Sunken Graves

by Alan Lee

  A dog?

  “No, August. No way. I personally picked Daisy off the street. She held this hair in her hands. She had blood under her nails.”

  “I’m not saying you didn’t, Jennings. I’m saying, smell the hair.”

  Jennings pulled the baggie open and said, “Oof,” because the strong scent of a dog puffed from it.

  “You get it?” said August.

  “What… No, I don’t get it.”

  “Last night I went to see the cop I know. McGee, good guy, we’ve helped each other out in the past. I explained the situation and he took the hair to an evidence locker. And now, today, that’s what we have. Dog hair.

  “But—”

  “It gets worse, Jennings. That cop I talked to, McGee? He was just transferred."

  “No way.”

  “Chief Gibbs called him in. Said Roanoke County is making some cuts, which is true, I know. He’s gotta ditch some payroll. Also true, but McGee’s head was nowhere near the chopping block. He’s not that new. However today was his last day. But, get this, there’s a job waiting for him in Martinsville. Starts tomorrow but he had to accept it immediately. Said maybe he could come back in a year.”

  Jennings felt the room spin. “Gibbs knows about last night.”

  “He does. And he found out quick.”

  “That means McGee told someone.”

  “And that person told someone else. One of them sold him out for a promotion.”

  Jennings sealed the bag again. Now that he looked closer, the hair was obviously not human. He tossed it into the trash.

  “Lynch got us twice today. He was recording his conversation with Daisy. He played it for the school’s dean, and it’s humiliating. She sounds like a deviant sex addict. The audio was clipped in places to make it sound worse, but she doesn’t want it heard by anyone.”

  “Damn, the man’s clever. You see what you’re up against, Jennings?”

  “A lawyer, a judge, and a corrupt chief. Outgunned.”

  “Bingo. And it’s driving you crazy.”

  “Makes me think I should just knock on his door and pull the trigger. Simpler that way,” said Jennings.

  “If you do, he wins. He’ll have broken you.”

  “I know.”

  “I looked you up, Jennings. You’re impressive as hell. Salutatorian and Green Beret medic. If anyone can beat him, it’s you. But not if you’re dead. You wade any father into their territory, there’s no evac chopper you can radio for.”

  Jennings was nodding, eyes far off.

  August said, “I’m up to my ears in work, helping with a murder trial. But I’ll be free of it in ten days. When I am, I’ll contact you. We’ll talk it through. Maybe figure out a way to nail his ass to the wall. Until then—”

  “Don’t die.”

  “Don’t die. Don’t do something stupid. Don’t go to prison. And stay near Daisy. You do all that, you’re gonna win. Eventually.”

  Nail his ass to the wall.

  I wish someone would kill Peter Lynch.

  Jennings sat on the floor of his bedroom. He hadn’t moved in an hour, guilt playing like a movie he couldn’t look away from. He didn’t have the heart to call Hathaway this late and dump the bad news. Nor Murray or Lewis.

  This was his fault. It hadn’t been his idea, it had been Hathaway’s, but he should have shot it down. He’d known the chances of success were slim. Mackenzie August was right, doing stupid things meant Lynch was winning.

  Nail his ass.

  Kill him.

  Jennings pulled the long bag from under his bed. Unzipped it.

  His grandfather’s Browning shone dully in the overhead light, the black barrel and wooden stock. He picked it up and checked again to ensure the barrel was empty.

  Pulled the stock to his shoulder and sighted along the rib. Aimed at his coffee maker in the kitchen. Squeezed the trigger and the firing pin clicked.

  “Bang.”

  Jennings hated Lynch. He couldn’t remember hating anyone before. Worse than hated him. Wanted him dead. He’d taken fire from insurgents in Afghanistan and he hadn’t hated them.

  He pressed the top lever to release the lock. Opened the breach, cocking the action. Snapped it closed again. Swiveled to aim at another Peter Lynch—the kitchen chair through his bedroom doorway.

  Click.

  “Bang.”

  Could he gun Lynch down? Doubtful. Killing someone was an enormous thing, like the concept of infinity, too big to grasp.

  Besides, he’d go to jail the rest of his life. Decades sitting on a bunk, staring at a spot between his feet, wishing he hadn’t. Exactly what Mackenzie August was worried about.

  Such was Jennings’ anguish that he felt his mind unraveling at the thought of jail, the act of murder, the concept of infinity. Watching himself shoot Lynch, watching the man’s face disintegrate, and time spiraling into endlessness in a metal cage.

  Just a drop of hate into the waters of his mind and already he was poisoned.

  But what if he could get away with it? What if, in some alternate universe, he could blow a hole through Lynch and never be a suspect? Hate roiled and he felt dizzy. Would he? Could he?

  Sleep was elusive and it came with nightmares, so Jennings waited for dawn with coffee and Erik Larson’s novel open but unread. When the sun rose, it found Jennings with red eyes and the shotgun still cradled in his arms.

  36

  Tuesday was the last school day before Thanksgiving break. Hathaway arrived that morning with her car packed and when the final bell rang she marched to her Lexus IS and drove straight to her parents’ house in northern Albemarle County. She correctly assumed Byron had no idea when Thanksgiving was and that he wouldn’t realize she was gone for at least a day, and she needed a break. From everything.

  Wednesday, Coach Murray took his family to see relatives in Virginia Beach and they stayed three days.

  On Thursday Craig Lewis walked in the Roanoke Rescue Mission’s Drumstick Dash and afterward helped serve food at the cafeteria before his sister and her husband arrived from Savannah.

  Not all Academy students returned home. The campus remained open for the boys with nowhere to go and Jennings had volunteered to be the campus parent over the break; he made plans to see his mother next week, and they’d celebrate Christmas when his brother flew in from Italy in December. He served turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and apple pie in the dining hall, all purchased from The Fresh Market.

  Hathaway and the three men remained in contact during the break, texting daily. From Peter Lynch they heard not a peep.

  Jennings passed his free time researching shotgun suppressors. For amusement purposes only, he told himself, feeling feverish with the items on his screen.

  The trouble was, attaching a suppressor—sometimes called a silencer—made the shotgun ridiculously long and cumbersome. The final result looked like a cannon. Until he stumbled upon the Salvo 12.8, Saturday afternoon.

  A suppressor much smaller than its competitors. Good reviews. Jennings opened the manual online and read.

  At some point halfway through, Jennings decided to place an order with the nearest Class 3 firearms dealer. He bypassed the ATF tax stamp with his Top Secret SCI clearance, a perk from the Green Berets. Looking back on it later, he didn’t remember filling out the paperwork, his functions running on febrile instinct.

  The confirmation email shocked him; there it was in black and white, like the headline on a newspaper declaring war—congratulations on his purchase of a Salvo shotgun suppressor, ready for pickup in three days.

  37

  Sunday morning and Roanoke woke to a bitter frost.

  Peter Lynch’s Jaguar pulled into the Carilion Wellness Center at 8:30 a.m. The lot was largely vacant but he parked in the farthest spot and walked. Over the holiday break, the Jaguar’s rear windshield had been replaced and the upholstery of the passenger seat repaired. Lynch wore a blue peacoat that reached his knees—the collar turned up—plus a scarf, sunglass
es, and a Yorkshire driving cap.

  Lynch never wore hats.

  The Carilion Wellness Center was the gym for Roanoke’s finest. Where a subculture of wealthy retired guys played racquetball. Where the young and ambitious jogged the track and chatted at the lockers. Gossip and business deals swapped in the steam room.

  Lynch opened his locker. Despite only patronizing the gym once every few months, he’d paid to have a locker reserved and adorned with his name. He changed into a sweatsuit, deposited his peacoat and other clothes, and closed the locker door. The padlock, however, remained open. He lumbered to the relative privacy of the cardio room, where he mounted a stationary bike in the far corner and watched the clock.

  Homer Caldwell arrived thirty minutes later. He wore a scarf too, just like Mr. Lynch had ordered.

  Caldwell’s mind was sharp and he kept Mr. Lynch’s orders foremost in his thoughts. Anything to make Mr. Lynch happy. He wanted to pause at the cardio room and wave to his employer, who should be on a bike, but he didn’t.

  In the locker room, Caldwell kept his head down and avoided eye contact. The two strangers there took second glances at him. He withdrew a slip of paper and read the number again. He found the right locker, the one with Peter Lynch’s name on it.

  Beneath Mr. Lynch’s locker was an empty one. Caldwell undressed to his underwear and placed his clothes into that empty locker. He plucked a clean towel from the bin and plunged into the steam room. It was vacant, a relief for Caldwell; he understood his large size and the distinct shape of his face sometimes caused distress. Mr. Lynch told him he was an ugly mongoloid but hadn’t kicked him out.

  Caldwell looked at his watch and grinned. He’d got himself into the steam room two minutes early.

  The watch face fogged over.

  In the cardio room, Peter Lynch got off the exercise bike. This was the portion of his plan he dreaded, a step fragile and easily broken—he could walk into the locker room and find his Giant Mongoloid confused and crying. A distinct possibility and he was prepared to walk away if it happened.

  The room was clear, however, and his teeth ceased their gnashing.

  Lynch grabbed a toiletry bag from his locker and a towel from the bin, and he pulled the door for the white-tiled corridor, warm and wet. Eight shower stalls, a whirlpool, and a steam room branched off the corridor. Caldwell should be in the steam room but Lynch wouldn’t risk looking in.

  His preferred shower stall was open and he claimed it. The stall consisted of the outer dressing area and the inner shower. He twitched the privacy curtain closed, sealing himself into the stall, hidden from the hallway. He twisted the water nozzle and aimed the spraying head toward the wall, away from him. He undressed, stepped into the shower, and pulled across the waterproof plastic lining curtain. He’d left a gap sufficient enough to see through his private dressing area and into the hallway beyond. He could see both corridor entrances.

  In the steam, Homer Caldwell sweated for thirty minutes, wiping his watch face over and over. The instant the minute hand reached 10:00, Caldwell left the steam room, weak and withered from the heat, and he showered.

  Trying not to grin, he opened Mr. Lynch’s locker and dressed in Mr. Lynch’s clothes. Caldwell had eagerly looked forward to this since last night. Mr. Lynch was a little bigger than him but the clothes fit fine, nicer than his own. He inexpertly wrapped the scarf around his neck and tugged on the Yorkshire cap.

  As he neared the locker room exit, he remembered his instructions. Check your reflection, Homer. Don’t you dare forget to check your fucking reflection. Caldwell returned to the mirror. Sure enough, he’d buttoned the peacoat wrong and his fly was down. And he’d forgotten the sunglasses! Carefully he righted the buttons and zipped himself and returned to the locker for the sunglasses. Back at the mirror, he slid on the glasses and sunk his face into the scarf. And he allowed himself to smile.

  He’d done it.

  Caldwell left the locker room and didn’t look at anyone, face hidden. Didn’t speak because he knew his articulation gave him away. On his way out, the desk attendant wished him a good day, silently amused at Mr. Lynch and his outfit. In the parking lot, Caldwell fixed his eyes on Mr. Lynch’s Jaguar and walked straight to it, twice reminding himself not to look in the direction of his own car.

  The car unlocked automatically as he neared, sensing the key in the peacoat’s pocket. Caldwell giggled to himself and slid behind the wheel.

  The security cameras, always recording, watched the indistinct man in the scarf and hat get into the Jaguar and drive away, the sports car making the turn too sharp and bottoming out on the curb.

  Within his dark shower stall, Lynch waited in ambush with the patience of a leopard.

  Craig Lewis arrived at the Carilion Wellness Center ten minutes after Homer left. A creature of habit, Lewis parked his Honda Accord close to the doors in the same spot he always chose when available, and he said good morning to the same desk attendant he always did.

  He attended three cycling classes a week and it’d been two years since he’d missed the Sunday morning 10:30 session. Routines were important.

  Already dressed in cycling gear, he deposited his bag in the locker room and hurried upstairs to claim his favorite bike.

  A full hour later Lewis returned, dripping with sweat. Standing at their lockers, he chatted with friends he’d made in the class over the summer. Normally Lewis didn’t mind but today he was forced to listen to stories about grandchildren. Ghastly.

  After making the polite and appropriate remarks, he went to the steam room while his friends showered and left. The steam room was empty and Lewis let his weariness sweat out.

  In the dim light of his shower cave, Peter Lynch withdrew two extra large latex gloves from his toiletry bag. He snapped them on and remained calm, peering through the gap in his curtains. This was no time for wild rage. He had to maintain focus and control, like in a courtroom.

  Lewis emerged from the steam pink and wrinkly. He chose the shower stall at the far end, adjacent to Lynch’s. He pulled the privacy curtain closed and dropped the towel, just visible on the floor. Lynch heard him twist the nozzle and step into the spray.

  The white-tiled corridor was empty.

  Dripping, Lynch exited his own dressing stall and entered Lewis’, the one adjacent. He twitched the privacy curtain closed, sealing them in.

  Lewis was pumping the shampoo dispenser when he noticed the plastic curtain dim, like a light had gone out. He pushed it aside to peek.

  Peter Lynch was naked and hideous and smiling beyond the plastic.

  Lewis tried to say, “Good God!” but he was gathered into Lynch’s arms and crushed against his immense and terrible flesh. Lynch outweighed him by a hundred and twenty pounds.

  There emitted from the shower no sounds of struggle. Lewis’ arms were pinned, his feet lifted from the floor. His face was sealed against Lynch’s chest, the screams shut inside his mouth. The words being whispered into his ear were lost in the spray.

  Water ran in rivulets over Peter Lynch’s closed eyes. He drank in Craig Lewis’ agony. The dissipating life sated him, quenched the seething inferno of his mind, and soon he was limp with relief. He cradled the man to his breast for sixty seconds after the writhing ceased, and at last the corpse was allowed to slump to the shower floor.

  Last night, as he pictured the current scene, he imagined that he would urinate on Lewis’ body, a final show of disrespect, punishment for daring to fire a gun at him. Now, however, he felt no need. The halls of his mind were sweet and clean. In such a rare mood, he forgave Daisy her betrayal. All his punitive plans for her, erased. She had been in awe of him, it was that simple, and who could blame her, a sacrificial virgin trembling before the might of a volcano. He enjoyed visions of her, nubile and innocent, before returning to the task at hand.

  A medical examiner would determine instantly that Craig Lewis had been smothered to death—the tell-tale bloodshot eyes, the high level of carbon dioxide in the blood,
the bruising around his nose and mouth. There was no need to pretend something else had happened in the shower.

  Lynch reached into the changing area for his toiletry bag. He withdrew tweezers and a brush and a spray bottle. Inside the bottle was a cocktail of Nucleoclean and LookOut DNA Erase.

  Hidden behind two curtains, Lynch had ample time to remove or destroy all incriminating genetic evidence. Lewis had scratched him with fingernails and toenails, and so all ten were carefully scrubbed with the brush and sanitized with the spray. He used tweezers to remove long hairs from Lewis’ lips and eyelashes, and he washed Lewis’ sparse hair thoroughly to ensure none of his own remained. The dead man hadn’t been able to pry his jaws apart enough to bite him, but still Lynch scrubbed the tongue and teeth, and he filled the mouth and nasal cavities with his decontaminating spray, more effective than bleach. He soaked a washcloth in the solution and scoured Lewis’ face and eyes and hands and feet and genitals. He used the remaining spray to coat Lewis’ body and let the shower wash it down the drain, ensuring no traceable evidence would be found in the pipes.

  Thirty minutes of careful labor and the shower was sterile. A small contained area made the job easier than in the past.

  The hallway empty again, Lynch left the murder scene and returned to his shower and washed off the potent smell of his cocktail. He scrubbed for ten minutes before toweling and changing in the locker room, donning Caldwell’s clothing, snug. Head down into the same scarf Caldwell had worn, Lynch exited the Wellness Center through the service entrance to the old car waiting for him.

  As it goes in gyms, men came and went. Seeing a shower occupied, they moved onto the next one, none of them aware the hot water they heard within was soaking a corpse. The body of Craig Lewis wasn’t discovered until closing, ten hours later. Rigor mortis made him nearly impossible to move.

  38