Dead and Not So Buried

by James L. Conway

  Like a lot of actors Roy had expensive clothing: Polo sport coat, white Versace suit, Armani shirts. In L.A. it’s not only how good you act, it’s how good you look. Even if you’re destitute, you’ve got to dress like you make twenty million a picture.

  The only item of interest in the bathroom was a poster hanging on the back of the door for the movie Jailbait. Just as Hunter’s producer had told me, there was Roy’s name as star and David Hunter as producer/director. The centerpiece of the one sheet was a picture of a sexy waif wrapped in a sheet. Her smoldering eyes promised forbidden carnal delights. I vaguely remembered reading about a car crash and this young actress dying, but the details eluded me.

  Then I heard it. A scream. Hillary’s scream. I whirled, raced out of the bedroom as I pulled my gun and thumbed back the hammer. I followed my Glock into the entryway and saw Hillary on the ground, facing the wall, her body twisted grotesquely.

  Dear God, not Hillary, too! My eyes searched wildly for Roy Cooper, but I didn’t see him. Was he hiding in the kitchen? Outside in the hall?

  I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. I spun back to Hillary. Had she moved? She groaned. I leapt for her, rolled her over.

  “Hey, what’re you doing,” she cried. “I almost had it.”

  “Had what?”

  “The bag.”

  “What bag?”

  “Ta da ...” She pointed to the wall. There was a small air vent at the bottom of the wall. The grate was off, lying on the floor. “There’s something stuck in the back of the vent. I was reaching for it, but my arm’s not long enough.” Then she saw the stricken expression on my face and it hit her. “You saw me on the floor like that, all twisted up ... You thought I was dead.”

  “I heard a scream.”

  “A yelp. A delighted burst of emotion when I realized I’d found his hiding place.”

  I got down on my hands and knees and, sure enough, I could see something stuffed in the back of the vent. It looked like a black plastic bag. I reached in, stretched out, caught the end of the backpack with my fingers and pulled. It was heavy, and jammed tightly in the wall, but inch-by-inch I worked it until I got the edge of the bag to the vent. Then Hillary grabbed hold and together we pulled it out of the wall.

  It dropped to the floor like a gargantuan afterbirth. I ripped open the plastic to find stacks and stacks of used one hundred dollar bills. And there was something else sticking out from under a pile of bills. I yanked it out—the Barak Obama mask.

  A very pleased Hillary said, “So that’s what six million dollars looks like.”

  “Actually, having just packed three backpacks with two million dollars each, this looks like a lot less than six million. More like half that. He must have another hiding place.”

  Hillary poked her head back into the vent. “Not here. Let’s see if there are any other vents in the apartment.”

  As she went to look I sat with the money, thinking. Now I was sure. I had proof. Roy Cooper was the Gravesnatcher. Question was, what should I do about it? The smart move would be to call Mary Rocket right now, let the cops take it from here. Since Roy Cooper still thought we were after Jason Tucker, his guard would be down. And since the money was still in the apartment, Roy Cooper was sure to return. Soon.

  It would be a simple matter for the cops to stake the place out, take him when he comes back. Simple and proper.

  It would also be a simple matter for me to hide out in his apartment and shoot him through the heart when he came back. I could claim self-defense and probably get away with it. But that would be wrong and immoral.

  Hillary returned. “I found two other vents but didn’t see anything hidden inside.”

  “He’s probably hidden the rest of the money elsewhere.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “I stay here, you leave.”

  “Leave? Leave and go where?”

  “Back to the office. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  “ ‘Over’ as in the cops arrive and arrest him or ‘over’ as in you’re about to do something really stupid?”

  “Hillary, I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to talk about signposts on the road of life. The less you know, the better off you’ll be. Go back to the office. Wait for my call.”

  Hillary’s sweet face hardened. “Oh, this is good. Living proof of Darwinism. You’ve evolved from wanting to maim him with a bomb to killing him with a bullet.”

  “Goodbye, Hillary.”

  “Oh, I could leave all right. But what’s to, like, stop me from calling the cops? Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean I don’t have blood on my hands. I know you’re planning to execute him. If I don’t stop you, doesn’t that make me a murderer, too?”

  “No. Because you don’t know what I’m going to do. Hell, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I feel like killing him, but mostly I want to talk to him. Find out why he had to kill Winslow, Hunter, Lisa and me. I mean, really, Lisa kept him from getting one role. I took a couple of swings at him. That’s motive for murder?”

  “It is if he’s nuts.”

  “Fine, but then I want to hear him explain his warped thinking myself. He killed Stacy. I’ve got to know why.”

  “And then you’ll kill him.”

  “And then I’ll probably kill him.”

  Hillary shook her head, confused. “This is all my fault. If I’d, like, stayed a secretary I wouldn’t be faced with moral dilemma after moral dilemma.”

  “Then go back to being a secretary. At least for the rest of the day. Please.”

  Hillary paced, pondering. “Real life is hard. Here I’ve only been in the field for two days, and I’m about to turn my back on every philosophical principle and moral touchstone I believe in.”

  “Let me tell you about real life, my philosophical principles and moral touchstones: my passion for justice blinded me. I framed an innocent man and lost my badge. That’s real life. I realized I loved someone I thought I hated, only to lose her forever. That’s real life. A frustrated actor turns into a homicidal maniac. That’s real life.”

  “Will killing Roy Cooper fix any of that?”

  “No. But it’ll make the world a safer place. It’ll give him what he deserves. It’ll save the taxpayers millions of dollars for his trial, appeals, and execution. And, it’ll make me feel a lot better.”

  Hillary sagged, defeated. “I hate this but all right, I’m going back to the office.”

  “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  Hillary started out the door, and then turned back to me. “You know, life really sucks sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Plan B

  “I hate this but all right, I’m going back to the office.”

  “I’ll call you when it’s over.

  A pause, then: “You know, life really sucks sometimes.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Listen to them, Roy thought, taking off the headphones, thanking his lucky stars that he had the presence of mind to plant the bug in his apartment. Those two are feeling so sorry for each other. Poor babies.

  Roy started his SL 550, slipped it into gear and squealed away from the curb. It would take a few minutes for the blond to get out of the building and back to her Prius, plenty of time for Roy to get to Kincaid’s office ahead of her.

  Goddamn Kincaid. Roy had no idea how the PI figured out he was the Gravesnatcher. But he had, and now Kincaid sat in Roy’s apartment, with all his money and most of his weapons. All Roy had with him was a couple of guns, and with Gideon waiting in ambush, Roy didn’t like the odds of trying to storm his own apartment.

  So it was time to improvise.

  The first time Roy broke into Kincaid’s office to plant the cell phone he’d been lucky. He found an unlocked bathroom window just big enough for him to slip through.

  While inside he’d searched Kincaid’s desk and found an extra key to the front door. It was loose in one of the drawers, with a white tag identifying it. Proba
bly been there for years, Roy thought. Kincaid will never miss it. So Roy pocketed it.

  Good thing, Roy thought to himself now, as he parked in the strip mall, pulled a gun out of the glove box, a plastic bag out of the trunk, and walked past the pet store and up the stairs to Kincaid’s office. He slipped the key into the lock, unlocked the door, entered, and then re-locked the door behind him.

  Now all he had to do was wait for the blonde to return. He opened the bag he’d taken from the trunk, took out a bottle of chloroform and a handkerchief. It’s an amazing drug, he thought, as he poured the liquid onto his handkerchief. He’d only needed a little bit for that goddamn dog, but the blonde would require more. He soaked the handkerchief through and through, and then sealed it in the plastic bag.

  The blonde was cute. Girl-next-door cute. Maybe he’d have a little fun with her before he killed her. He’d never been into bondage, but the thought of the blonde, stripped naked, bound and gagged, turned Roy on. Why not, he thought. Hey, you only live once.

  BRRRING.

  The phone startled Roy.

  BRRRING.

  Roy glanced at the message machine. He wondered how many times it had to ring before the machine picked up.

  BRRRING.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Imperial Investigations.” The blonde’s voice. “Sorry we missed your call, please leave a message. BEEP.”

  “Gid, baby, it’s me again, Elliott. I just checked CNN Headline News, and unless they’ve missed the story of the decade, I assume you’re still alive. Well, I’ve got B-I-G news. And I can summarize it in one word: Dreamworks. I know it sounds like two words, but it’s only one. And what a one! Dreamworks is the hottest studio in Hollywood. And you know what makes them hot? Taste. They’ve got it. And do you know how I know? Because they’ve made an offer for Death of a Gravesnatcher. I’m not sure we should take our first offer, but we’re talking real money, Gidman. The kind with lots of zeros and commas. Call me!”

  Who the fuck was that freak? Roy wondered. Oh yeah, Gideon Kincaid thinks he’s a writer. Well Death of a Gravesnatcher would have to be renamed. Maybe Death of a Two-Bit Detective or Death of a Washed-up Cop Turned Detective, but there wouldn’t be a book titled Death of a Gravesnatcher. Roy planned to live forever.

  Roy heard a key in the lock. He quickly slipped behind the door, pulled out the chloroform soaked handkerchief.

  The door swung open and the blonde entered. She shoved the door closed with her hip and started for her desk. Roy’s plan was to sneak up behind her, wrap his left arm around her chest, and immobilize her arms while he slapped his right hand—the one holding the chloroform soaked handkerchief—over her nose and mouth. Before he could move, the blonde stopped, as if sensing Roy’s presence. She turned. Her pale blue eyes went wide when she saw Roy.

  Without the advantage of surprise Roy didn’t think he could chloroform her. So he dropped the handkerchief, stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a gun.

  Hillary’s eyes went wider as he pointed it at her.

  Wider still as he shot her in the chest.

  Dead And Not Yet Buried

  I’d thought a lot about Stacy as I did a detailed search of Roy Cooper’s apartment. It was the first chance I’d really had to reminisce, or mourn, or whatever the hell I was doing.

  First of all, I told myself, she was dead and there was nothing I could do about it. I just hoped the explosion had killed Stacy instantly. I couldn’t imagine being burned alive, a truly horrific way to die.

  I didn’t even consider the irony that Stacy wanted to be cremated. She always thought the whole idea of cemeteries and burial plots to be a colossal waste of space.

  I tried to hold on to the good memories. Like the time Stacy cooked our first meal. Live Maine lobsters, but they got away, started skittering all over the kitchen, our laughing as we tried to catch them... wait a minute, that was the movie Annie Hall. But in my memory it was Stacy. Weird, I don’t even think we saw it together.

  I was sure of the memory of our honeymoon. It was our only trip out of California together, in spite of my wall full of travel fantasies. Maui. The Grand Wailea, to be more exact. Room 514 to be even more exact. Way too expensive, even on two cops’ salaries, something like 700 bucks a day not counting the incredibly expensive food or ridiculously expensive tropical drinks. But it was our honeymoon, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we’d wanted to splurge.

  We sunbathed, snorkeled, sailed, stuffed our faces, sipped umbrella-draped drinks and made love.

  “This is my favorite place on earth,” Stacy told me one night as we sat in a hammock drinking champagne, gently buffeted by the trade winds. A crescent moon dappled enough light on her face to make her appear to be the most beautiful woman in the universe. “When I die I want this to be heaven.”

  “Let’s just make this our heaven on earth,” I said in the grip of the wildly romantic tropical night. “We’ll come back here every year, get the same room even, and renew our love for each other.”

  “Every year,” Stacy said, and we kissed on it. One of those long, sweet, loving kisses you remember for a lifetime.

  We’d never gone back. Our work schedules never meshed, though we kept promising we’d find a way to work it out.

  Down deep I think we both felt the same way about our honeymoon. We were both embarrassed by how sickeningly romantic and sentimental we’d been. The behavior was out of character for both of us, and very uncoplike. And that idiotic passion had faded. If we’d tried to recreate it, we would have failed miserably.

  And there were other memories. When I found a cache of guns hidden in Roy Cooper’s mattress, I thought of the time Stacy and I tied for first place in the LAPD Sharpshooter Competition. We settled the matter by driving to the desert and shooting apples off each other’s heads at fifty feet. We were drunk at the time. Drunk enough to make it a really stupid idea. But drunken cops do stupid things all the time, just read any of the early books of the aforementioned Mr. Wambaugh. We determined the winner by whose shot was closest to dead center. Stacy won. My shot was high. Another sign of my devotion.

  Funny what you remember. Like when I examined the stack of Playboys in Roy Cooper’s closet and noticed the many words that had been cut out from various pages, cannibalized to write his ransom notes. It reminded me of our first real fight.

  We’d just moved into the North Hollywood house and were unpacking Stacy’s dishes, these old china abominations, with a purple and yellow flower pattern, that had been handed down by her grandmother. After we’d run out of Mayflower standard issue wrapping paper, we’d wrapped them in magazine pages, and I’d bitched the whole time about how ugly they were and that we should just throw them out.

  Well, as I was unwrapping them I went into the same spiel, bitching about how hideous they were, when I accidently dropped one of the dinner plates. It shattered on the peg and grove floors.

  “You did that on purpose!” she said.

  “No, it was an accident. I swear.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve been bitching for two days about Grandma’s plates.”

  “You mean atrocities, don’t you? Grandma’s atrocities!”

  “What I hate is your lack of honesty. You’ve admitted you hate them. Now admit you broke it on purpose.”

  “All right, you want me to admit I broke it on purpose?” I picked up another plate and hurled it into the kitchen wall. CRASH. “That plate I broke on purpose.”

  “You cocksucker!” she screamed, picking up a stack of Grandma’s salad plates and throwing one at me, underhand, like a Frisbee. I ducked and it smashed into the cupboard behind me. Then she started chasing me, and I was ducking and she was screaming, punctuating each word with another thrown dish. “I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You!” CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.

  The last one hit me in the back of the head and actually stunned me. My knees buckled and I sank to the floor. She stood over me, reveling in my pain, and then she saw the thousands of shards that used to
be her precious china. Sanity staged a comeback as she surveyed the destruction. When she realized that all the china was ruined she burst into tears and ran into the backyard.

  It was pouring rain. She’d just run into a deluge. I groaned as I stood up. My head hurt like hell. I looked out through the kitchen window and saw her standing in the rain, sobbing.

  To see someone I loved in so much pain broke my heart. I walked out in the rain to talk to her.

  “I know they were ugly, Gideon. That’s not the point. They were Grandma’s. That’s all I have left of her. The only thing of hers that’s left.”

  I put my arms around her, but she didn’t return the embrace. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll find you another set. Identical. If I have to scour every flea market in Southern California.”

  “And Nevada?”

  “And Nevada.”

  “Might have to check Arizona, too.”

  “Done and done.”

  She looked into my rain-soaked face. “I love you, even if you’re insane.”

  “I love you because you’re insane.”

  She smiled, kissed me, and then finally returned the hug.

  I could almost see us standing there, like the end of some sappy movie. Standing in the rain, drenching wet, arms around each other, blissfully happy. If this had been a movie, the camera would then BOOM UP and a few seconds later the image would FADE TO BLACK.

  Fade In

  Roy looked at the blonde’s body. She lay where she’d fallen, in the middle of the floor, arms splayed above her head, legs spread. Roy could see a hint of her white panties. He closed her legs, positioned each arm at her side. Better, Roy thought. Much more dignified.

  Then Roy took the tranquilizer dart out of her chest. He checked her pulse, strong. Checked her breathing, slow and steady. Good, she’d be fine.