“I won’t go so far as to say that,” said Nguyen. “We’ve recovered video and audio data from what we believe is the Paladin Motel at the time of the murder. However, its evidentiary value is . . . equivocal.”
“Just what exactly does that mean?”
“It would probably be easier for me to show you than try to explain.” Nguyen double-clicked her mouse.
The diagnostic graphics display vanished from the screen and at least two of the computer wonks let out tiny groans. Aafedt came into the office and joined us at the workstation as Nguyen used her keyboard to type a computer command. Suddenly the monitor showed a crisp black-and-white static image of Merv Bronsey’s face. The PI was looking mighty shocked. There was a blurred and shadowy figure behind Bronsey, whom I assumed was Joey Uhlander. A small information window in the lower right-hand corner of the screen showed Saturday’s date and a time of 20:03:32.
“I’ve cued the recording from the moment the robot was activated on the night of the murder,” said Nguyen.
“Not that I want to see them right this minute, but are there earlier recordings?” Gregg asked.
“There were at some point, but the files were intentionally deleted.”
“Any chance you can recover them?”
“Absolutely, but it will take time and we knew you wanted us to focus on this first.”
“Good work. Now, why don’t you go ahead and hit play.”
Nguyen clicked on a rightward facing arrow icon above the digital clock display in the information window. On the monitor screen, Bronsey’s face abruptly unfroze and I heard the robot say, “Hi, my name is Patrick Polar Bear and I’m your friend. What’s
your
name?”
Bronsey intoned, “Jesus H. Christ.”
“Hi, Jesus H. Christ. Do you want to sing a song?” Patrick asked.
“No, my name is . . . uh, Larry,” said Bronsey, wisely deciding to use an alias.
The bear said, “I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t hear you right the first time. Hi, Larry. Did you know your name rhymes with berry?”
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
“Do you like strawberries?”
The sound quality of the recording was every bit as good as the picture. A young man’s voice was now audible and Bronsey’s gaze shifted to someone behind the bear. The voice sounded like Patrick’s, yet it was cold and imperious and I assumed it belonged to Kyle. He said, “The clock is ticking, you fat oaf. Tell Patrick you want to play hide-and-seek and then stand him on the floor.”
Bronsey’s expression became hard with anger, but he obeyed. He told the robot that they were going to play a game and Patrick reacted with a realistic sounding
whoop
of joy. Then the PI’s face slid quickly upwards and vanished. There was a dizzying shift of imagery on the screen and then the view stabilized. I realized we were looking at the room from a height of about two feet. The battered old dresser was straight ahead and part of the bed frame was visible to the right.
Kyle spoke again. “Tell Patrick to find me.”
Bronsey asked, “How?”
“You are more stupid than my teddy bear, do you know that? It already knows we’re playing hide-and-seek, so tell it to find me.”
“Patrick, go find Kyle,” Bronsey said.
“Okay, Larry. This is a great game and I really like playing with you.” It was a weird counterpoint hearing the bear speaking in such a kindly tone, while the man that had given Patrick his voice was behaving like a vicious jerk.
Nguyen clicked on an icon to pause the recording. “Now, this is incredible, because it demonstrates that Patrick is, for want of a better term, cognizant. The robot has a memory and
knows
who Kyle is.”
“As Mr. Spock would say,
Fascinating.
Now, please restart the video,” Gregg was obviously trying to keep the frustration from his voice.
Looking slightly insulted, Nguyen clicked on the play icon. The image on the monitor began to jiggle back and forth slightly as the bear walked in the direction of the dresser. Once the robot was past the end of the bed, it made a right turn and started walking toward what I presumed were Kyle’s legs. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked as if Vandenbosch was wearing Nike tennis shoes and jeans.
Meanwhile, from out in the crime lab corridor, I heard a woman’s tinny voice echoing from the Hall of Justice’s public address system. She said that Inspector Mauel needed to contact the front desk immediately. Nguyen heard the summons, too, and looked up at Gregg, who folded his arms to signal that he wasn’t going to move until he’d viewed the rest of the recording.
On the monitor screen, I could see that Patrick had come to a halt in front of Vandenbosch’s knees. The robot said, “Hi, Kyle. I found you. Now it’s my turn to hide.”
“Satisfied?” Although we couldn’t see Kyle, it was obvious he’d addressed the question to Bronsey.
The PI replied, “Cool your jets, Junior. You know the deal. Now, we hook this thing up to the phone.”
“Well, hurry!”
“Kyle, did you hear me? I’m going to hide now and you have to find me,” Patrick said joyfully.
“Oh, shut the hell up, Patrick!” Even though I knew Kyle was yelling at an inanimate object, I felt a surge of anger.
“I’m sorry, Kyle,” the bear whimpered.
“Check out Billy Bad Ass, the computer nerd. He’s so scared, he’s shaking like a freaking leaf,” Bronsey sneered and someone—probably Uhlander—giggled.
Kyle shouted, “You shut up, too, or the deal is off! I’m in charge here!”
“Relax, Vandenbosch.” Bronsey sounded placating. “We’ll run whatever this test is and then you can have your money and we’ll take the bear.”
“Then get busy.”
The screen blurred as someone picked up the bear and moved it. After about three seconds, the video image came back into focus and the scene had shifted to the back corner of the motel room. I could see part of the bathroom sink and a tiny bit of the alcove that served as a closet. The camera’s view seemed to be at just below normal eye-level, which led me to conclude that Patrick was now standing on the nightstand. However, there was no sign of Kyle and I suspected he was deliberately staying off-camera.
There were some muffled sounds and then Bronsey mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “Here they are.”
After a second or two of silence, Kyle demanded, “What the hell was that?”
“How should I know? The hookers are always trying to get into the rooms here,” Bronsey snapped.
A man dressed in dark clothing and a ski mask abruptly emerged from the bathroom. He held a revolver in a two-handed grip and seemed to point it at Patrick, although I knew he was actually aiming the weapon at Bronsey. There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath.
Meanwhile, Kyle was still hidden from the camera’s view. In a voice quavering with fear, he said, “Okay, okay, throw the bag on the bed and then take your guns out slowly and put them on the floor.”
“It’s a freakin’ rip-off,” a man’s voice hissed.
“Be cool, Joey,” said Bronsey. “Vandenbosch, you’re making a huge mistake.”
“I don’t think so, lard ass. You see this? You see THIS?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a forty-five. Come on, talk some trash to me
now
, tough guy!”
“In a quieter voice, Bronsey said, “Be cool, Joey. Be cool. Just go with the program. Just . . . aw, shit . . .”
Based on Bronsey’s account of the shooting, I had no doubt that it was Uhlander who unexpectedly moved into the foreground of the picture and blocked our view of the masked robber. At that same instant, the gunfire began. It was deafening, but not loud enough to mask the gargled scream of a man in pain. I knew it was Uhlander, who’d been accidentally shot in the back by Bronsey.
The camera’s view shifted with a violent jerk and I caught a momentary glimpse of Bronsey’s hand shoving a staggering Uhlander towards the masked robber and Kyle, who was finally visible on screen. Then the screen became an erratically dancing blur as Bronsey bolted from the room with Patrick in his hand. I could tell when he got outside. There was a tremendous increase in background noise from the vehicle traffic out on Lombard Street. Yet I could still hear Bronsey’s sharp and ragged intake of breath as he tripped and fell.
Suddenly, the screen was no longer blurry. It was simply dark and I realized that Bronsey had just dropped Patrick and the bear was now lying facedown on the parking lot pavement. There was a scuffing sound, some distant voices, and then another crack of a pistol. A few seconds later, I thought I could hear the rapid footfalls of someone running from the room, but it might have been my imagination.
Nguyen clicked on the pause icon and said, “There’s nothing after that. The robot is designed to turn itself off after thirty seconds, if no one is interacting with it. The next image is of Mr. Lyon and a CSI.”
“Gee, Bronsey neglected to mention that he used Uhlander as a human shield to get out of there. Talk about a bottom-feeder,” said Gregg as his cell phone began to trill.
As he answered the telephone call, I said, “Ms. Nguyen, right before the final gunshot, I thought I heard maybe two people talking. Is there any chance you can isolate those sounds and amplify them?”
“Absolutely. We knew that there were pedestrians out on the sidewalk, so we assumed that was the origin,” said Nguyen, as she double-clicked on an icon and then used the keyboard to type a command.
The image on the monitor flickered as Nguyen reset the digital video sequencing. This time there was no background noise from the traffic on Lombard Street and what I heard utterly chilled my blood. We’d heard Kyle’s voice enough already to identify him as the person who said, “Mom, please don’t kill him!” I also recognized the voice that answered him. It was Lauren Vandenbosch, and she snarled, “Shut up and get out of the way, Kyle. He can identify us.” Nguyen had the volume turned way up, so the gunshot that instantly followed was deafening.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, realizing that I had driven my wife to a rendezvous with a killer.
“They need us down in the lobby ASAP.” Gregg disconnected from the call. Then, seeing my face, he said, “What?”
“The person wearing the ski mask was Kyle’s freaking mom.” Aafedt pointed at the monitor. “You can hear it. Kyle begged her not to off Uhlander, but she shot him because he was a witness.”
Gregg turned back to me and looked nearly as sick and frightened as I felt. “Jesus Christ. Ash is at Lauren Vandenbosch’s house right now.”
“After Lauren lured her there with a freaking dog-and-pony show story about how she just wanted some teddy bear artist companionship. And I’m so damned stupid, I bought it.” Suddenly, my fear was replaced by a more savage combination of emotions and my fist tightened around my cane. In an icily calm voice, I continued, “If they hurt her, I will kill them both, just as slowly as possible. They’ll be begging for death by the time I finish.”
Nguyen blanched and slowly pushed her chair away from me.
“But as far as Lauren knows, she’s not a suspect in the murder, so maybe she won’t do anything,” Aafedt said hopefully.
Gregg hung his head. “I hope you’re right, Danny, but . . . the reason they need us to respond Code Three to the lobby is because someone dropped off a teddy bear at the front desk. And there’s an envelope pinned to it that’s addressed to me.”
Twenty-three
“I’ll call dispatch and get patrol units en route to Vandenbosch’s house,” said Aafedt as he snatched up the phone from Nguyen’s desk.
“And along with the physical description, tell them that Ash is wearing blue jeans and a white long-sleeved shirt with a bunch of tabby cats appliquéd on it,” I said, knowing the responding cops would need the information.
“What the hell is appliqué?” asked Aafedt.
“It’s an embroidery technique that she taught me this past winter on her sewing machine. She was so patient, and I was like sewing my fingers together and . . .”
“Don’t worry. Everything is going to work out all right,” said Gregg, pulling me by the arm. As we left the office, he called out to Aafedt, “Meet us downstairs when you’re done.”
We rode the elevator to the ground floor and rushed to the lobby, which was crowded with people waiting for copies of police reports and other services. Two uniformed cops stood next to the metal-detector kiosk at the building’s entrance and one of them waved to us. My heart shot into my throat as I saw what was on their metal worktable. It was Shannon Shoofly Pie, the bear that Ash had given Lauren. There was a business-sized envelope safety-pinned to the bear’s costume and on it was printed “TO INSPECTOR MAUEL, SFPD” in oversized block capital letters and red ink. I knew the choice of color was deliberate.
The older of the two cops said, “We’ve already run it through the scanner. It’s just a teddy bear, but the envelope looked suspicious. That’s why we called.”
Gregg asked, “Did anyone see who dropped it off?”
“No. One of the records clerks found it when she came back from lunch. It was on that low wall near the door.”
His partner added, “We checked the video from the security cameras and it looks as if a male transient dropped it off at thirteen-thirty-one.”
“Almost a half hour ago,” said Gregg, checking his watch.
“Which means Vandenbosch paid some vagrant to make the delivery,” I said.
“We didn’t touch the envelope,” said the older cop. “We figured you’d want to process it for latent fingerprints.”
“We don’t have time for that.” I picked up the teddy bear and unpinned the envelope from the costume. “Besides, we know who sent this letter.”
I tore the envelope open and pulled out a sheet of white printer paper that had been tri-folded. Opening the letter, I immediately suspected that Kyle was the author of what I knew was a ransom demand note. The message had been produced on a computer word processor and was printed in bold red capital letters with the excess of underlined phrases you’d expect to find in a bombastic manifesto written by an insignificant and emotionally immature twit like Kyle. As Gregg and I began to read the letter, I found some of my fear giving way to annoyance when I saw that the super genius had misspelled my wife’s first name.