Dig Your Grave

by Steven Cooper

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t here.”

  “Who discovered this?” Mills asks her.

  “One of our clients,” she replies. “He called our after-hours number.”

  Gus belts out a laugh. Mills turns sharply with a warning in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Gus says, gesturing to the surrounding plots. “But surely, no one here picked up the phone.”

  “Gus, really?” Mills groans.

  Gus retreats a few steps, then shrugs.

  “It’s someone who owns a family plot here,” Crystal explains. “His wife died many years ago. He comes out every year on their wedding anniversary, around seven p.m., to coincide with their vows. It’s really sweet.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s still around,” Mills says.

  “He is. I asked him to wait in our office. I can take you to him.”

  Halfway there, around row 14, column 6, Mills collides with a bouncing brigade of white orbs, and he knows that Gus is on the verge of making some smartass joke about ghosts, so he’s relieved to find that the brigade is actually a small team of crime scene techs and a photographer armed with flashlights to document evidence. Powell is with them.

  “Good evening,” he says. “I’ll be back there in a few. Going to track down a witness.”

  “Cool,” Powell says, and the brigade passes them in the night.

  Carl Deacon doesn’t have much to share. He’s sipping on a can of club soda, sitting on an upholstered chair, his legs crossed awkwardly at his ankles. “I just saw it. You know, it looked weird.”

  Mills does a head-to-toe assessment of the guy, checking instinctively for signs of dirt or any other evidence of digging. None. Still, Mr. Deacon made the call. And Mills knows that could be the perfect obfuscation. So he does a split-second rundown: Maybe the man is punishing someone for his wife’s death. Maybe he set the stage tonight and lingered here to see what kind of evidence the cops would be looking for. Maybe there’s a connection between Mrs. Deacon and John Doe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Carl Deacon is here tonight for the annual ritual to honor the vows he made to his wife. That’s sweet but strange, believable but also a tear-jerking page out of a Hollywood script. Mills is, at this point, overthinking. “What time was it when you discovered the empty grave?” he asks Deacon.

  “I got here about seven,” the man replies. “I didn’t notice anything unusual until I spotted that sign sticking out of the ground. Struck me as odd.”

  Alex nods. “Yes, that’s odd, sir.” The man is balding, his face weary. This is what protracted grief looks like, Mills observes. He guesses Carl Deacon is in his early to middle sixties, drives an American car, goes to church. “Did you see anyone out here? Anyone at all while you were visiting?”

  “No, Detective Mills, I did not,” Deacon says. “I never see anyone out here when I come to visit Katherine.”

  “Do you think anyone saw you?”

  The man looks puzzled but says, “No. I don’t think so.”

  “And you always come after hours?”

  “I do. I like to be alone with her.” His eyes begin to water.

  “May I ask how she died? Your wife?”

  The man looks away, tightens his jaw. “Cancer,” he says.

  “Do you have any enemies, Mr. Deacon?”

  Deacon’s face visibly downshifts, his eyes boring through Mills. “What on earth does that have to do with anything, Detective?”

  “Just need as many details as possible.”

  “But this has nothing to do with me,” the man says indignantly. “I simply made the call. That’s all.”

  “It’s my job to ask anything and everything,” Mills explains. “It’s your prerogative to answer or not.”

  The man nods, takes a sip from the can. “I understand.”

  “Let’s just rehash what you observed this evening.”

  “Like I told you, I didn’t observe much.”

  “Did you notice any cars in the parking lot when you arrived?”

  “I don’t think so. But I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  The questioning lasts just another five minutes. “I’m going to give you my card, and I want you to call me if you remember anything more specific about your visit here. Anything,” Mills stresses. “You know how it goes, no detail too small.”

  The man takes the card, hoists himself up from the chair. He offers Mills a handshake, nods, and says, “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

  “Sir, you made the phone call. That was a major help. Good night.”

  Mills waits for the man to be out of sight and then instructs Crystal Levenworth to leave the can of club soda exactly where it is. “I’m going to need my techs to bag it.”

  “Bag it?”

  “Yeah. We just need to process it.”

  When Crystal Levenworth follows Mills and Gus back to the gravesite, Mills can tell the woman’s nerves are jangled. It’s partly in her jittery walk, partly in her soft staccato breaths. “Is everything okay, ma’am?”

  “Other than the vandalism of my property? Yes, all is good.”

  “I can understand why this would upset you,” he says.

  “What upsets me are all these people traipsing across my lawns to investigate a stupid prank. It’s not like a major crime has been committed.”

  “All is not what it seems,” Gus interjects.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  “It means it’s too early to draw any conclusions,” Mills says swiftly enough to preempt his companion.

  She says nothing else until they reach the gravesite. And then, “I’m not sure if I need to remain on-site until you all are done. But my gut tells me to stay.”

  “It’s getting chilly,” Mills says. “Why not wait in the office where you’ll be comfortable?”

  “Are you asking me to leave?”

  “We have police business.”

  That answer sufficiently coaxes Crystal Levenworth to retreat.

  “Nicely done,” Powell says.

  “Thank you, Jan. You remember Gus Parker?”

  “Yup,” she says, her eyes averting Gus. “We almost got him killed on the cave murder case.”

  Almost. Mills would prefer not to flashback. It was one of their own, a homicide detective who had stalked women on hiking trails, murdering them in a bloody ritual inspired by the petroglyphs of the desert’s ancient tribes. One of their own, an imposter. Gus Parker had almost given his life to bring the killer to justice. But Mills won’t look back at his own miscalculations. That’s of no use now. He’s in debt to Gus, he knows that, and is infinitely thankful that the man, this crazy surfer dude in the desert, regards him like family and, as such, is unlikely to ever come collecting.

  “Jan Powell is my scene investigator,” Mills tells Gus. “Find anything interesting here?”

  “We got a scramble of footprints that we’re processing now,” she says. “But what I find interesting is that this is obviously not a copycat. First of all, it’s too soon. Second, we never released details of the Valley Vista crime scene so there would be nothing on public record to copy.”

  “Right,” Mills says. “All of that is obvious.”

  “What she means,” Gus says, “is that the killer, one singular killer, preplanned the order of events. This is not a whim. Not a spontaneous decision. This is all part of a preplanned mission.”

  “You reading her mind? Or getting a vibe?” Mills asks.

  “A vibe,” Gus says sheepishly.

  “Do you know if the victims are preplanned as well, or just random?”

  “I don’t know, Alex. I need more time.”

  “Go for it, man. Just don’t disturb the grave.”

  While Gus is intuiting the crude hole in the ground, Mills and his colleague debate motive. He elaborates on the revenge theory and keeps going until he sees a palpable shift on Powell’s face; she’s squinting at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Well, I’m not sure
where all of that leads. If this cardboard sign is a message that our killer intends to kill again, we can’t assume revenge. If his victims are random, then revenge makes no sense.”

  “Unless he’s avenging some universal wrong.”

  “True,” Powell says.

  “And if his victims aren’t random . . .”

  “Then does he really want to kill them?”

  “I don’t follow,” Mills says.

  “If his victims aren’t random, staging a murder like the one at Valley Vista and then following it with this stunt is clearly a warning,” she explains. “And why would he want to warn someone who he’s determined to kill?”

  “To scare the shit out of them. To control by fear,” Mills replies. “Unless these crime scenes aren’t meant as much as a message for his victims as they’re just meant to taunt us.”

  “You think this is fun for him?”

  Mills stuffs his hands in his pockets. “It’s imaginative. It’s creative. So, yeah, I think he might be having fun.”

  “We need to go back and—”

  Mills’s phone rings. “Hold that thought. It’s headquarters.”

  The dispatcher is speaking so fast Mills asks the man to take a breath and slow down.

  “But I’m telling you,” the dispatcher begs, “the woman sounds hysterical.”

  “And I’m telling you, so do you.”

  “Sorry, Detective, but she’s in tears. She saw the news tonight, and she thinks that could be her boss at Valley Vista.”

  “The victim?”

  “Yeah. She says she can’t find her boss, something about him being a no-show for a flight at Sky Harbor,” the dispatcher explains. “You want to talk to her?”

  Mills is twisting his right foot into the earth, impatient with his own impatience. “Put her through.”

  Her name is Shelly Newton, and her voice is trembling. “I just have a sick feeling.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Mills tells her. “You saw the news. You think the victim is your boss.”

  “I have no reason to believe it’s him, but I also have no idea where he is,” she says.

  Beginnings often start with ambiguities, and Mills knows not to judge, but he doesn’t have the patience in his blood for dead ends. He needs to work on that. His other foot is excavating the earth. “I need you to tell me why you even think he’s missing.”

  “I already explained to the operator that my boss was supposed to be on a flight to New York City but never showed up at Sky Harbor.”

  “That’s right,” Mills says. “But how do you know he never showed?”

  “Because the pilot called me.”

  Mills shuts his eyes for a moment, massages his forehead with his free hand. Shelly Newton breathes loudly to fill the silence. Mills has to bite his tongue. “The pilot called you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think pilots do that, ma’am,” he tells her calmly. “How would he even know to call you?”

  “Our pilot is a she, not a he,” Shelly informs him. “And she’d certainly know to call me.”

  “What do you mean by ‘our pilot’?” he asks.

  “I mean our pilot,” she says, exasperated. “What’s so difficult to understand? My boss doesn’t fly commercial, Detective.”

  A revelation worthy of an eye roll. “Of course he doesn’t,” Mills says, his sarcasm poorly veiled. “What is your boss’s name?”

  “Davis Klink. He’s the CEO of Illumilife Industries. I already told your operator.”

  “I’m sorry, but he didn’t pass that on. Tell me about your boss’s itinerary.”

  Davis Klink was supposed to be on an evening flight to New York City last night aboard the company’s private jet. He was scheduled to show up at the airport at 9:00 p.m. At nine forty-five, Shelly Newton received the first call from pilot Jessica Perry inquiring about Klink’s whereabouts. Shelly advised the pilot to give it another fifteen minutes because Klink might have stopped quickly at home to pick up his daily shipment of mangoes from Peru. He also might have ducked into the Phoenician for a preflight facial. Though that could have been accomplished inflight had she known to arrange for the traveling cosmetician. The pilot called back at ten fifteen. Still no sign of Klink. Shelly tried reaching him on his cell phone to no avail. She told Jessica Perry to cool her jets, so to speak, thinking at the time that was a hilarious pun. She didn’t start to get nervous until eleven fifteen when Klink still had not shown at General Aviation. She called the Phoenician and discovered that her boss had not checked in for a preflight treatment, not a facial, not a massage. She tried several more times to reach him on his cell. She never thought to call the police because she was sure there was an explanation for all of this. There always is. At midnight she stopped worrying and started to pray. She fell asleep praying. But now, with what she saw on the news, she is downright panicked.

  “May I ask why you’re the one looking for him? Does he have a wife or children?”

  “Well, yes,” Shelly replies. “He does. But his wife’s off in Italy, and I can’t reach her. She’s not returning my calls. And I don’t want to panic the kids.”

  “Can you tell me why he was headed for New York?”

  “A board meeting.”

  “Over the weekend?”

  “The board meeting was scheduled for Monday. He was booked into the Mandarin Oriental, but of course he never checked in. I called to confirm.”

  “Do you have any idea what his itinerary was for the weekend? Free time in the city?”

  A brief silence, and then she says, “Down time. Drinks with friends. And an appointment at Armani for a fitting.”

  “Is there someone special he visits in New York?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re insinuating.”

  “If you think I’m insinuating, then you do know,” Mills tells her.

  Another pause. “I don’t arrange affairs.”

  “So, you’re saying he has affairs. Romantic affairs.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Do you have a photo of your boss?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Would you mind sending me one?”

  “I’d be happy to. Casual or formal? Mr. Klink is a stickler for details.”

  “Mr. Klink could be dead. In which case details won’t matter to him.”

  She gasps. “Oh, God, dear God, I’m responsible for his every move.”

  “I’m sorry, Shelly. I shouldn’t have said that,” Mills concedes. “It’s late, and I need to get off the phone. I’m going to give you a number, and I want you to send me a photo. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Does your boss have any distinguishing marks that we won’t see in the photo?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “No tattoos?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “A more recent beard, mustache?”

  “No.”

  “Moles?”

  “One. But it’s under his neck. You probably won’t see it in the picture.”

  “Does he have a dentist?” Mills asks.

  “A dentist?” A curveball for most civilians.

  “Yes. A dentist. We’d like his dental records for a positive match.”

  “Oh, oh, yes,” she says. “I’m sorry. Of course he goes to the dentist.”

  “I don’t suppose you schedule those appointments for him.”

  “Like I said, I schedule his life.”

  “Then please send me contact information for his dentist. To the same number.”

  There’s an emptiness now, as if the line has gone dead.

  “Ms. Newton?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, presumably behind quiet tears. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I just can’t believe. But, yes, I’ll look through my files for the dentist’s name and get that to you. No problem.”

  Mills thanks the woman for her time. “Ma’am, I can’t say this enough, but you might be the first person t
o come forward with a truly solid lead for us.”

  “I hope not,” she says. “If you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” He gives her his phone number, thanks her again, and says good night.

  Back at the hole in the ground, Mills feels emboldened but cautious. Even if John Doe is Davis Klink, what the fuck is the killer really up to? Gus is kneeling at the gravesite. The shadows make him look like a monk at prayer, enough so that at first Mills hesitates to approach. Powell intercepts.

  “Interesting call?”

  “Potentially.” He fills her in, detailing his call with Shelly Newton.

  “What’s Illumilife Industries?” she asks.

  “I have no fucking clue,” he says. “Should’ve asked.”

  “No worries. That’s why God created Google. I’ll look into it.”

  The shadows have shifted, and Gus is no longer a monk. He’s a beagle. Mills lowers himself to his knees.

  “You’re a little too close for comfort,” he tells his psychic friend.

  “I haven’t disturbed anything, Alex.”

  “More importantly, are you seeing anything?”

  “Not really,” Gus says. “But you’re not going to solve this overnight. In fact, this is just the beginning.”

  “So you do get a vibe?”

  “Yeah,” Gus says. “I get a vibe, but unfortunately I don’t see a thing.”

  Alex has filled Gus in on the call from Davis Klink’s secretary, and they’re about halfway to Alex’s house when the photograph of the CEO comes in. The detective squints at his phone and, making digital tweezers of his fingers, enlarges the photo so every splotch on the man’s face is like a NASA image of Mars.

  “I’m looking for the identifying mole under the man’s neck,” Alex explains. “But the secretary warned that the photograph might not reveal it, and it doesn’t.”

  He zooms back out. Studies hard.

  “Mole or not, there’s a similarity to John Doe,” he says. He shows Gus the preceding JPEG on his phone: a JPEG of John Doe staring up from the grave, as provided to him by the crime scene photographer. He swipes between the two. “Davis Klink alive, John Doe dead. I see it in the lips, the chin, the ridge below the nose. Even using a bashed-in head to compare, they’re the same guy.”

  “You’ve got the trained eye, but lemme see.”