An Unsettled Grave

by Bernard Schaffer

“Maybe,” Lou called out from down the hall. “What year?”

  Auburn counted on his fingers. “If she was in sixth grade in 1981, she’d have graduated in what, ’87? We got 1987?”

  “I guess we might,” Lou said.

  “Well, can you go get it then?” Auburn said. He picked up another cream donut. “We’ll go through the names of people she should have graduated with and see if any still live around here,” Auburn said. “It won’t be easy. Most folks moved away to find work. The ones who stuck around are either drug addicts or dead. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Sounds good,” Carrie said. Auburn excused himself to go help look for the yearbooks. Carrie sat in the chair across from his desk. A framed photograph sat on the desk, black and white, with all the colors fading to gray. The man in the photograph wasn’t smiling. He was stern beneath his cowboy hat with the star reading Chief of Police pinned to the front of it. Walt Auburn looked a lot less noble in photographs than he did in the framed painting hung on the wall outside.

  * * *

  The driveway leading up to the home was long and narrow, but at least it had been paved. The rest of the driveways were all gravel, and Carrie was sick of hearing stones great and small pinging off her car’s undercarriage. She stopped at the wrong house first, with a large, dead tree in front of it that no one had bothered to cut down, and had to back out, nearly getting T-boned by a pickup truck spattered with political bumper stickers doing seventy miles an hour. Carrie was sick of pickup trucks spattered with political bumper stickers too. And the assholes who drove them.

  She parked in front of the right house, a well-kept two-story that had been painted recently enough that it was fading but not chipping. The grass was freshly cut, and the smell lingered in the air. On one side of the shed, someone had stacked a pile of cut branches, and on the other, a stack of firewood, perfectly arranged.

  Carrie got out, checking the door and windows for signs of movement. She made sure her badge was dangling in front of her shirt where it could be seen, and that her gun was hidden by her jacket. People reacted in surprising ways to armed strangers coming up to their front door. You could be wearing a badge as big as your chest and they’d never see it if they were focusing on the gun.

  Carrie went up the porch’s front steps and knocked on the glass door. She bladed herself off to the side, out of the way of the door, and waited. Beside her, a porch swing and a wicker chair looked out over the front yard and woods beyond. In the warmer evenings, Carrie imagined, someone would be sitting on the swing, sipping a cold drink, watching fireflies dance in the dark. Maybe it wasn’t so bad out here, she thought.

  “Hang on, I’m coming,” a man called from inside.

  A pair of filthy work boots sat near the door, damp and covered in fresh grass, left outside to dry. Carrie slid them aside with her boot just in case she had to back up, so that she wouldn’t trip.

  The door opened. Carrie held up her badge and said, “Mr. Kraussen?”

  He had long gray hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and thick glasses. He was a slight man, with thin arms and shoulders that were hunched over a set of crutches and his right leg was in a cast. “Call me Adam, please. Can I help you?”

  “I’m Detective Santero with the district attorney’s office. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.”

  “About what?” he said.

  Carrie pulled out her notepad from her pocket and opened it. “Did you hear we found the Pugh girl’s remains?”

  “Hope, that poor kid,” Adam said, grimacing. “Such a shame.”

  “You knew her, right?”

  “We were in school together, and friends, to some extent.”

  “There aren’t too many people left in the area who knew her. I could really use some help filling in the blanks here.”

  Adam pushed the glass door open and grunted, trying to maneuver himself outside. Carrie held the door open, almost stepping on the boots, and finding herself glad she had moved them. Adam lowered himself onto the porch swing, and held out his hand, offering her the wicker chair.

  “How’d you break your leg?” Carrie asked.

  “Remember that ice storm we had last month? I was carrying my groceries to the car and slipped in the parking lot. Went right down on my leg. It hurt like hell, let me tell you.” Adam reached into his coat’s pocket and pulled out an inhaler, then gave it a rough shake before pressing it between his lips and taking a deep breath.

  Carrie waited for him to exhale and said, “I know it was a long time ago, but try to recall what you were doing on the night Hope went missing. I think it would have been February 13, 1981.”

  “My homework, probably, if it was a school night,” Adam said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I just have to cover all my bases, Mr. Kraussen.”

  “Are you asking me if I had anything to do with her going missing, Detective?”

  “I’m trying to be nice about it, but yeah,” she said. “Did you?”

  Adam rattled his inhaler again and took a second blast, pursing his lips and holding it in until he shuddered and let it out. “Sorry about that. I have to use this more when I’m nervous,” he said. “The last time I saw Hope was on the school bus. My stop was first, I got off and went into the house, and I never saw her again.” He looked at her sideways. “I know for a fact she got home safely, because my best friend walked her there and saw her go in her house.”

  Carrie scribbled a few notes on her notepad, mumbling, “I don’t mean to make you nervous, Mr. Kraussen,” as she wrote. She felt the cool air on her face, carrying the scent of all that cut grass. “Who else lives here?”

  “No one, not anymore,” he said. “My parents both passed away a few years back. I live alone.” He stuck his fingers into the top of his cast, scratching until he grimaced. “I can’t wait to get this blasted thing off.”

  “And who’s the best friend you mentioned? Is he around here too?” she asked. “Do you know how I can reach him?” As she spoke, she turned her head back to the boots lying near the front door. All that firewood, so neatly arranged. Those branches, stacked in a pile. The fresh cut grass. Those boots, still damp from recent work. There was a piece of duct tape wrapped around one of them, holding the sole and toe of the boot together. She had seen them before.

  Carrie shot to her feet. She turned back toward Adam, who was rattling his inhaler again, looking at her with wide eyes. “Where is he?” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jacob!” Carrie shouted. She stepped back, cupping her hand to the side of her mouth toward the upper windows. “Jacob Rein, you come down here right this instant! How dare you let me sit out here making a fool out of myself, you ass!”

  Adam took another blast from his inhaler and coughed. Carrie grabbed the handle of the glass door and pulled it open, looking back at him. “Is he inside?” she demanded.

  “No,” Adam said. “Go look if you want. He’s not here.”

  “Damn him!” Carrie shouted, collapsing back in the wicker chair. “Where is he?”

  “He didn’t say where he was going. He’s only been back a few days. Have you ever had a best friend, Detective Santero? I lost mine. For a long time. It’s funny, but the second he came walking up to my door, it was like he’d never left. I guess he’s changed a lot since we were kids, and he’s sure been through hell, but having him here is like having part of myself come back. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah,” Carrie said. “It certainly does.”

  “He talks about you, you know?” Adam said.

  “Is that right?”

  “He says you’re good. Better than he’s seen in a long time, even if you’re still young. He told me you’d find me, and then you’d know what to do. And here you are. So, let me ask, do you know what to do?”

  Carrie groaned in frustration, smacking her fist on the notepad. “Why does everything have to be a goddamn riddle? Why couldn’t he just talk to me and tell me what the hell is
going on so I’m not running around in circles trying to solve a cold case nobody else seems to give a shit about?”

  “There’s no riddle,” Adam said. “J.D.—sorry—Jacob, said he can’t get involved in the investigation.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because he didn’t want to taint it. His family was neck deep in this case and all that came afterward. Plus, with all the trouble he’s had over the past few years, I guess he figures it’s better that he stays away. He’s relying on you to get there on your own.”

  “I can see why you two get along,” Carrie said, setting her notepad on her lap once more. “You’re a cryptic pain in the ass, just like he is. All right. Let’s get to it, then.”

  Adam grinned. “I always wanted to get interrogated by a beautiful lady detective. I wonder if there’s any rough stuff involved.”

  “Don’t get excited, pal,” Carrie said, chuckling. “One old pain in the ass in my life is enough. So tell me, what don’t I know about Hope Pugh?”

  “There was an older boy,” Adam said. “We had some trouble with him. He was pretty mean to us. Hope embarrassed him in front of the whole school, and after that, she went missing.”

  “An older boy,” Carrie said, writing it down. “And after all these years, you never said anything about him to anyone?”

  “No one ever asked,” Adam said. “No one cared.”

  Carrie tapped her pen against the notepad and leaned her head back against the chair. “I’ve got no witnesses. Shitty forensics. Antique crime scene photographs. Pieces of a skeleton for a victim. And the only person you can think of who might be a suspect was the schoolyard bully? This case blows, man, it really does.”

  “Yeah,” Adam said, folding his hands across his chest. “Jacob said to tell you that if it’s too much for you, you can always call Harv Bender.”

  Carrie turned in the chair to look at him. “I’d deck you for saying that if I thought you knew what you were saying, cast or no cast.”

  Adam laughed. “He told me to duck right after I said that.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Carrie sat in her car at the far back of the parking lot, tapping her fingernail against the window glass. She had the police radio turned down to a whisper, just in case anyone walked close. It was dark, and that was good. The vehicle they were looking for wasn’t in the parking lot, and that was good, too. She wanted to see the man before she had to go inside. The speaker mounted under her dashboard hummed to life, and Steve Auburn said, “Target vehicle turning in now. You’ll have the eye.”

  Carrie raised the binoculars sitting in her lap and watched the large silver Cadillac with tinted windows and chrome rims pull in. It headed toward the back of the lot, not far from her, and Carrie sunk down in her seat. When she popped her head back up, the Cadillac was parked on the line between two spots, taking them both up. Carrie muttered, “What a douche.”

  Fred Eubanks exited the vehicle and headed for the bar’s rear door. Carrie clicked the microphone’s button. “I’ve got eyes on target.”

  Steve Auburn’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Copy that.”

  The disdain in Auburn’s voice was mild, but present. It had been present ever since Carrie had pointed to Eubanks in the yearbook at the station and said, “That’s our guy.”

  “Fred Eubanks,” Auburn had said. “The insurance agent. Sponsor of the Little League team that won the regional championship two years ago. Jesus Christ, Carrie, he paid for the party when I got sworn in as chief. He’s on the school board, the Rotary Club, everything. That’s who you want to accuse of raping and murdering Hope Pugh? Why, because he was mean to a couple geeks when he was a kid?”

  “So he grew up and became respectable,” Carrie had said, looking at Eubanks’s yearbook photo. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.”

  Carrie looked at the clock on the dash. She wanted to give him time to get a drink or two down to loosen him up. She pulled down the visor and slid the mirror panel back, pressing her lips together to coat them bright red with the most expensive lipstick she could find at the local drugstore. She tore the mascara packaging open and did her eyelashes next, drawing them out thick and long. When she finished, she turned her head to look at herself in the mirror from either side. It wasn’t an expert job, by any means, but it would do.

  She picked up the radio again. “You’re sure I’m good to go?”

  “It’s all taken care of,” Auburn replied. “Just walk on in like you own the place.”

  The problem was her gun. She had no way to conceal it without keeping on her coat, and no way to keep on her coat and still accomplish the mission. She pulled it out of her holster and thought about trying to squeeze it into her purse or pocket, but that was a no-go. Glocks are good combat weapons because they can take a lot of abuse and still fire, but the damn things have no safety. The gun was more likely to go off accidentally than it was to be of use when she really needed it.

  “Here I go, doing something stupid,” she said aloud as she undid her belt and slid the holster off. She stuck the gun back inside the holster and dropped it into the car’s glove box, along with her purse. “Rookie Female Detective Gets Taken Hostage by Suspected Child Murderer,” she said, picturing it printed on a newspaper page hanging outside of Harv Bender’s office. “That’s gonna look great.”

  She picked up the microphone and clicked it, saying, “Going inside now. I’ll be off radio.”

  “Roger that,” Auburn said.

  Carrie hung up the microphone and reached in for a pack of gum in the coffee holder. She stuck a piece in her mouth and slid the rest into her pocket and got out. It was time to go inside.

  She opened the door to the bar and was hit by the stench of disinfectant and dirty water from a mop and bucket parked near the entrance. Dull rock music played on the jukebox in the corner. Midtempo garbage, but the people playing pool in the corner bobbed their heads to it anyway. She caught glances right away as the door closed behind her. Men and women alike, sizing her up. Carrie worked her way past the row of booths and around the pool table, getting a good look at where Fred Eubanks was sitting.

  Eubanks leaned over his drink at the bar, stirring it with a small plastic sabre. He looked older than his driver’s license photo, with thinning black hair and sagging jowls. He was bigger than she’d expected. Large hands, and thick, hairy wrists.

  Carrie went behind the bar. She waved to the bartender and said, “Hey, I’m Carrie. Are you Paul?”

  The bartender picked up a towel and wiped his hands. “You the new girl?”

  “That’s right. I’m supposed to hang out with you for an hour, see how things are done.”

  “What drinks do you know how to make?”

  “Does rum and Coke count?” she asked. “Vodka and cran. Pretty much anything you just have to pour together.”

  “Just watch and learn,” Paul said. He tapped the bar to get Eubanks’s attention. “You want another drink, Fred?”

  “I’m good, thanks. Need to get home a little early tonight,” Eubanks said, not looking up. His drink was almost done.

  “Give me a shout when you’re ready to go,” Paul said, heading down to the other end of the bar to check on the rest of the customers.

  “How about a beer for the road?” Carrie asked. “Liquor before beer, never fear, isn’t that what they say?”

  Eubanks declined. “I’ll cash out.”

  “Sure thing,” Carrie said. “Let me go get your check.”

  She hurried across the bar to where Paul was filling two glasses of beer and pressed close to him. “Go in the back.”

  “What do you mean? I have customers,” he whispered. “Steve said this wouldn’t interfere with anything.”

  “Get your ass in the back and don’t come out until I tell you to,” she said, pulling the half-filled glasses out of his hands.

  Paul tried to protest but Carrie grabbed him by the arm and shoved him through the double doors into the kitchen. She picked up
the two half-filled glasses of beer and set them in front of the customers. “Something’s wrong with the taps,” she said. “These are on the house.”

  She returned to Eubanks and said, “It’s going to be a few minutes. There’s a problem in the back.”

  “It’s always something in this place,” Eubanks said. He peeled a twenty-dollar bill off a roll as thick as a tennis ball and tossed it on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  “Wait!” Carrie said, slapping her hand down on top of the bill. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?” Eubanks scowled.

  “I’m not allowed to accept money yet,” she improvised. “They told me that when I started. Listen, just wait a few minutes for Paul to come back, okay? Hang out with me. I don’t know anybody here.”

  “There’s hardly anybody worth knowing in here,” Eubanks said. He slid back into the bar stool and checked the time on his watch.

  “I guess people in this town would rather play pool than drink,” Carrie said. There were two people at the other end of the bar and a small group gathered around the pool tables. The only other person was sitting by himself in a booth, resting his head on the table, covering his face with the hood of his sweatshirt.

  She picked up Eubanks’s empty drink and realized she had no idea what to do with it. She dumped the ice cubes in the nearest trash can and dropped the glass in the sink, splattering herself with soapy water.

  “Have you ever worked in a bar before?” Eubanks asked, watching her.

  “It’s that obvious?” Carrie said, wiping her hands on her pant legs.

  “You’re a pretty young girl. Even if you don’t have any idea what you’re doing, you’ll still make more money in a single night than Paul does in a week. Especially if you wear something low cut.”

  “Well, I’d like to just make enough money to pay my student loans,” she said.

  “Tell me about it,” Eubanks said. “My little girl’s about to graduate next year. With the way my wife spends, we won’t be able to afford community college.”

  “Hey,” Carrie said, “as a special thank-you for being so patient, let me make you something.”