Resurrectionists - A Greystone Tale

by Lou Paduano

  Loren stopped, looking back at the man curiously. “And you have, haven’t you, Standish?”

  Standish went through a similar bout of missing evidence syndrome on three separate occasions. The review board found no evidence of wrongdoing on the overweight detective’s part, and the case was dropped and forgotten by all except for Loren, who transferred away from the man as quickly as possible.

  Loren’s decision stung Standish at the time, the connotation of the man’s guilt due to the request. Loren didn’t care. The work came first, and being dragged down by the ineptitude of a partner with a shady history was not how he intended to spend his days.

  Only now he was the inept one in the eyes of the department, wasn’t he?

  “Still standing though, ain’t I?” Standish shrugged, throwing a friendly elbow. He leaned in closer, the smell of coffee sickening Loren almost as much as the man’s grin. “How about you, Greg?”

  Loren nodded, collecting his work. “I’d be lying if I said this has been fun, Standish.”

  “Greg,” Standish said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out an open envelope. “You dropped this.”

  “What?” Loren snatched it from his hands. A letter from the sixth floor, which meant only one location: the commissioner’s office.

  “Two days isn’t much time to figure things out, but with a friend like Ruiz there, I’m sure you don’t need to worry. Not you.”

  Standish held the word Ruiz out when he spoke, as if even attempting the Hispanic’s name gave him hives. It always bothered Loren, the man’s ignorance toward everyone who didn’t line up with his preferences. Racial. Gender. Everything. Loren’s concern lay firmly on the letter in his hands. Two days until his review. He hadn’t even thought of a defense, the need for one not even entering it. Two days to figure out how this happened to him again and why.

  Including why Standish knew about it first.

  Loren held the letter between them. “Stay the hell out of my mail, Standish.”

  Loren stomped down the hall, dropping his report in the bin outside Ruiz’s office without looking. Standish’s sneer drove him further and faster until he reached his office door. His head rested against the wooden frame, the letter tight between his fingers. It listed the commissioner and Mathers as heading up the inquiry. No help from Ruiz. Not a good sign.

  The knob twisted lightly in his hand. He rubbed his eyes deeply. “Dammit. What else?”

  When he opened his eyes there she was, sitting on his desk, feet dangling over the tiled floor. Soriya Greystone tilted her head, smiling all the same.

  “Not the best way to start, but let’s see where the night goes.”

  Chapter Seven

  What are you doing here?

  The same question repeated in his head as Loren turned the wheel of the cruiser into the parking lot outside Pine Woods Cemetery. He had cases. Quite a few, in fact, yet he had dumped them for an errand with Soriya. One out of his wheelhouse—not that he minded the switch from murderers. Homicide was a way of life but not the sum total.

  Didn’t mean he wanted to make a habit of chasing grave robbers either. After hearing Soriya’s discovery, her interest in tracking down the culprits involved, Loren jumped at the escape from his own work. Swept up in her enthusiasm, the same way it had been for the last four years. Soriya’s interest meant that there was something to it, something different, something unique. A balm from his crumbling life.

  “You haven’t said much,” Soriya said. She sat impatiently in the passenger seat of the requisitioned patrol cruiser, her head almost completely out the window to feel the air. She hated driving around the city, so used to barreling along the streets, be it from the sewers below or the rooftops above. Out in the open air nonetheless. Loren hated feeling like an anchor around her, but he also lived in the real world. That meant cars, traffic, and road rage—the fundamentals of Portents.

  He remained silent, looking around the parking lot. He spotted the security office at the far end and clicked off the headlights.

  “Not that you have to,” she continued, ducking inside as Loren rolled the window up. “But I have grown accustomed to your banter over time.”

  “Bad day,” Loren replied. The engine went dead, the keys rattling against his palm. “And no, talking about it is not what I’m after.”

  “I figured that one out.”

  The night air was pungent, full-bodied. Rain was coming and soon. Not the place Loren wanted to be when it happened. Pine Woods filled the horizon in front of him, the light traffic rushing behind him. He had attended a number of services at the cemetery, mostly for work. He knew the layout, understood the manpower involved in keeping up with the grounds. The lapses in security were no surprise, not with the amount of land to cover and the lack of boots on the ground. No excuse, however, and he was grateful Beth rested comfortably four miles east at Black Rock.

  Beth. His shoulders slumped with her name. He sighed, turning away from the dead. “Why bring this to me? I’m sure Mentor would have preferred—”

  “Anything to keep me on the leash.”

  “True,” Loren said, remembering the old man’s penchant for controlling situations, including how he was addressed. Mentor. Like something from a damn comic book. “Not that you would listen.”

  “Exactly.” She smirked.

  “Not an answer though.”

  She stopped short of the door to the security office. “Questions need asking. You ask them nicer than me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Are you sure you’re—?”

  “I’m fine,” he interrupted, pushing past her for the door. “Let’s say hello.”

  It opened before his second knock. In the doorway stood a white-whiskered old man in full uniform, one hand hiking up his belt with each breath.

  Loren cleared his throat, badge in hand. “Detective Loren and my associate.” He shifted away from Soriya as he spoke, feeling her glare on his backside. “We have some questions.”

  The old man’s face dropped, his cheeks jiggling as he spoke. “You know, don’t you?”

  “You might say the word is out.”

  He nodded, stepping aside. “Best come in then.”

  Loren and Soriya stepped in and the door closed. Cold air hit them like a wall, blowing from the fans set up in all four corners of the shed. Two computer stations sat in the center of the small office, camera feeds lining the back wall. A back room jutted off to the right, most likely a locker room for equipment, uniforms, and the occasional nap. Loren eyed the coffee maker then settled for a slice of gum with a roll of his baby browns. He missed smoking.

  “The first one was about a week ago,” the old man started. The name placard tacked to his chest read Sheppard. His eyes were sullen, his voice low, as if others might be listening. “Since then we’ve noticed older ones. Fresh soil over old bones.”

  “How many are we talking about here?”

  Sheppard’s eyes fell. “Eight.”

  “With no reports?” Loren asked loudly. Soriya remained silent, pacing the outskirts of the shed. “How is this not on the news?”

  “We couldn’t….” The old man stopped, shuffling to a seat in front of the security feeds. He continued the perpetual fight between his pants and gravity. “We notified the families and asked their permission to keep this internal. To try and flush out whoever could do such a horrible thing. To upset the community—”

  “You mean your clientele, don’t you?”

  “Not mine,” Sheppard answered, shaking his head. “I just work here.”

  “As security. Not likely if this keeps going on.”

  “But it is,” Sheppard said. “And not just here.”

  Loren turned to the old man, eyes wide. “What?”

  “I thought…” the security guard mumbled. He shuffled through a pile of reports by the computer, trying to avoid the detective’s ire. “When you asked, I figured you knew already.”

  “I don’t.”

&
nbsp; “We don’t,” Soriya joined in, and the old man jumped from his seat, away from her.

  “Multiple cemeteries have been hit. Multiple times.”

  Loren and Soriya shared a glance. “How many are we talking about here?”

  Sheppard wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Close to thirty last I heard.”

  Thirty. Thirty people dug up and extricated from their final resting places. How? And for what reason?

  “Soriya?” Loren asked, knowing she too held the same set of questions. There was a reason she was interested. Lines drawn between what was acceptable in what she deemed her city. Murder was understood. Theft, a part of nature. Even with the unusual circumstances typically handled by the pair. But grave robbery? Unsettling the dead? A heinous act shared by the look on her face and in her clenched fists.

  “I need names,” Loren said, sensing her urgency. “For all of them.”

  “I only have our own,” Sheppard said, moving back to his pile of papers, jostling the computer desks with his girth. “I’d have to make some calls.”

  Loren lifted the receiver and held it out to him. “Do it now. I need that list.”

  Chapter Eight

  Riverfront bridged the pier and downtown. Residential neighborhoods rolled uphill, trees lining the roads. Modest homes ran in tight packs on narrow streets, growing more and more extravagant with each turn toward downtown.

  Forbes Avenue ran the gap, Cape Cods interspersed with ranch-style domiciles. All well maintained, the community lush with greenery along the property lines. All uniform yet with unique flair. A garden walk-up for one, hanging baskets on the next, all accentuating the lighter side of Portents.

  It took a full day to receive the list from Sheppard. A day lost to nightmares and aggravation. A phone call from three union reps about his upcoming review, something Loren still hadn’t cared to put much thought into. He patiently declined their involvement, at least with the first two. By the time the third came in, he simply hung up. He knew those on the other end of the phone were protecting their own interests more than anything. The only one that could help Loren was himself and he couldn’t be bothered.

  Especially when the list arrived.

  The count came to thirty-two. Sheppard was barely able to pass along the information let alone believe it. Loren was happy to leave the old man with that thought, hoping the internal investigation might actually become a priority in their eyes. Loren had his own thoughts on the matter, but they amounted to little. More questions than anything, part of the reason he made the trip to Riverfront with Soriya in tow.

  Not that she was happy about it.

  “How many is this?” she whined, her shoes squeaking around him, drowning out the sound of his own chewing. Watermelon flavor. Filthy habit. “I lost count an hour ago, Loren.”

  “Three.”

  She stopped outside the short white picket fence. “Liar.”

  He sighed. “Literally three.”

  The first two went nowhere. No surprise to Soriya who pointed it out with each step to the next stop. Loren was surprised though. People, although deceased, were missing. Their loved ones seemed detached from the news, unwilling or unable to discuss the matter. It didn’t make sense. He thought for sure the father who lost his daughter in a car accident or the man down on Forbes whose mother passed three months earlier would have something to share. Even if only a minute of their time. Instead, he and Soriya met slamming doors and nothing but resistance. Hoping for some sign, some insight into the bizarre wave of crime afflicting the dead, they walked toward the next name on the list.

  Much to Soriya’s chagrin. She hated this part of the work. The actual work. When there wasn’t some threat in front of her to punch and kick, some monster running around for her to sentence with the damn stone attached to her hip, she was a ball of tension. Always seeing the worst—always waiting for it, too. Sad part was she tended to be right.

  Loren opened the fence and ushered her inside. “Try and suck it up, Soriya.”

  “But this is—”

  He waved her off, noting the shadow in the front window watching their approach. “No more talking, Soriya.”

  A gentle knock was quickly answered by a short woman with thick glasses. She kept the door ajar only slightly.

  “Yes?”

  “Susan Barton? Detective Greg Loren and my associate—”

  “Bodyguard.”

  Loren tossed the smug woman a look before returning to Susan with a disarming smile. “Colleague. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about your late husband? Thomas?”

  “I don’t see—”

  “I understand his remains are missing,” Loren continued, pressing closer to the slowly closing door. “Were you aware of this?”

  Her eyes fell. “They called me. Yes.”

  “And you were fine with it?”

  “They were looking for my Tommy,” Susan said, fixing her glasses to the bridge of her nose. Her eyes remained low, away from the questioning detective. “Did they find him?”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid,” Loren said. He leaned on the frame beside the door, catching Soriya’s wavering eyes, watching over the house curiously. “Could we step inside, ma’am? There are just a few more items to go over here.”

  “No.”

  Loren shook his head, surprised at the sudden chill in the air. “I’m sorry?”

  “As well you should be,” Susan replied sharply. “This is a private matter and should be handled as such.”

  “Mrs. Barton, please—”

  The door slammed shut, and the lights flicked off. Their time was finished. Loren stepped back, hands on his hips.

  “That went well.”

  “Want me to kick the door down?”

  Loren sighed. “I have enough problems right now. Thanks.”

  Three strikes on the night and twenty-nine more potentials on the list. If the first three responded like Susan Barton, what chance did they have with the rest? And why shut him out at all? What was he missing?

  “She’s hiding something,” Soriya said, leading them off the porch.

  “You said that about the last two,” Loren muttered, looking back at the closed door, wondering if he should knock again. He shook his head, leaving the porch for the stone walkway.

  “Because it’s true.”

  “It could be anything, Soriya. They could be hiding the fact that their home is a pigsty. Maybe hiding a lover they don’t want mentioned in an official police investigation—which this is not by the way, because I don’t handle grave robberies. Not yet, anyway. Or maybe, just maybe, these people are grieving and this whole thing opened up a ton of old wounds for them.”

  Soriya huffed, arms crossing her chest. “You don’t believe that for a second. Any of it.”

  “I don’t know what to think about this case. Come on.”

  She refused to budge, stamping her feet on the ground. “To the next one? How will that go any better?”

  “What do you propose?”

  “Anything but this,” she yelled. Her arms swung out in exasperation. “Doing something to prevent another. Just doing something.”

  “This is doing something. You don’t like it is all.”

  “Don’t give me the line, Loren.”

  “This is the job, kid.”

  “Yeah. That one.” Soriya turned away, the breeze catching her hair and whirling it around her like the ribbons down her left arm. Dancing in the dark. “Fine. You follow your list.”

  “And you?” Footsteps approached and he caught sight of a woman walking down the street.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Loren turned back and Soriya was gone. Lost to the shadows, like always. “Great,” he muttered. “Dammit, Soriya.”

  Frustrated and hungry, Loren shuffled down the stone pathway to the sidewalk and the white picket fence. So inviting, yet an illusion, like the answers he sought. The woman out for a stroll stood on the other side and he almost collided
with her, lost in thought.

  “Sorry.”

  “My fault,” she said in little more than a whisper. Dried tears clung to her reddened cheeks. Her jacket sat opened, the shoelaces of her sneakers whipping around with each step. She left somewhere in a hurry.

  “Ma’am? Can I—?”

  “You spoke to my husband. Marc Andrews.”

  “I did but—”

  “He wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t tell you, but I will.”

  “Tell me what?” Loren asked.

  “About the bodies,” she said. She peered up and down the block nervously then leaned close to the detective, whispering, “They’re bringing them back to life.”

  Chapter Nine

  Loren smiled to the brunette behind the counter, then dropped a fiver in the empty tip jar. A mumble of thanks left her lips before she went back to cleaning the spotless counter. The exhausted detective took a sip from his steaming cup of darkness, letting it burn all the way down. Then he grabbed the cup next to his and carried both to the booth on the far side of the diner and his waiting companion.

  Kelli Andrews. The wife of Marc Andrews, the man he had interviewed earlier that evening. He said he had lost his mother for the second time in the last three months—but he hadn’t, according to the distraught woman in the window booth.

  He placed the cup in front of Kelli, sliding across from her, the bench squealing under his weight. “Don’t ask me if they got it right. I had enough trouble trying to pronounce it.”

  Kelli smiled. It was a sad smile that aged her in the bright lights of the diner. Her hands cupped the half coffee, half who-knows-what mixture—how they came up with these drinks was beyond the dated detective. She took a long sip. Loren watched her closely while dumping three packets of sugar in his small beverage.

  “Thank you, detective,” Kelli said, sliding the cup back to the center of the table.

  “It’s Greg. And you’re welcome.”

  Her shoes tapped a beat under the table, her eyes unable to peel away from the clock on the far wall for more than ten seconds at a stretch. Kelli Andrews wasn’t supposed to be here. The more time allowed to lapse meant more time for her to realize that fact. More time to fall in line with the rest of Loren’s evening.

  “Kelli, I know—”