The Gravedigger's Ball

by Solomon Jones

  Coletti’s car screeched to a halt, and he ran into the building where the registrar’s office was located while dialing Professor Workman’s office once again. There was no answer. Bounding up the steps to the second floor and through the glass doors of the registrar’s office, Coletti stumbled to the desk and held up a single finger as he tried to catch his breath.

  The young woman behind the counter watched with a look of concern as Coletti bent down, put his hands on his knees, and tried to pant his way through a formal introduction.

  “I’m … Detective … Coletti,” he said, huffing and puffing between each word.

  “Do you need a glass of water or something?” she asked, coming out from behind the counter.

  Coletti shook his head. Then he put one elbow on the counter to balance himself as he tried to reach into his pocket to show her his badge.

  “No need to show me that,” she said, reaching over the counter and handing him an envelope. “We put together the information you asked for, so if you want to sit down for a moment and look through it, that’s fine. You can stay as long as you’d like, sir.”

  Coletti hated it when young women called him sir. It made him feel a thousand years old. Of course, he looked about that age at the moment. Running was no longer his strength.

  “I appreciate the offer,” he said, standing up straight as the young woman gazed at him with a look of serious concern. “But I really can’t stay. I need to find Professor Workman.”

  “Okay, well, let me call over to the English department for you, sir. I won’t be a minute.”

  Coletti stood at the counter and opened the envelope, looking through the names and pictures inside. At first glance, none of them looked like a match. Not one of them had black hair, and though it was difficult to tell from headshots, only two of the men looked like they were big enough to be the Gravedigger.

  He put the pictures back into the envelope and watched as the young woman filled a plastic cup at the water cooler. He grinned with appreciation as she bent slightly. Her tight sweater and snug skirt showed off curves and shapely legs that were accented by a pair of patent leather pumps.

  She came back to the counter with a fluid walk and an alluring smile. Coletti smiled back. Then she handed him the water and watched as he drank it.

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying this,” she said in a velvety smooth voice. “But you are adorable.”

  He began to blush.

  “You remind me so much of my grandfather.”

  Coletti nearly spit out the water as his fantasy moment shattered in a thousand pieces.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, grinning embarrassingly. “The water just went down the wrong pipe.”

  She grinned at him as if she wanted to reach out and pinch his grandfatherly cheek, her face fixed in the patronizing expression that the young reserve for the old.

  Coletti decided to lay his pride aside and play the old-man card. “Can you do me a favor?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Can you e-mail a copy of these names and pictures to my partner? I’m not so good with the Internet.”

  “I’d be happy to,” she said with a wide smile.

  “One more thing. Did you have any luck getting in touch with Professor Workman?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, tilting her head in sympathy. “The department secretary said he went home early. He left about a half hour ago.”

  * * *

  It was four o’ clock, and the bird soared high above the streets, its wings stretched wide as the breeze carried it up toward the sun.

  The killer looked up at the raven as he drove the stolen car. Then he glanced down at the cramped space between the glove compartment and the passenger seat. The car’s dead owner looked back at him with vacant eyes. Her nose was a misshapen blob with shards of bone sticking out like macabre decorations. The killer smiled at his handiwork. Then he looked up at the road and panicked at the sight of a car that was stopped at a red light directly in front of him.

  He slammed on the brakes, and the tires left foot-long skid marks before sliding to a halt. The driver of the other car turned around and yelled while giving him the finger. The killer stared passively, waiting for the light to change.

  When it did, he drove on, crossing Cheltenham Avenue and leaving Philadelphia for a suburb called Elkins Park.

  As the raven flew overhead, the killer drove down a winding street called Ashbourne Road, where grand estates were shaded by centuries-old trees that had witnessed the changes in the area. There were estates that had been divided into apartment complexes, and others that had been converted into museums, schools, and convents. In between were more modest homes in the three-hundred-thousand- to half-million-dollar range. The people who lived there were businessmen and doctors, lawyers and academics.

  Irving Workman was among them, and as the raven alighted on the chimney of the professor’s home, the killer pulled into the hundred-foot driveway behind Workman’s twenty-year-old Volvo.

  As he did every Wednesday, the professor had returned home early from the university. As he’d done the night before in preparation for this visit, the killer parked in front of Professor Workman’s home.

  Taking his time getting out of the car, the killer made no effort to hide the body that was slumped in front of the passenger seat. The professor’s home was nestled among trees on nearly an acre of land. The killer had at least an hour before the professor’s closest neighbors would return home, which would give him plenty of time to complete his deadly business.

  Ambling up to the door, the killer rang the bell. He could hear Workman walking across the hardwood floor to answer. He could see the professor pull aside the curtain on the front window to see who’d come to visit. And when the professor opened the door, there was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” Workman asked as he looked at him with a bemused expression on his face.

  The killer grinned, revealing his black-toothed smile, and in two seconds, Workman’s expression went from recognition to outright fear. By the time he tried to close the door, it was too late. The killer pushed open the door, and with a cool rush of air, the raven swept in and sunk his powerful bill into the professor’s right eye.

  There was a scream, and stumbling footsteps, and then the door slammed shut.

  “It’s been much too long since our last chat,” the killer said as the professor stumbled to the floor with the raven stabbing at his face.

  As Workman grunted and struggled with the bird, the killer stood calmly over him, watching as the blood oozed from the professor’s wounds and smeared the hardwood floor. After thirty seconds of listening to the raven’s deep croak and Workman’s pain-induced shrieks, the killer finally called off his accomplice.

  “Prophet!” he shouted, his voice sharp and clear.

  The raven flapped its wings and lifted itself a few feet in the air before roosting on a table on the other side of the vast living room.

  As Workman lay on the floor, trying in vain to stanch the flow of blood with his hands, the killer bent down until his mouth was just inches from Workman’s ear. “I named him Prophet,” he said, his black-toothed smile spreading slowly across his face. “Do you like my choice, Professor?”

  Workman struggled to prop himself up on his elbow, then dragged himself backward as the killer followed him across the floor, tormenting him with words the professor knew all to well.

  “Prophet,” he said with a chuckle. “Poe wrote that in his poem, didn’t he? He said the raven was a prophet. But Poe wasn’t sure if the prophet had been sent from heaven or hell. Which do you think it is, Professor? Do you think my prophet is a bird or a devil? Do you think he’s from heaven or hell?”

  With his one good eye, Workman turned and looked into the killer’s face. What he saw confirmed what he’d initially believed. The man in his living room was a former student who’d excelled in
Penn’s master’s of fine arts program two years ago. Workman had taken a liking to him and become a mentor. But halfway through the master’s program the man disappeared. Now he was back, but something inside him had died.

  “What happened to you?” Workman asked, his voice quaking with fear and exhaustion as the blood from his wounds ran down his face. “What turned you into this?”

  The killer didn’t answer. Instead, he walked over to the professor’s coffee table and picked up the remote control. He turned on the TV and cranked up the sound. CNN was featuring yet another in a long line of so-called experts with opinions on the killings that had taken place that morning. An FBI psychiatrist was the latest talking head.

  “All signs point to this so-called Gravedigger being a troubled individual,” he said as the host nodded earnestly. “The mode of dress, the choice of an historic cemetery as the scene of the crime, all these things indicate that the killer is someone who’s trying to recall a long-gone era. This killer might even be delusional enough to see himself as some figure from the distant past.”

  The killer smiled, turned to the professor, and began to laugh. “They’ve named me the Gravedigger. I think it suits me, Professor, don’t you? I mean, it was you who introduced me to Fairgrounds. It was you who knew me best.” The killer stopped, and his face clouded over with anger. “These people, they don’t know me. If they knew me, they would know how much I’ve suffered. They’d know how many nights I lay awake, waiting for her to come back. They’d know how much it hurt to lose her the way I did.”

  “What are you talking about?” the professor asked, his voice weakening. “Who did you lose?”

  “My wife, Professor. She was a nurse at Hahnemann Hospital who worked the late shift. One night she got into a cab and never made it home. Turns out the cabbie was wanted for two murders in Washington State. It wasn’t hard to find him. The only thing that was hard was erasing the hate from my heart. Then I remembered you.”

  “What did it have to do with me?” the professor said, his tone desperate and his breathing heavy and labored. “I never even knew your wife died.”

  “What difference would it have made if you’d known? There was nothing you could’ve done about it.”

  “That’s right,” Workman said, his voice a near-whisper. “There was nothing you or I could do to bring her back then, and there’s nothing we can do to bring her back now.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. But when I went over your teachings, I discovered that my Helen was just like Lenore—young and beautiful and gone too soon. And I was just like the man in ‘The Raven’—tortured by grief and looking for hope in things that weren’t real. But if your theories are true, I can use my mind to bring her back, to make things like they were, to literally change everything.”

  “No, you can’t,” Workman said, his good eye fluttering as blood poured out the other. “My work is just a theory. There’s no proof that it’s true.”

  The killer smiled, again revealing teeth that were black and rotted. “Prophet!” he called sharply, and the bird flew over to him and roosted on his arm as the professor shrank back in fear.

  “Did you know ravens are amongst the smartest birds, Professor? They can tell when you’re afraid. They can tell when you’re hurt. They can tell when you’re defenseless.” He looked at the bird, then back at the professor. “But the other amazing thing about ravens is that they sometimes eat sick and wounded animals while they’re still alive.”

  “Please,” the professor said as he slid away from the killer and his raven. “Just take what you want and let me go.”

  “I don’t want things, Professor Workman. I want information. I want you to tell me exactly where Poe hid the secrets he found at Fairgrounds. There are people counting on me to get that information, Professor; people who’ve paid lots of money.”

  “I don’t have the information you want.”

  The killer released the raven, and it gouged the professor’s face with its powerful beak, tearing chunks of flesh from Workman’s cheek and swallowing them whole as his victim screamed in pain.

  “Prophet!” the killer shouted again, and the raven stopped its attack.

  Workman was curled up in the fetal position, whimpering quietly as he trembled against the intense pain in his face.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” his tormentor said. “That would mean I’d have to track down other people. Neither of us wants that, so please, just give me the information.”

  Workman looked up at the killer, and even with one good eye, the professor could see that the man he’d once mentored had lost his grip on reality. There was no stopping the Gravedigger from killing Workman, and they both knew that. The only thing the professor could hope for was to prevent the killer from finding the truth that Workman and the Daughters of Independence had worked so hard to protect. There wasn’t much time. His strength was leaving him in an endless flow of blood. There was only one option left.

  “Okay,” Workman said. “I’ll give you what you want. It’s right over here.”

  With a herculean effort, the professor dragged himself to his feet and stumbled across the living room floor to a glass cabinet filled with vodka, scotch, and rum. The killer was right behind him. Workman knew he only had a moment to act, and when the killer saw him reach for the cabinet, that moment grew even shorter.

  The killer lunged for the professor, who managed to elude him. The raven attacked, and Workman reached for his lighter with one hand and pulled down the glass cabinet with the other. The structure fell on top of him, and the raven flew backward to avoid the spraying glass and alcohol. Then Workman lit the flame, and the alcohol-fueled fire spread across the wooden floor like a wave across the sea.

  The raven flew up toward the ceiling, flapping helplessly as the room filled with smoke. The killer tried to douse the blaze, but as the flames licked the hardwood floors and climbed the drapes and wallpaper, it was clear that there was nothing he could do to stop their advance.

  Workman’s blood-soaked body was beneath the glass cabinet. His clothing was engulfed in flames. His one remaining eye was sizzling in his skull, but his dead face was fixed in the smile of the victor. He’d done what he could to protect what he knew, and nothing could get the secret from him now.

  With the heat quickly building to unbearable temperatures and the smoke billowing up toward the ceiling, the killer dragged Workman’s lifeless body to a sliding glass door on the side of the house. Then he opened the door and allowed the bird to fly out ahead of him. The killer then pulled the body fifty feet to an area just beyond the line of trees, and with a mighty heave, he pushed the professor’s body into the hole he’d dug the night before.

  A moment later, when he emerged from the woods and saw the balls of flame leaping out through the home’s broken windows, the killer felt as if he’d seen the very maw of hell open up.

  While the crackle of flames filled the air around him, the killer walked to the car, took a knife from his sock, and cut out the heart of the woman he’d killed earlier.

  “Prophet!” he called to the raven, and tossed the heart onto the ground.

  As the raven consumed it, the killer carried the woman’s body to the grave where Workman lay. He threw her corpse on top of his. Then he looked back at the fire, got into the car, and drove away.

  As he listened to the sound of sirens rising in the distance, a black-toothed grin spread across his face once more. Workman had proven in no uncertain terms that the killer was chasing after truth, because the Gravedigger knew, just as his former mentor did, that truth was the only thing worth dying for.

  CHAPTER 11

  Mann pulled into the Police Administration Building’s parking lot with Lenore, and John Wilkinson was standing there waiting. John’s face, which had been impassive for most of the day, actually showed a glimmer of emotion when he saw her, and he smiled with something approaching gladness.

  When Lenore started walking across the parking lot, however, John
’s smile quickly faded. His wife was surrounded by police officers, and instead of entering through the front door where he was waiting with his lawyer, she headed toward a side door and never even attempted to make eye contact with John.

  “Lenore,” John said as he walked in her direction. She didn’t respond, so he called her again, louder this time. “Lenore!”

  She glanced at him, her facial expression showing more hurt than anger, and continued to walk.

  John caught up to them and tried to push past the cops to get to his wife. One of the uniformed officers nearly pushed him to the ground. John was about to push back when Lenore spoke up.

  “Stop!” she said, as other officers in the parking lot watched.

  She looked at her husband, who was red-faced and flustered. Then she looked at Mann, who appeared to be ready to take matters into his own hands. “I’d like to talk to John inside, if that’s okay.”

  Mann glared at John. “He’ll have to talk to me first,” he muttered grudgingly. “He might want to bring his lawyer along, too.”

  They all walked in through the side entrance and took the long way around to homicide. Once they were there, Mann led Lenore into one of the interrogation rooms and had one of the uniformed cops stay with her. He led John and his lawyer into another room and sat them down at a table much like the one where he and Coletti had earlier questioned Lenore.

  “Mr. Wilkinson, I need to know where you were today,” Charlie said with a sigh.

  John looked at his lawyer, who nodded.

  “I’ve been in London for the past three days on business,” he said. “I was on a long flight back today. Lenore knew that before she came here.”

  “Did the two of you also talk about her coming to Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, right before I left for London she told me something about working on a ball for a historic cemetery.”

  “And you had no problem with her doing that, right?”

  “Why would I have a problem with it? She works with charitable causes all the time.”