by Gale Borger
The longer I studied her body the more I felt that old, eerie calm settled over me. Thoughts were trying to surface and I fought them back. I examined and mentally noted the obvious and the relevant. I began to feel a little queasy and must have called J.J., because he suddenly appeared beside me and handed me Malcolm's clipboard.
"You going to be okay, Buzz?"
I took a deep breath and pulled a pen out of my back pocket.
"Yeah, sure. I felt Carole for a second, but I think I'm okay. Can you stick close just in case though?"
"You bet. But if you go too deep, I'm going to pull you back, so don't get mad."
I smiled and he pulled me close for a second. I smelled a hint of man and Veveter by Axe and almost swooned. Whoa Buzz, what are you doing? This is J.J. your best friend, your partner before you wimped out and quit the department.
J.J. has seen me at my best, and at my very worst. He picked me up when I was beaten and bloody, said nothing when I slipped into a vision, and sat with me and Jack Daniels through the aftermath.
He always did know what I was thinking before I did. Kind-of creepy, but I bet I've creeped him out more than once over the years, too. Kidnappings, rapes, lost pets and people; sometimes pictures would flash in my mind, but on really bad days, I would witness an entire scene in a flickering, 8mm kind of way. J.J. knew all this. He pulled out his mini-recorder and stayed with me as I began the inspection of the body. I expected J.J. to go the opposite direction and draw his own conclusions, but he must have thought I was going to whack out, because he was never more than a step away from me. J.J. almost ran me over when I stopped near Carole's waistband. I zeroed in on the tiny change pocket of her jeans. The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I leaned in and flicked a tiny piece of plastic protruding from that pocket with my pen.
Pulling out my cell phone, I snapped a couple of pictures.
I touched J.J.'s arm and halted him, pointing silently to Carole's jeans pocket. With a nod from him I slowly removed a piece of plastic wrap, which was taped closed. Inside the plastic was what appeared to be a paper towel wrapped around something lumpy.
I snapped another few pictures. Drugs, was my first thought.
"Drugs?" J.J. eyed the tiny bag and looked back at me.
I shrugged and looked around for Malcolm. "That would be my first guess, but Carole didn't seem the type. Maybe her kid. Hey Malcolm!"
Mee-Me hurried over to us, holding out an evidence bag. I dropped the plastic inside, confident he would properly seal and label it.
Turning to speak to J.J., I suddenly felt that creepy feeling slither up my spine. A wave of vertigo swept over me. I wavered and grabbed J.J.'s belt.
He took an arm and as if in a tunnel I heard, "Buzz? Are you alright? Are you with me here?"
I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. I held out my hand and reached toward the bag Malcolm still held in the air. J.J. saw my fingers wiggle and he grabbed the bag out of Malcolm's fingers.
I touched the plastic. "Seeds."
J.J. looked confused. "Seeds? What seeds, are there seeds in here?"
J.J. shoved the bag into my hand. There was remove buzzing in my ears and the world waved and shimmered in front of me. J.J.'s mouth moved but I could not hear his voice as he faded into a thick grey mist.
The noon sun fell away, giving rise to a full moon and a large farmhouse on a hill. I smelled damp earth felt the crisp bite of an autumn evening. I recognized the scene but could not place it.
I knew what was happening and tried to fight back, to tamp it down. My great grandmother called it 'The Sheeny', or the 'Irish Magic'. I called it the bane of my existence. The Sheeny was what made me an exceptional detective, but it also ate holes in my stomach and gave me nightmares. It made me drink too much and had failed me at the moment I needed it most. I dreaded it and I feared it, because I believed in it and knew enough not to fight it when it came. I gave myself over to the feeling of vertigo and it engulfed me like a tidal wave.
I felt a chill and materialized as a part of the scene, an objective observer of what was about to happen. I stood at the bottom of the porch now, and realized I was at Graff's Garden Center–the greenhouse and nursery next door to my mom's and dad's farm. I braced myself for what was to come.
* * *
Lightning exploded as horrific screams tore through the night. Non-stop and agonizing, the screams were wrenched from a soul so tortured death would have been a blessing. The front door flew open. Carole Graff stood in the opening,listening. Giving no thought to her personal safety, Carole tore out of the house. She followed the screams to the old horse barn at the back of her property and slid to a halt at the open door. I ceased being the objective observer and was one with Carole. I could feel the blood pounding in her ears as we drew a ragged breath. We stood paralyzed as we stared at the gruesome scene before us. Blood was sprayed everywhere; it coated the floor and spattered across the walls. Carole's face was a frozen mask and I could taste the metallic sting of blood on my tongue. A screaming horse was tied in the cross ties, bleeding from its nose and mouth. The creature fought for its life, sweat pouring off its sleek coat. Veins popping, it reared high, clawing at the sky. It screamed in agony, tossing its head and spraying everything with blood. As the poor beast fought for its life, several men stood off to the side and looked on.
Carole stood paralyzed as the dying horse made one final attempt to free itself from whatever torture it was forced to endure. It reared again, lostits footing on the blood-slicked floor and flipped over sideways.
The resounding crack of the mare's broken neck echoed in the dense silence. We watched the dead horse dangle in the cross ties, streams of blood pouring from its mouth and nose. Carole stood rooted in the sudden silence. A tiny sob escaped her lips.
All heads turned in our direction. Crap, I thought, as Carole realized she had stumbled into a situation she was never to have witnessed.
"Go," I yelled, "Carole, run!" Of course, no one heard me.
Two men pulled guns from their waistbands. One man rolled a cigar in his mouth, pointed at Carole, quietly said, "Get her."
In that split second of comprehension, instinct took over. Carole whipped around and ran blindly into the night. Footsteps clattered behind her. Shouts of, "Stop that bitch! Now!" rang in my ears.
"They'll catch you at the house, don't run to the house," Carole chanted to herself as she ran.
We tripped over field stubble as we ran blindly across the hay field behind the barn. Years of physical labor paid off for her as she hit the back fence at a full run. She half climbed/half fell over the top. I could feel the bite of the jagged claws of the barbed wire tearing at her clothes and ripping her skin.
She stayed on all fours for a minute, breathing hard. She turned and saw the bouncing beams of flashlights, and heard the curses and yells of the men chasing her. They were gaining ground. "Go, Carole, run," I screamed silently. She stumbled forward, heedless of the brambles shredding her clothing and gouging her arms. Her chest felt tight and her lungs ready to explode by the time she got to Mom and Dad's property line. Barely hesitating, she hurdled the fence and stumbled toward the farmhouse.
"Get to Millers, Call 911, Get to Millers, Call 911," she chanted to the pounding of her feet. She saw Miller's house up ahead. Blood pounding and chest heaving, I felt a surge of relief run through her as she thought, for the first time, she would make it. We neared the farmhouse and I became the observer once again.
Suddenly Carole was lifted off her feet as she was tackled from behind. She landed face first in the dirt. The air exploded out of her as a body landed on top of her. "Air," she gasped. "I need air." She was roughly hauled to her feet. Head down, hands on her knees, she sucked in gulps of air. Turning to run, she was again knocked down and dragged by the collar of her tee shirt over a low rise. She fought her attacker, kicking and screaming. "Please, someone hear me!"
I winced as the man dropped her on the ground and flipped he
r over. Primal instinct for survival gave her energy and she fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing at anything she could reach. Someone stomped on her stomach and the fight went out of her. Lying in a fetal position, gagging and sucking in air, she fought to remain conscious. To pass out now out surely meant death. "Where are the Millers? Don't they hear me?" she cried.
I felt helpless as I stood aside, forced to watch–knowing what was coming and dreading the inevitable.
The men argued. One told another to shut up–there might be people in the house. Carole was more frightened than she ever thought she could be. She was not only afraid for herself, but she realized she had just put the Millers in jeopardy. She looked at the old farmhouse. A single tear cut tracks through the dirt on her face as she thought about her elderly neighbors. She sobbed, "Please be gone."
Tears coursed down my face as I realized that even facing death, Carole would have rather gone it alone than see my parents hurt.
She began to pray in earnest when she heard she 'saw too much', and with shocking clarity realized her life was about to end. She thought of her husband and son, pulled herself together, and got ready to run. Her legs trembled so hard they wouldn't support her, so she propped herself up on her elbows and waited for an opportunity to escape. When the men turned away to argue, she dragged herself a couple of feet away. The conversation stopped. She stopped…and waited.
When they started arguing again, she clawed the ground and slowly made it to the woodpile near the house. She crawled over the top, breaking off fingernails and bloodying her hands. Her blood-slick hands slipped off a log making a soft clunk. She froze and listened for her attackers. Hearing no break in the conversation, she continued on to the top.
Gathering the last of her strength, she curled her legs underneath her body. Taking in a huge breath, she thought one more time of her son and sprang off the woodpile. She was airborne about two seconds before a bullet hit her between the eyes. The force of the bullet whipped her head back and hurled her body against the woodpile. The sound of her head splitting on contact was like a sopping wet sponge hitting the woodpile. I gagged and tried to rush forward, but my feet were rooted to the ground. Her head flopped to face me. I watched in horror as the light in her eyes faded, dimmed, and went out.
Hatred and rage welled up so deep and so fast, it erupted like lava and poured from my soul. I memorized their faces so when I hunted them down, I knew the faces and names of the men I put a bullet through–for Carole.
One of the men looked at the other and spit at his feet. "Good shot, cowboy. You probably woke the whole damn county with that. Now you can get rid of her. Clean up your mess, amigo. Now." He turned and walked away.
The short, thin man, standing with the smoking gun, stared at the woman's body, a little green around the gills obviously nauseated by the scene. He swallowed convulsively. "How the hell am I gonna do that? It must be a mile back to the barn. Hey, stop. I need some help here! Xavier! You told us to stop her so I did." He watched in amazement as his compadres departed leaving him in a strange place with a fresh corpse.
"Felix! Arturo! Where are you going?" He looked down at Carole's body and kicked her. "Assholes," he spit out. He looked around for a place to stash the bitch.
He grabbed the woman by the cowboy boots. Dragging her away from the wood pile and toward the barn was sure harder than it looked. He stopped and looked around, noticed a door leading under the house. He looked around, again.A big box, destined for the dumpster, near the barn would make the perfect container. He slit the box down the side and rolled Carole into the box. He dragged her back toward the house. Opening the door under the house, he dragged the box in. Pulling and pushing, he jammed it in as far as he could. He brushed out the drag marks in the sand, closed the door, and slapped his hands against his jeans to remove the dust and sand. Quietly he cut through the fields back toward the old barn, congratulating himself on a job well done.
The crawlspace door stood in front of me. I stared at it until I could see the grain in the wood, the rust on the latch, and the body which lay beyond.
* * *
The fog slowly became a mist. The mist faded on the breeze, and I found myself in J.J.'s arms, his hand crushed in mine. I looked into those sea green eyes and watched as they crinkled at the corners.
"Are you back now?" His voice was soft and his touch gentle. I grabbed a handful of his shirt.
"J.J., I saw it," I gasped.
"I figured you saw something, but I was going to wait until you were ready."
I looked down at our clenched hands and gave him a watery smile. "Can't do it later, do it now. I might forget something like the wood pile. The woodpile! She broke her nails on the woodpile. Blood, oh God the blood! We ran and ran and they chased her down here!" I knew I was babbling, but I couldn't stop. I grabbed the clipboard and began sketching madly. I dropped, exhausted, onto the lawn. J.J. was right there. He yelled orders to check the woodpile take pictures and collect evidence. He told Moe to check the yard and the perimeter.
By this time I was crawling around and taking pictures of the plastic bag containing what I knew were some type of seeds with my cell phone in one hand and drawing with the other. Larry took pictures of the crawlspace entrance on his cell phone, and Moe had his out and clicked away at the back fence.
J.J. straightened and looked around." Why are we using cell phones to photograph a crime scene? What happened to the D700?"
The three closest deputies looked at the ground. J.J. cleared his throat.
"I'll ask again. Why is no one using the Sheriff's Department Crime Scene Investigations Camera?"
Again there was silence. J.J. turned to me.
"What the Hell are you doing on your hands and knees with a cell phone camera, for cripes sake?"
"Because I didn't see anyone else do it, and I wanted to make sure I got the plastic wrap in case it was important later on."
He sighed, looked around for his deputies, and made a general announcement. "Anyone get any pictures on a real camera yet? If not, let's get on it. It's starting to turn into a zoo around here, and we need to finish up. You-Moe, find the camera!"
Moe mumbled something and shuffled his feet. I turned back to the body and saw Mag with Mom's digital camera in hand, clicking away at the scene. How odd, I thought. She was not a cop, nor was she a forensic photographer, so what the heck was she doing over there?
"Hey Maggot, what do you think you're doing over there? Are you thinking of changing careers and going into police work or something?"
Click, click. "Heck click no!" Tongue in cheek, she narrowed her eyes. "Why would I give up the fame, glory, and financial independence that being a high school teacher brings? Besides, who would bash heads in my Biology class if I were to quit? Mom wants some pictures so she can show them to Jane, Mary, and Joy when she goes to coffee on Monday. She says they'll never believe someone croaked under her house."
I grabbed her arm and dragged her a short distance away. "Are you crazy?" I whispered to her. "This is a crime scene, not a neighborhood bar-be-cue! And nobody croaked under the house, she was murdered before she was stuffed in the crawl space." I yanked the camera away. "So stop with the camera, will you? These are not vacation pictures from Fort Lauderdale, and those little old ladies don't need any incentive to get their blood up!"
"I think it might be too late, Buzz–when I left the house, Mom was on the phone, bragging to someone that she was the first on her block to have her own croaker, and I don't think she was talking the amphibious type."
I felt a sensation of impending doom. If Mom called her friends, we were in trouble. I shoved the camera back into her hands. "Knock off the CSI stuff Mag, this is serious. I'd better warn J.J. He and Mee-Me went to see if there was a good camera in the meat wagon." I took off toward the driveway thinking of how close to the truth J.J.'s statement about the zoo was about to become.
Just then I saw another dust cloud coming up the driveway. Mag jumped up and down
, gesturing toward the driveway with the camera. I stopped in my tracks.
"Hey, Buzz, that might be them now," she yelled. "Isn't that Joy Broussard's black Bonneville? Must be, all I see is blue hair over the dash. And whose red Crown Vic is that? Is that Mary Cromwell driving? Must be–look at all those police antennas. She must have been eavesdropping on the scanner again."
"Yeah, her and the rest of the geriatric SWAT Team. Mom probably didn't even have to call them."
Mag chuckled. "Well now, that's curious. I thought the state took Mary's license for the time she ended up in Volkert's living room with her old blue pickup, after Bobby Haskin's wedding." With a shake of her head, she went back to clicking.
I sprinted across the driveway to warn J.J. and Mee-me, but the huge black car barreling up the driveway beat me to him. J.J. took his life in his hands by stepping in front of Joy's car. I yelled, "J.J., get out of the way! She'll run you down–she can't see over the dash!"
He stood his ground, waving his arms and yelling. "Ladies, please! This is a crime scene. You do not want to be here! Go back home nowww–ohhh shit!"
He jumped out of the way and into the back of Dad's newly-scratched and dented pickup truck. He was still recovering his balance when the cars slid to a stop and the drivers' doors flew open.
J.J. jumped over the side of the truck and stood his ground in front of the ladies, explaining why they were not allowed to enter a crime scene.
His cries fell on deaf ears, and in the case of Mary Cromwell, really deaf ears. He had to jump out of the way again to avoid being run over by the stampede of three little old ladies wearing back packs and wielding casserole dishes and Jell-O salads. They waddled, shuffled, and toddled over to where the body still waited in its cardboard box. They stopped and stared as if they were paying their respects. Not wanting to interfere with such a solemn and personal moment, yet needing to know if they could shed light on Carole's death, I stepped within hearing distance and calmly eavesdropped.
"Would you look at that? Gerry wasn't lying!"
"A real live croaker, right under her house!"
