Meanwhile, Danny Aafedt had arrived and was exchanging information with Gregg. Although he had a Norwegian name, Aafedt wasn’t your archetypal blond Scandinavian. He had black hair, a dark full moustache, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. We exchanged waves of greeting, but I didn’t move closer to join the conversation, knowing that I was only there as an observer. Suddenly, I felt as out of place as . . . well . . . a handicapped teddy bear artist at a homicide investigation. I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake by coming.
I looked toward the Paladin, which was a classic early 1960s small motel: single-storied and flat-roofed, L-shaped, with pale green stucco walls. The soda machine looked to be as old as the structure and I wondered if it contained bottles of Royal Crown Cola for a dime. My guess was that the only modifications made to the building since it was built were the wrought-iron security bars on the windows.
There were a few vehicles in the small parking lot and I saw a figure in a bulky bomb-protection suit kneeling beside an older midsized sedan that could have been any color from gray to salmon under the saffron glare of the overhead sodium lights. Then the bomb tech stood up, pulled his padded helmet off, and trudged toward the command post. Everyone gathered around to listen as the gray-haired Emergency Ordnance Disposal Unit sergeant made his report to Lieutenant Garza.
Tossing the heavy helmet onto the bus bench, the bomb guy said, “The scene is safe. It’s not a bomb, but whoever found it made the right decision to call us.”
“Why?” asked Garza
“The FBI has been worried about terrorists disguising bombs as toys, and what we’ve got here is a big teddy bear packed with electronic equipment and circuitry, hooked up to some sort of battery I’ve never seen before.”
“They called out the bomb squad for a Teddy Ruxpin?” someone on the periphery of the group said with a scornful laugh.
He was referring to a primitive robotic teddy bear with a built-in audiocassette tape player that had been briefly yet insanely popular back in the mid-1980s, and which had recently made a tepid comeback.
“That isn’t a Teddy Ruxpin and here’s a news flash, smart guy: A bomb isn’t black and round with a hissing fuse. But hey, if you’re set on having a closed-coffin funeral, feel free to assume that things like that are safe to handle.” The EOD sergeant grabbed his helmet and then addressed Garza. “We’re gonna head back to headquarters and you’ll have my report by Monday.”
Once the bomb squad man was gone, Garza said, “Okay, everyone, before we go in, gather round and I’ll tell you what we know. At twenty-twenty-two hours, dispatch received the first of several nine-one-one calls reporting multiple shots fired at the motel. Patrol and vice units arrived on-scene and found our victim in Room Four. He’s an unidentified WMA and, big shock, there’s a gun on the floor next to him. Considering this is the Paladin, we all know what that might mean.”
“A dope rip,” said Aafedt. “Any suspect description?”
Garza shook her head. “Again, since this is the Paladin, the other room occupants naturally didn’t see or hear anything. The only bit of information we have, and even that’s iffy, is of a dark-colored sedan fleeing the scene southbound on Pierce Street.”
“Hey, I know,” said Gregg. “Let’s put that info into one of those cool computers like they have on
CSI: Miami
. I’ll bet it’ll tell us the license plate, make, model, the suspect’s name, his mom’s address, and even when he last changed the car’s oil.”
Everyone chuckled bitterly. The only reason real cops watch supposedly authentic TV shows such as
CSI: Miami
is to poke merciless fun at them for their largely bogus portrayals of forensic technology. The programs take place in a magical land where DNA test results are available in minutes instead of the customary weeks; where there are machines that not only analyze and identify chemical compounds but can also tell you amazingly arcane things such as where a certain rare tree can be found; and where the investigators carry every imaginable piece of ultramodern crime fighting gear, except handcuffs. Real life is very different.
Garza gave out job assignments next. Gregg and Aafedt were named case agents and the techs were assigned specific functions. The medical examiner arrived and I got ready to cool my heels while everyone went to work.
Gregg cleared his throat. “LT, I wonder if Brad could come in with us.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see how. The defense could claim we compromised the integrity of the crime scene by letting a sightseer in.”
Although I knew that Garza hadn’t intended it as an insult, it stung that she’d called me a sightseer—even if it was essentially true. Suddenly I wanted to go beyond that yellow crime scene tape more than almost anything in the world. My mind racing, I said, “But you wouldn’t be compromising the scene if you let an expert in.”
Garza looked doubtful. “An expert in what?”
“Teddy bears. You’ve got a teddy bear that might be connected to the crime and I’m the closest thing you’ve got to an expert on stuffed animals. I make them for a living now and know an awful lot about the major manufacturers and artists. Hell, I’m even kind of a teddy bear history buff.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“And as part of my duties as a civilian investigative consultant for the Massanutten County Sheriff’s Office, I worked a couple of major felony cases that—believe it or not—involved the theft of teddy bears.” I hoped my voice didn’t betray how close I was to shameless begging.
“A teddy bear expert,” Garza said musingly and then grinned. “I love it. Have Inspector Lyon sign the entry log, get him some gloves, and let’s get to work.”
Even though my shin was beginning to ache a little, I felt like dancing a victory jig. A moment later, we passed beneath the yellow plastic tape and approached the motel. We paused as one of the crime scene photographers took some orientation photos of the exterior of the building. Then, accompanied by an evidence tech, I went over to check out the teddy bear next to the car while the rest of the investigators went to Room Four.
The sedan was a mid-eighties Chevrolet Celebrity with expired California plates. As it turned out, the car was actually beige, which just goes to show how sodium lights can alter a witness’s perception of colors. The tech took some overview pictures of the car and then of the teddy bear, which was lying on the pavement halfway beneath the Celebrity and near the right rear tire. Once he finished, I borrowed the tech’s flashlight and slowly knelt down on the still-warm asphalt to take a better look. The EOD sergeant was correct. This was no Teddy Ruxpin.
The toy bear lay facedown, and I could see why the bomb squad had been called. There was a hinged door on the bear’s back and it was open, revealing a mass of the sort of electronic circuitry and wiring you’d expect to find inside a computer. The hardware wouldn’t have looked so menacing if it hadn’t been for the tiny red LED light on a circuit board. It was flashing on and off rhythmically as if signaling some sort of countdown. This was a visual clue you’d have to be felony stupid to ignore, since the toy was large enough to contain several sticks of dynamite.
The bear was about twenty-four inches tall and made from ivory-colored plush fur tipped with a hint of silver. It also seemed to have an awfully inflexible posture. This suggested a substantial framework beneath the fur. Another peculiar thing caught my eye. Ordinarily, a teddy bear’s footpads are made of fabric or leather, but this bear’s feet were oblong-shaped, with what looked like hard brown plastic soles, which had inset horizontal treads.
I was puzzled. The only reason you’d build a bear with strong sturdy legs and soles designed for traction was if you expected it to be able to walk. I was aware that robotic teddy bears were in use as experimental patient monitors at some hospitals, but so far as I knew, they weren’t ambulatory. If this thing could actually walk, it belonged to the next generation of interactive toys and was worth a potential fortune. Which naturally led me to the question, what the hell was it doing here?
I had the tech take some close-up photos of the bear and then I picked it up. It was a lot heavier than I’d expected. I scrutinized the hardware for any sign of the manufacturer, but came up empty. Then I turned the bear around to examine its face. I couldn’t be absolutely certain, but I didn’t think the facial design was similar to any of the mechanized bears I’d seen pictured in a recent magazine article. This bear’s visage was evocative of Knut, the famous polar bear cub from the Berlin Zoo who had stolen the world’s heart back in 2006. The toy bear had friendly blue eyes and a hinged open-mouth apparatus.
“He’s got power, so I wonder how you turn him on?” I asked meditatively.
Without warning, the bear’s eyes lit up and it cheerfully replied in a young man’s voice, “Hi, my name is Patrick Polar Bear and I’m your friend.”
“Whoa. That look is so real, it’s downright spooky,” said the tech.
“Yeah, and the power source must be voice-activated by certain words.”
It was irrational, but I had the uncanny feeling the bear was looking at me. It said, “What’s
your
name?”
“Um, Brad.”
“Hi Brad! Do you want to sing a song?”
“How about ‘Driving That Train’ by the Grateful Dead?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know that song. Would you like to teach it to me?”
It would have been interesting to see just how interactive the bear was, but this wasn’t the time or place for experiments. Uncertain of how to deactivate the toy, I decided to inquire of the one source that might know. “Patrick, how do I turn you off?”
“Just say ‘good night’ and we can play when I wake up.” I knew it was merely a product of its programming, but the bear genuinely sounded sad.
“Good night, Patrick.”
“Good night, Brad. I’ll see you in my dreams,” said the bear as the light slowly died in its eyes.
I handed the bear to the evidence tech. “You need to bag this. It’s definitely evidence.”
“How can you tell?”
“For starters, this thing was dropped and abandoned, which doesn’t make any sense. This bear is probably worth at least several grand.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s a cutting-edge robot.”
“So, how’d it end up here?”
I glanced in the direction of the motel room where the body was. “I don’t know, but we have to assume that the bear is somehow connected with the homicide.”
“So, this is a
grizzly
murder,” the tech deadpanned.
“Hey, you’re stealing my material.” I picked up the flashlight. “Secure Patrick in the evidence van while I check to make sure that nothing broke off the bear when it hit the pavement.”
The secret to conducting a successful crime scene search is to take your time and avoid preconceived notions about what might be important. Think of a homicide in terms of a crossword puzzle. The clues are often obscure and misleading. Although I couldn’t locate any debris from the bear, there was no mistaking the importance of what I soon found: a smear of fresh blood and some dark blue-colored fiber transfers on the asphalt, about five feet away from where the bear had fallen. It wasn’t difficult to reconstruct what had happened. Whoever had run away had tripped, fallen, and skinned some clothed part of their body on the pavement. When the evidence tech returned, I showed him the blood stain, which he photographed, measured for the crime scene diagram, and then collected.
Using my cane as a brace, I stood up and looked at the license plate of the car. “Did you run this yet?”
“I’m about to do it now,” said the tech.
I shined the flashlight’s beam into the Chevy. There was a crumpled fast-food bag and empty soda cup with a protruding straw on the passenger-side floorboard and an improperly folded road map of the Bay Area on the front seat. Shifting the light to the backseat, I found something else that unquestionably qualified as evidence. It was the furry brown bear head and the rest of the costume worn by the guy who’d leveled me at the teddy bear show earlier this morning.
Glancing toward the motel room where the dead man lay, I suddenly had a bad feeling that maybe Merv Bronsey and his costumed partner had found Kyle Vandenbosch.
Five
I scanned the car’s interior again, looking for Lauren’s cashbox, but didn’t see it. However, that didn’t mean anything. It might have been under the wadded-up costume or in the trunk or, more likely, the suspect had gotten rid of it after taking the money. Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out the connection between the costume and the mechanized bear.
One possibility was that the crook had stolen the robot from one of the exhibitors at the bear show. However, I had to toss that theory out almost immediately. Ash and I kept up with the teddy bear community news and there wasn’t even a whisper of an artist unveiling a mechanized bear at the Sonoma show. But even if such an amazing bear had been on display in the Plaza, it meant that the guy in the costume had somehow stolen it without anyone noticing—which I couldn’t believe—and then elected to run the risk of discovery and capture by also robbing Lauren of some small amount of cash. Crooks don’t behave that way. They make fast tracks after stealing something.
Furthermore, if Bronsey really did have Lycaon as a client, he’d want to make them repeat customers. That meant impressing them with a clean operation and quick results. Merv’s mission was to terrorize Lauren so that she’d rat out her son, so it didn’t make sense that he’d risk the success of the operation by allowing his furry accomplice to steal from someone else at the show.
The evidence tech said, “The vehicle comes back no wants and registered to a Darryl Wu out of San Leandro, with a release of liability.”
“So, we still don’t know who owns it, because whoever bought this car from Mr. Wu never took it to the DMV to reregister it.”
“Do you think the Chevy is connected to the murder?”
“There’s a good chance. You see that?” I pointed to the wadded-up costume. “Believe it or not, a suspect wore that thing to commit a robbery in Sonoma this morning.”
“And then it shows up outside a motel room where a One-Eighty-Seven went down? The violence is escalating, so the guy must be—”