy—maybe five-foot-five and 150 pounds soaking wet, which—come to think of it—he was. I estimated his age at about thirty-five years and saw that he’d tried to compensate for his diminutive physique by shaving his head and growing a fierce moustache and goatee combination. His clothing consisted of an orange University of Virginia tee-shirt, a leather jacket, a relatively new pair of jeans, and some battered Nikes.

“Our Heavenly Lord, please bless this poor sinner that’s come home to you.” Poole’s head was tilted skyward and his eyelids were shut. “And, please, dear Jesus, guide your noble servant, Deputy Tina, that she might The Mournful Teddy

17

discover this man’s name so that his family won’t spend the rest of their days worrying over his fate. All this we ask thee with humble and loving hearts, amen.”

There was a moment or two of silence and then Barron said, “Well, I guess I’ll call the coroner and get started on my accidental drowning report before he gets here. Would you folks mind if I used your kitchen table to write on?”

I cleared my throat. “You know, Deputy, I’m not trying to tell you your job, but you might want to hold off on your accidental death report for a little while. In fact you probably should call out a detective.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because this guy has petechial hemorrhaging in both eyes. You see those little bloodstains on the whites of his eyes?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it. What does that mean?”

“It tells us he didn’t drown. The only way you get that sort of bloodstain is if the victim’s been strangled or suffocated.” I shifted my gaze to the dead man’s neck and pointed. “You see that faint red line?”

“Right there?” There was a flicker of excitement in Barron’s voice.

“Yeah. It’s a narrow ligature mark. Ten-to-one the autopsy will show his hyaline cartilage has been fractured—

classic evidence of manual strangulation. You’ve got a murder victim here.”

Chapter 2

“You’re sure?” Barron asked.

“Absolutely certain,” I replied.

“You mind telling me how you know so much about people who’ve been strangled?”

“Because he was one of the top homicide inspectors on the San Francisco Police force,” Ash said proudly.

“The city of Satan, sin, sodomites . . .” Poole struggled to think of another alliterative bad thing to say about my old hometown.

“Shameless strumpets?” I offered and pretended not to notice Ash’s eyes rolling upward.

“Thank you, Brother Bradley.”

Barron stood up. “So, what you’re saying is that somebody murdered this guy and then threw him in the river, hoping he’d drift downstream all the way to Chesapeake Bay while the water was high.”

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“That’s one scenario,” I replied. “Here’s another: The victim was killed and tossed into the river because the suspect hoped by the time the body was recovered it’d be in such bad shape that it would be easy to misidentify the cause of death.”

“Any idea of how long he’s been dead?”

“I’d just be guessing, but it probably happened sometime last night. His skin hasn’t begun to become adipose yet, which means he hasn’t been in the river all that long.”

I lifted up the man’s arm by the sleeve of his leather jacket and then released the limb. It struck the ground with a squishy thump. “And it looks as if he’s already been in and out of rigor.”

“Well, I guess I’d better call the sheriff,” Barron said dolefully.

“Will you need us for anything else?” Poole began to remove the hip-waders. “Our shift is about over and I’ve got to get over to the church. Today is our monthly charity flea market and things just get out of control unless I’m there.”

“I can’t think of any reason for you to stay. Thanks for pulling him out of the water,” said Barron. “Oh, and will you make a copy of your rescue report and drop it by the Sheriff’s Department?”

“I’ll get it done this afternoon.” Poole stepped out of the waders and turned to us. “And I just want to tell you Ashleigh, that I thank our loving Savior you married this fine man and brought him home because if he hadn’t been here today, a great evil would have gone unnoticed.”

“Why, thank you, Pastor Marc.” She gave me a beseeching look that said I should acknowledge Poole’s olive branch.

“Thanks for the compliment.” I offered my hand to Poole and he gripped it tightly.

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John J. Lamb

Ash gave an almost imperceptible sigh of relief and said, “And maybe if we get the chance we’ll try to stop for a few minutes at the flea market before we head into Harrisonburg.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine there’s anything there you’d find the least bit interesting. Truth is, it’s mostly junk, but it’s all for a good cause,” Poole said in a self-effacing noble voice. Then he threw his arm around the other firefighter’s shoulder. “Hey, Brother Tony, it’s quitting time. Let’s head for the barn.”

Barron watched the pastor climb into the rescue truck and muttered something I don’t think she intended us to hear: “Junk, my butt.” Then she pulled the portable radio from her gun belt and told the dispatcher that she needed Sheriff Holcombe to respond to the scene. I wondered what
that
comment meant.

Once the fire truck was gone, I checked my watch.

“We have to be at the fairgrounds at ten, love?”

“Are we running out of time?”

“Well, it’s seven-fifteen now and we’ll have to leave here by nine-thirty at the latest. Why don’t you go in and shower? I’ll hang loose out here until the sheriff arrives.”

“Okay, but I want you to sit down. Your leg is beginning to ache, isn’t it?” Ash had noticed I was leaning heavily on my cane.

“A little.”

“You sit down on the bench and I’ll bring you some fresh coffee. Deputy Barron, can I get you some coffee too?”

Barron’s radio squawked. She listened to the message, acknowledged the transmission, and gritted her teeth.

“No thanks. I’ve been ordered to get back on patrol. Sheriff Holcombe will be here in about ten minutes.”

“Whoa! What about our soggy friend here? Who’s going to secure the crime scene?”

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“You’ll have to ask the sheriff that. He told me to clear out.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that?”

“You don’t keep up on local news, do you?”

“Been too busy putting the house together.”

“I’m in the doghouse because I’m running against him in the upcoming election. He can’t stand the sight of me.

And I took a big risk by telling you that, because if he found out, he’d claim I was campaigning on duty and suspend me without pay.” Barron snapped the portable radio back into the metal holder on her gun belt with a little more force than necessary. I could see that she was furious, but too professional to articulate her anger.

Ash had been married to me long enough to know the sheriff ’s instructions made no sense. “But you can’t just go away and leave a homicide victim unattended.”

“Homicide victim?” Barron made no effort to conceal the disdain in her voice. “Sheriff Holcombe has already closed the case as either a suicide or an accidental drowning. Apparently he forgot to tell me about a call the department got last night reporting that a man was seen jumping from the Island Ford Bridge into the river.”

“And he hung himself at some point during the two seconds it took to hit the water?” I struggled to control my growing agitation. “This guy didn’t drown—he was strangled.”

“I believe you.”

“So, did you tell the sheriff about the trauma on the body?”

“Of course, and he told me that the victim must have gotten caught on debris in the river and that’s what caused the marks.”

“That’s amazing. Without coming to the scene or looking at the body, he can tell precisely how this poor 22

John J. Lamb

son-of-a-bitch died. How long has your sheriff possessed clairvoyant powers?”

Barron grimaced. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“And you’re going to just go along with this charade?”

Ash touched my shoulder. “I don’t think she has any choice, sweetheart.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Lyon, there isn’t anything I can do.

Maybe if I’m elected next month . . .” She looked away from us and toward the river. She sighed and continued,

“Look, I’m truly sorry, but if I rock the boat . . . well, I’m a single mom with three kids at home and I need the paycheck.”

“What if we rock the boat?” I asked.

“Then I’d offer you a little advice: Be very careful.

Welcome to Massanutten County.” Shoulders drooping, Barron returned to her patrol car. A few moments later she was gone.

I sagged onto the bench. “Honey, what do you know about Holcombe?”

“Not much. He was a couple of grades behind me in high school and I think I remember hearing Daddy say that he’d been a cop down in Elkton before coming back home and being elected sheriff.”

“How would you like to do me a favor? Go give your folks a call. If we’re going to lock horns with this guy, I’d like a little intel.”

“Still want a fresh cup of coffee?”

“Please.”

After refilling my mug, Ash returned to the house to telephone her parents. I sipped my coffee and waited for the sheriff. The sun began to burn the fog off and the sky gradually began to turn blue. To the east, Hanse Mountain started to emerge from the dense mist and the outline of the Blue Ridge was visible beyond. Other than the fact that I had a murdered man lying on my front lawn and The Mournful Teddy