Mary Jane's Grave

by Stacy Dittrich

  On the outside, I was an attractive thirty- four-year-old woman admired by her coworkers, with a reputation for toughness beyond her years. But deep down, I heard the occasional whisper of insecurity as I found myself questioning my ability to continue pulling off law-enforcement miracles. The curse of high expectations—my own as well as those of my community—was a shadow that followed me everywhere. Sure, it made me a better cop, but I often wondered at what expense?

  I sighed. It was time to get my butt out of here and find out why this latest victim was lying dead at Mary Jane’s Grave.

  Michael handed me my coffee as I was walking out the door.

  “Do you want some garlic or something to take with you? I can’t have my gorgeous, soon- to- be- wife getting hurt.”

  “Very cute. There’s supposedly a witch buried there, not a vampire,” I reminded him.

  He grinned impishly as I gulped down my first coffee of the day, welcoming the warm burst of caffeine. “Sorry, I’ll be home today brushing up on my creatures-of- the-night facts,” he said.

  “You’d better,” I murmured, kissing him good- bye. “There’ll be a quiz when I get home.”

  On my way to the homicide scene, I turned up the SUV’s heater and admonished myself for not grabbing a jacket. Although the days were still warm, the fall nights could be bitter cold.

  This murderer had a sick sense of humor. With Halloween just weeks away, the perp evidently thought law enforcement would get turned on by the location. But I was not amused. Although the grave is nothing but a myth, the childhood stories I’d heard about my clairvoyant relatives and bona fide exorcisms were enough to make me fear anything that lacked a pulse. Raised as a good Catholic girl, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do believe in something; I just don’t know what that is—yet. Let’s just say I respect the dead.

  Turning onto Tucker Road brought back a flood of memories. The foothills of the Appalachian Mountains are beautiful terrain by daylight, but very different at night. I hadn’t been on Tucker Road since high school. Even after I began working for the force, I wouldn’t drive back here; there was no reason to, I told myself.

  As the asphalt narrowed into a dirt road and then into something that resembled a hiking trail, I was careful to maneuver my SUV around the deep ruts in the ground. I parked behind the last car in a line of police vehicles, their lights spinning in the darkness like a Friday night disco.

  As I walked between the line of cars, I passed two uniformed officers talking to four teenagers seated on the ground. All looked pale and grief stricken. One of the girls was crying hysterically, and I assumed they were the ones who had found the body.

  “Excuse me, Officer, are they witnesses?” I asked Jack, the taller of the two men.

  “They found the body, Sergeant. You need to talk to them, right?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “Of course. Have their parents been notified?”

  “They’re on the way.”

  “Just have them all go downtown and wait for me. There’s no sense in them standing out here freezing. I’ll probably be a while.”

  I continued toward the bright floodlights illuminating the cemetery. I felt bad for those kids. Unfortunately, what they had seen to night was something they would never forget as long as they lived.

  The crime laboratory had managed to get its vans back into the cemetery so they could collect all the evidence and process the entire scene. Until they finished, no one could do a thing. I saw Captain Naomi Cooper, head of the major crimes division, and her husband, Jeff, also a detective, standing by the entrance to the cemetery.

  Naomi and I have a shaky past. When we initially started working together after the Mansfield Police Department and the Richland County Sheriff’s Department merged to become Richland Metro, things couldn’t have been worse. Our personalities clashed in epic proportions. However, during the Murder Mountain case, Naomi ended up getting shot trying to protect me and saved my life. Then, last year, she almost died after getting captured by child murderer Carl James Malone, and our hatchet was forever buried. She married Jeff, “Coop,” shortly afterward, and I was her maid of honor.

  With all the crime lab equipment and vans, I couldn’t see the body, and since I knew nothing about the murder, I promptly asked Naomi, “What happened?”

  “Spooky, isn’t it, CeeCee?” Coop whispered.

  “Not hardly. Prank gone bad or what?”

  “I don’t think so.” Naomi continued to look out over the vans. “It’s not pretty. She was strangled, and apparently parts of her body were burned. Someone also cut her wrist.”

  Not your ordinary recitation of physical abuses. “Why?” I asked.

  “Probably to paint the big bloody M that’s on the tree above her,” offered Naomi.

  “You mean she’s actually at the tree?”

  “Yes, and wait until you hear what the kids who found her are saying.”

  “Was there any sexual assault?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Coop put in. “As remote as this place is, no one would hear anything if there had been.”

  I looked over at the vans and saw one of the crime lab technicians wave us over. They had finally completed the scene, and we were now free to poke about.

  As I came around the side of the van to face the site where the body lay, I felt myself suck in a massive amount of air. The victim, a pretty young blonde, was sitting upright with her back against the tree. Her eyes were open and speckled with broken blood vessels from the strangulation. She was shirtless and braless, exposing odd triangular burn marks that went across her chest just below her neck.

  Her arms were down at her sides with the palms facing upward; a large cut across her left wrist had poured blood into her palm. It was this blood that had likely been used to paint the large M on the tree directly above her. Like most homicide scenes, it was not for the faint of heart.

  One disturbing reaction I tend to have at homicides that involve young girls is superimposing the image of my daughters’ faces onto that of the victim. I wonder what it would be like to be a parent and have your child brutalized to the point of death. While just a split-second reaction, the idea always makes me feel momentarily light-headed.

  “Good Lord,” I muttered under my breath. I began to walk slowly around the body, observing it from a closer point of view. One of the crime lab technicians was standing a few feet away and sauntered over to compare notes.

  “What do you make of this, Bob?” I asked. I was pleased to see him here—Bob was one of our better lab techs, and I respected his opinion.

  Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he offered: “Other than the fact that the murderer was a very disturbed individual, I haven’t made much, CeeCee. I took blood samples and photographed the burns. I couldn’t find any shoe prints other than hers and those of the kids who walked up here. No trace of any weapon that could have cut her wrist. Her shirt and bra are nowhere to be found. I photographed the kids’ shoe treads and took dirt samples from the area and from inside their car.”

  “What about the strangulation? If it was done manually, you should be able to swab her neck for DNA, no?”

  “I don’t see any ligature marks, so a manual strangulation would be my first guess, too. The coroner should be here any minute,” Bob said, looking toward the road.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and swab her neck anyway, just in case,” I suggested.

  “No problem,” he agreed. “Nothing else to do while we wait.”

  I watched as Bob took out a long cotton swab from the back of the van and put a couple of drops of sterile water on it. Wearing latex gloves, he carefully took the swab and rubbed it over the victim’s neck. Most people don’t realize that during a bare- hand strangulation, the friction between the killer’s hand and the victim’s neck loosens skin cells from the killer—and those skin cells, which differ from the victim’s when tested, hang on tight to the victim’s neck.

  Our best-case scenario would be that we’d find the kill
er’s DNA and run it through a state- wide database known as C.O.D.I.S., which holds the DNA of anyone ever incarcerated in a state prison. Even if the killer hadn’t been in prison before, we could still use the DNA as a match when we found a suspect.

  The worst-case situation would be that no DNA would be found, but I wasn’t ready to entertain that scenario.

  “What was she doing here?” I asked Coop, who was standing nearby.

  “According to the kids who found her, they were all here together,” he answered.

  “How is that possible unless they’re responsible?” I asked. “And why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?”

  “Hey, take it easy,” Coop said soothingly.” You’ll have to talk to them. Allegedly, they dared the girl to walk back here by herself, and she took the bait.” He walked over and stood next to me, looking down at the body. “When she didn’t come back, they walked down here to find her, and voila! They claim that no cars passed them on the way in, and there weren’t any down here when they found her. They’re all pretty torn up. I don’t get the feeling that they’re lying.”

  “That’s a little strange, though, Coop, don’t you think? Is anybody out talking to the nearest residents and farmers?”

  “The uniforms are on it.”

  “Had I known this earlier, I would’ve blocked off the road from the asphalt on down,” I murmured, irritated. “We may have been able to get tire tracks. Now that every cop car in the county is parked down here, it’s pretty pointless.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Coop said defensively. “Naomi and I got here right before you did.”

  I was interrupted by the arrival of the Richland County Coroner and his assistant, J. P. Sanders, who, regardless of the circumstances, would have every officer at a crime scene laughing hysterically within minutes. In his late fifties, with gray hair and Coke- bottle glasses, J.P. has an unusual talent for lightening the most intense situation. To his credit, however, he will maintain the utmost professionalism when in the presence of family members. He has never disrespected the dead; he merely tries to make it easier for us to cope.

  J.P. is also the person you’d most want to consult with at a homicide scene. He could look at any evidence and tell you just about everything you’d want to know. Even though the county coroner is an elected position, everyone for the last thirty years has kept J.P. as the assistant—a smart move, since he knew more than all of them combined.

  “J.P., long time no see,” welcomed Coop. “How’s business?”

  “Dead.”

  I smiled as I watched J.P. eye Bob, who was fairly new to the crime lab and had yet to experience a crime scene with J.P. He was fresh, juicy bait. Coop winked at me. We all waited to see what J.P. would do next. He carried his suitcase-sized bag and set it down next to the van.

  He started fumbling around in it as if looking for the most important of all tools, and I couldn’t stop from bursting out laughing as he pulled out a large- brimmed black witch’s hat and put it on his head. The hat was so large it fell over his eyes.

  “That’s just wrong.” Coop laughed, wiping tears from his eyes.

  J.P. had more gadgets and one- liners than anyone I’d ever known. I didn’t doubt for a minute that when he was called here, he’d known exactly where to find the witch’s hat—probably in his bedroom closet. But he wasn’t finished with us yet.

  Bob’s mouth had already dropped when J.P. produced the hat. Now, he was watching intently as J.P. leaned over the victim, still wearing the hat, scanning the body up and down before stopping near the legs.

  “Well. I’ll be damned. Did anyone photograph this?”

  Bob, who prided himself on covering every aspect of a crime scene, darted over to J.P. and put his hands on his hips. “What? I photographed everything!”

  “You didn’t photograph this, kiddo. Haven’t seen one in a while, but this victim has a cheek- for.”

  “What the hell is a cheek- for?” Bob took the bait hook, line and sinker.

  J.P. stood and kissed Bob’s right cheek, sending Bob into a tailspin. He violently wiped his hand across his face.

  “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy!”

  Our laughter prompted Bob to stop and realize the joke he’d just missed. When he caught on, he was quite embarrassed.

  “Oh, I get it. Very funny.”

  “You’re lucky he didn’t do the butt- for joke, Bob,” Naomi laughed.

  Once everyone regained their composure, J.P. removed the hat, put the jokes aside, and got down to business. He wouldn’t do much here; right now, he was just looking over the body before they bagged it and took it away for more extensive tests. I saw him scrunch up his face and rub his chin as he looked at the marks on the victim’s chest.

  “What is it, J.P.?” I asked, realizing that he’d seen something.

  “These burns,” he said, pointing to the marks. “I would bet my wife’s fat fanny they came from a fireplace poker. The point is a dead giveaway, no pun intended.”

  “How would someone keep it hot if there wasn’t a fire nearby?” Coop asked. “With a blowtorch?”

  “We’ll know more by the end of the week. CeeCee, can you forward all your paperwork to me when you’re done?”

  “Of course,” I told him. “I’ll work up the case as fast as I can. How’s a two-day turnaround?”

  There wasn’t much more for me to do here; the next step was to read all the reports on the incident and get my input over to J.P. It was near daybreak, and I was sure the distraught teens were ready to go home. They’d been waiting at headquarters with their parents for almost two hours now, and their imaginations must have been working overtime.

  Sighing, I pulled open my car door and climbed in. I felt tired and cranky; it had been another long night, and I didn’t do well with interrupted sleep—an unavoidable aspect of this crazy job. Now I had to deal with an unhappy group of people who wanted nothing more than to go home and forget what had happened that night at Mary Jane’s Grave.

  But it was my job to find out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On my way to the station, I took a chance that Michael hadn’t gone back to bed, and I called him from my cell phone. He slept even less than I did, and sure enough, he picked up after the first ring.

  “It’s me,” I announced, “and I need your help.” I briefly described the crime scene, and he listened without comment. Then I asked, “Honey, I need you to tell me if an M written in blood means anything.”

  If anyone would know, Michael would. Not only was he a certified profiler in sex crimes, but I considered him the go- to guy for just about anything involving the criminal mind. Years ago, when I was getting to know him, I’d been dazzled by his insights into why people kill each other. I respect Michael more than anyone I’ve ever known, including my father. A remarkable feat.

  “An M in blood? That definitely sounds ritualistic,” he said, confirming my growing suspicions. “Let me see what I can find out. From what you’re telling me, the killer is a highly organized and educated individual.”

  “Great,” I said gloomily. “Just what I need.”

  Picking up on my sour mood, Michael suggested, “Why don’t you bring the file home to night. Maybe I can sneak in a quick profile for you.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” I confessed gratefully. What a prince.

  Then he added, “Of course, it’ll cost you.”

  “I’ll be naked by nine,” I shot back, laughing.

  “Done deal. See you later, Cee.”

  When I arrived back at the department, I explained to the waiting teens and their parents what lay ahead. First I would take each of them back to the interview room individually to take a statement. Then they could all go home.

  In a situation like this, there’s usually at least one parent who puts up a fuss. This time it was the overweight, dark-haired man in his late forties who had his arm around the girl I’d seen crying hysterically when I first arrived at the crime scene. />
  “Excuse me, Sergeant. I’m Edward Nedrow, Ashley’s father.” He nodded toward his daughter. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but these kids are pretty shaken up. Can’t we do this more effectively later?”

  “Mr. Nedrow, I know it’s been a tough night for them, and I’ll have your daughter out of here as soon as I can, depending on her cooperation. But right now, they’re the only witnesses to a violent murder and, as far as I’m concerned, are all possible suspects. Yes, they claim they didn’t see the murder occur, but they’re the only ones, by their own admission, who were present. There’s no other evidence to prove they weren’t involved. Now, they can voluntarily come back with me and tell me their version of events, or I can take them into custody, read them their Mirandas, and let you and your attorneys sort out the rest. All the while they’ll be sitting in the juvenile detention center. Remember, sir, at the very least, they were trespassing on private property.”

  I hated being so shitty with the man. Honestly, if it were my daughter, I’d feel the same as he did. But I had to flip off my emotional connector switch and get my job done. And in the back of my mind, the sooner I hustled these kids out of here, the sooner I could go home and get some sleep myself.

  Mr. Nedrow hung his head in defeat, not that I expected any less, and muttered a soft “okay.” But my short speech had produced looks of horror on the faces of the teens, especially at the mention of the juvenile detention center. I hoped the threat of incarceration would get them past their fears of betraying one another and inspire them to open up.

  Since Mr. Nedrow had so boldly spoken out, I decided to start with Ashley. She was terrified. Her hands were shaking, and droplets of sweat began to form on her forehead.

  “Have a seat, Ashley,” I told her gently as we entered the small interview room. I was putting on my good-cop demeanor to get her as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. I just couldn’t imagine being that age and seeing your friend dead only a few moments after you’d seen her alive and happy.

  In that small room, I could smell that Ashley had been drinking. At first she denied it. She was under the drinking age at seventeen and knew she was in trouble. But I remained silent, staring at her until she relented and told me the group had shared a case of beer. Then, the dam having burst, she put her head in her hands and confessed what had happened.