Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  All at once, Herb felt deeply lonely.

  That night, he couldn’t sleep. He sat in the dark living room by himself and uncapped a bottle of whiskey. The first swigs felt like a warm ball in his stomach, radiating out to the rest of his body. After its calming effects took hold, he began to reassess his life, the confusing and the painful events of his past.

  To his surprise, he found himself weeping out of loneliness, the tribulation he had been made to face as a child and how little the years since then had brought him peace.

  For a moment, he was a boy again, terrified of his father, intimidated by the outside world, convinced he was the failure he had been so often told he was. Pieces of memory rode across his mind—a frightened little boy hiding in the closet of his bedroom to escape the booming voice of his father’s rage; a bloodied little boy, struggling to pull himself into bed; a tearful little boy holding the body of his dog as the last of its life twitched away. Yards away, his father standing with a rifle cradled in his arms.

  Herb remembered a boy in elementary school who always kept his shirtsleeves rolled down so no one could see the bruises. Shy, distant, avoiding contact with his classmates, ignorant teachers thought he was mentally challenged.

  Shutting his eyes, he tried to drive out the images. As he tipped the bottle to his lips again, he recalled the little boy sitting in his bed one night. His mother sat beside him. In the dim glow of a bedside lamp, her face looked drawn, sad. It was the booze, she tried to explain, that turned his father into another man—menacing, hateful, violent.

  Sober, his father was cold, resorting only to derisive remarks or shunning his son and wife by burying himself in the duties of the farm. But there was never any physical abuse.

  Drunk, the man became a nightmare who unleashed his fury by pummeling his son until he tired.

  Herb put down the bottle of whiskey, ashamed at his feelings of powerlessness. He had risen from the depths of adversity many years ago. Now, he would have to do it again. His deepest fear, he realized, was the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

  What do I do now?

  Then he thought of Slick’s offer.

  I can’t do that. Or can I? What the hell do I have to lose at this point?

  Herb was drunk. He knew it. He could feel the whiskey’s glow in his face, the dampness on his forehead. Awkwardly, he reached for the lamp, snapped it on. Then, pushing off the arm of the chair, he rose on his unsteady legs. He crossed the living room, weaving as he went, until he reached the closet by the front door. On an overhead shelf inside was a small box. Herb brought it down and opened it. Inside was an attractive hunting knife. Nothing more.

  Hands shaking, he unsheathed the knife. Through his drunken haze, he admired the drop point blade and black Micarta handle with nickel silver butt and guard.

  “It’s immoral what the fucking government did to you.”

  Herb shut his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head.

  “That little guy is you, pal. They used you…”

  He staggered to the phone and called Slick.

  “Is that offer still open?” Herb asked.

  “It sure is, pal.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  A pause. “What changed your mind?”

  Herb stared at the knife in his other hand. “I need the money.”

  “And the money is good,” Slick said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow with details on your first job. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it might seem.”

  * * *

  Herb opened his eyes and shook his head, overwhelmed by guilt.

  What have I done?

  There was a movement on the road ahead. A black car was approaching, moving slowly over the soggy road, swerving occasionally to avoid potholes filled with rainwater. It stopped across the road from him.

  Herb picked up the envelope from the seat and stepped out, hurrying through the rain to the passenger door of the car. As Herb got in, Slick looked around him with a curious expression on his face.

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get it.” Herb handed him the envelope. “Sorry, man. I’m out.”

  “That head was worth a lot of money, pal.”

  Herb shut his eyes, saying nothing.

  “Fuck,” Slick said. “That means I’ll have to get it from my job. Why the change of heart? You had no trouble getting the other parts.”

  Herb looked out the side window, staring at the rain dripping from the branches of trees. “This was different.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know.” Herb winced. “I was there, but couldn’t do it.”

  Pausing a moment, Slick counted through the money inside the envelope, as if to make sure it was all there.

  “I’m afraid you might crack.”

  “Don’t worry.” Herb turned to him. “I won’t run to the police, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m in this as deep as you are.”

  Slick tucked the envelope into his pocket. “I’m disappointed, pal. Business is picking up and we could’ve used your help.”

  His cell phone rang. Herb watched Slick listening to someone on the other end.

  “Ok,” he said. “Hold on a sec.”

  Slick reached past Herb’s knees and opened the glove box and retrieved a pen and a blue-covered notebook. He opened it to a blank page.

  “Ok, go ahead.” He scribbled with his pen. “Got it. I have that other job tonight, but I’ll get to this one over the weekend.”

  He hung up and put the cell phone away.

  “Who was that?” Herb asked.

  “The boss,” Slick said, holding up the notebook. “Location of my next job.”

  As Herb looked at the name on the page, a sudden image flashed in his mind—a gaunt young woman sitting behind a birthday cake with her thumb raised in the air.

  On the page, Slick had written:

  Dartmouth Memorial Gardens

  Cathy Ambré

  41

  Acresville, May 21

  12:02 p.m.

  It was no act of murder, but it filled Allan with a revulsion that equaled his sense of foreboding. A light rain pattered steadily against the hood of his raincoat as he stared down at the desecrated grave of Hector J. Walsh.

  What the hell is going on here?

  He glanced around the dreary landscape. Nearby, David and Sam talked quietly to the cemetery’s caretaker. His name was Jack Greer, a squat, chubby man of fifty who was balding on top. The rain had pressed his remaining hair flat to his head. He wore dark work pants and a flannel jacket, no hood.

  Allan watched them for a moment. Then he focused his attention on a mound of sod heaped to one side of the grave. Lips pursed, he stared at it.

  Our guy? Has to be. Did he actually dig it up or just made it look that way?

  That question, Allan knew, would have to be answered. He slowly shook his head, absorbing the task in front of them.

  Four boot impressions were in the topsoil where the sod had been. He knelt to one knee for a better look. Two, he saw, had clear details of the sole and heel design; the other two contained a small amount of standing water. From their general characteristics, they all appeared to have been made by the same pair of boots.

  Allan reached into a pocket of his raincoat and produced his spiral. On a blank page, he wrote down his time of arrival, the address of the scene, those present and the weather conditions.

  “Lieutenant.” Someone shouted out.

  Allan saw David coming over.

  “Do you need to speak to Mister Greer?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  David motioned the caretaker to join them. As he approached, Allan’s gaze drifted to the man’s boots, to the mud that rimmed their soles. Inwardly, he winced.

  Let me guess.

  Without ceremony Greer spoke first, “Fuckin’ kids, I tell ya.”

  Allan shot him a quizzical look. “Pardon me?”

  Greer leveled a pudgy finger at the grave. “This,” he expl
ained in a tone laced with anger and disgust. “Last year, they kicked over headstones. Tossed flowers around. They even sprayed graffiti on the wall outside. This year they’re messing up graves.”

  Allan appraised him for a moment and then turned to another page in his spiral.

  “Was the front gate locked when you got here this morning?” he asked.

  Greer nodded his double chins. “Yeah.”

  Allan scribbled down the details. On the dampening paper, the ink was barely taking.

  “Did you check for any other desecrations?”

  “Yeah. This was the only one touched.”

  Looking around, Allan tried to gauge the size of the cemetery. It was large, he realized.

  “You checked everywhere?” he prodded Greer.

  Another nod. “I did. Since those incidents last year, I do a quick walkabout every morning after I open up. Damn kids.” Palms out, Greer gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “I don’t understand it. What’s the attraction? You gotta be sick in the head to do stuff like this.”

  Allan closed his spiral, the page too wet to write on. He had written very little anyhow.

  “There are a lot of idiots out there,” he said. “You quickly realize that in my line of work. Vandalism reflects the attitude of the group of people committing it.” With his pen, he pointed to the man’s feet. “Can I see the bottoms of your boots, please?”

  A guarded look came across Greer’s face. “What for?”

  Allan showed him the impressions in the topsoil.

  “Those belong to me,” Greer explained with a trace of apology in his tone. “I removed the sod when I noticed the lumps under.” He turned, lifted one foot, then the other. “See?”

  At once Allan noted the similarities in the sole design. Disappointed, he let out a sigh.

  I knew it.

  “The sod was in place when you got here?”

  “Yeah, like someone tried to cover the mess they made.”

  Allan paused, thinking a moment.

  After being so careful with the murders, he leaves the grave like it’s been filled with haste. Why? Intentional or was he interrupted by something?

  “When was the burial?” he asked finally.

  “Wednesday morning.”

  Allan scratched his chin.

  Buried Wednesday, desecrated on Thursday. Did he know Walsh or his family?

  “Thank you,” he said. “That’ll be all for now.”

  Greer wiped rain from his face. Then without another word, he turned and left. Several yards away, Allan heard him mutter under his breath, “Fuckin’ kids.”

  As Greer disappeared down the slope of the closest hill, David looked to Allan.

  “I don’t believe kids did this,” he said.

  Allan lifted his face to the sky, blinking against the raindrops coming down. “Me either.”

  “If it is him, he just told us that he’s still in the area.”

  Allan detected an edge in David’s voice. Despairingly, he felt David’s burden as his own. Though never spoken, Allan could sense the attitude of other officers in the Acresville department. All hope seemed to be on him to solve the Baker murder.

  “That he did,” he said.

  “Why would he do this?” asked Sam.

  Allan shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Face troubled, David stared into some void. “You know what this forces us to do.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Allan. “We need an exhumation.”

  “The Department of Health won’t allow it in this rain.”

  “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” said Allan. “The rain is supposed to let up this afternoon.”

  “I’ll call Fitzgerald to get everything lined up.”

  “We should get the funeral register book. Run the names through the computer.”

  David’s eyes narrowed into a speculative gaze. “You think this man was at Walsh’s funeral?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Allan paused, amassing his thoughts. “Did he just pick this grave by chance? We should also see if the obituary said where Mister Walsh was going to be buried.”

  “I’ll take care of all that,” David said, and left the scene.

  James Bentley arrived and held a briefing with Allan and Sam. The men exchanged concerns about the weather. Everyone agreed that the rain was going to hamper the investigation. The topsoil in the grave had already turned to mud. To safeguard against further damage, they pitched an awning over it.

  Sam took up post at the front gates of the cemetery. Only authorized personnel would be allowed past him. There would be no visits granted to loved ones.

  Allan retrieved his camera from his car and photographed the scene at varying distances and directions. James moved around and then out from the gravesite with a metal detector. When he didn’t find any evidence, he switched his search to the stone wall where the perpetrator’s likely point of entry and exit had been. Allan helped him.

  By mid-afternoon, the rain had become sporadic—moments of showers interrupted by lulls. Surrounded by it for so many hours, Allan felt the dampness beginning to seep into his bones. He needed to sit. He needed to eat. Already the day seemed too long.

  His cell phone rang. It was David.

  “I have some information,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “Hector Walsh and his wife lived in Fall River for the past twenty years. They’re originally from Acresville, and bought the plots at Rolling Hills when they lived here.

  “The family held a graveside service on Wednesday morning. Apparently Mister Walsh never wanted a funeral. He said they were too expensive.”

  “Who was at the service?”

  “Only his family and a few close friends.”

  “Have you seen the obituary?”

  “I have. There was one in the Gazette and the Herald. They were identical and never mentioned where the burial would take place.”

  Allan exhaled. “Thank you.”

  Hanging up, he shook his head, confused and frustrated.

  And the mystery deepens.

  42

  Acresville, May 22

  10:30 a.m.

  “History is marred with accounts of grave robberies,” said Fitzgerald. “During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, your final resting place wasn’t necessarily your final resting place.”

  Crossing his arms, Allan watched a fluffy cloud drift by in the rich blue of morning sky. “Uh-huh.”

  They stood several feet away from the gravesite as James Bentley prepared for the exhumation of Hector Walsh. After choosing a datum point, he divided the top of the grave into grids using lengths of string tied to metal stakes driven into the ground. Sam documented everything with photographs.

  Two other people were at the site—Jack Greer, who sat inside a backhoe and a man from the Department of Health who made sure proper protocol was being followed. Everyone present had to be dressed in full protective gear—Tyvek coveralls, gloves, goggles, masks and safety boots.

  “Resurrection men used to steal entire corpses,” Fitzgerald continued. “Some of the men were actually surgeons and medical students who wanted the bodies to dissect and study. Others were simply profiteers who sold the bodies to medical schools.

  “They used to target fresh graves. Not only because the soil would be easier to dig, but the body would be in better shape.”

  “Good thing we have willing donors nowadays,” Allan said.

  Fitzgerald laughed. “Yeah, isn’t that the truth? I don’t condone what they did back then, but the practice lead to many advancements in the field of anatomy.”

  Allan raised his eyebrows. “I bet. Sick way to do it.”

  He watched James removing the top layer of soil from the grave and dumping it into buckets lined up on the edge. After he filled each one, he lugged them to the wet sieving area he’d assembled nearby. There he spread the soil over a box sifter and hand checked it first. Then he used water to separate the
soggy dirt from any articles it contained—nothing but pebbles and rocks.

  The old soil from the grave would be trucked away; new soil would be used in the reburial.

  When James got several feet down, he had Sam help him install wooden shoring along the walls of the hole to prevent a cave-in. His coveralls were caked with mud and sweat dampened his forehead.

  Allan’s cell phone rang, breaking his focus on the activity around him. He turned away, pulling the mask below his chin.

  “How’s everything going?” David asked him.

  “They’re making headways.”

  “How much longer do you think it’ll be?”

  “Should be soon.” Reflexively, Allan looked at his watch—12:53. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  There was an intake of breath. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Allan snapped his phone shut.

  He’s worried.

  Without the mask, he could smell the damp earth and rotting leaves. He positioned it back over his nose again and walked toward the edge of the grave, peering down with an anxious sigh.

  Time, he realized, was fast becoming his enemy. He had no evidence. No leads. No suspects. Simply nothing. Now the killer might’ve robbed a grave right under his nose.

  James continued removing soil by the bucket full, and soon the contoured shape of the casket began to appear. He eased forward onto his knees, brushing the dirt off the top with his gloved hands.

  “We have something, Lieutenant,” he called up.

  Allan crouched for a better look. “What is it?”

  James leaned back and pointed to a crescent-shaped indentation in the lower lid of the casket.

  “Looks like the tip of a shovel got stuck here,” he said. “Round point shovel, I’d say.”

  Allan felt tightness in his chest.

  “Have the lids been tampered with?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

  James reached down and gave the lid a gentle tug. “Lower one’s secure.”

  He maneuvered around and tried the upper lid. For a moment, he became still. Then he leaned over and dug out the soil several inches below the edge of the lid, examining something very closely. Allan looked on in suspense.