Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “What’d you find?” he asked.

  “There are pry marks on the underside of the lid,” James answered without raising his head.

  Allan breathed in once, closing his eyes.

  What’d he steal?

  Allan wasn’t sure that he wanted to learn the answer.

  Fitzgerald walked over to him.

  “Is it what we were fearing?” he asked.

  Allan rose to his feet, his voice quiet as he said, “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”

  Within half an hour, James had dug out the soil around the perimeter of the casket. He gave Greer the signal to bring over the backhoe and then slung heavy straps around both ends of the casket. As the bucket of the backhoe was lowered over the grave, James secured the other ends of the straps to the arm behind it.

  He climbed from the hole and gave the signal with his thumb. “Take it up.”

  Working the levers, Greer slowly and carefully brought the casket out of the ground and lowered onto the bed of a trailer he had attached to his lawn tractor nearby. After James undid the straps, Greer shut off the backhoe and jumped onto the tractor, starting it up.

  Allan and Fitzgerald followed him out to the front entrance, where the three men loaded the casket into the back of the coroner’s van. Fitzgerald closed the doors and walked around to the driver’s door.

  “See you at the morgue.”

  As Allan drove behind him toward Acresville, his cell phone rang again. He pulled off the shoulder of the road and answered. It was the serology department at the forensic lab in Halifax.

  “I have some results for you, Lieutenant,” a female’s voice told him.

  Allan tensed with anticipation. “Go ahead, please.”

  “Trixy Ambré’s blood is a match to the samples taken from the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf on May ninth.”

  Even though it was something he’d suspected, hearing the confirmation still gave him pause.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “Thank you for the info.”

  Hanging up, he sat there for a moment, thinking about Trixy’s murder.

  “Miss Ambré was struck with a blunt, cylindrical instrument. I found a single impact injury to the side of her head. When I examined the skull, I found a linear fracture in the temporal region.”

  “Was the blow hard enough to cause death?”

  Coulter shook his head. “Varying levels of unconsciousness, yes. But not death.”

  Allan pulled his car back onto the road to find Fitzgerald long gone.

  Trixy must’ve been knocked unconsciousness in the Impark lot, Allan thought. Carried to the wharf and had her eyes removed there before being disposed into the harbor? That would explain the larger blood pool at the end of the wharf.

  Allan arrived at the morgue ten minutes after Fitzgerald. He waited in the anteroom while the coroner inspected the body. When at last he came in, there was a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Well, I have good news,” he said. “The body is intact.”

  “What?”

  Fitzgerald paused. “You seem disappointed.”

  Allan spread his hands. “More surprised than anything. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. There is something I want to show you.” Fitzgerald led him into the autopsy room.

  The pallid, gaunt body of an elderly man lay on the stainless steel dissection table. His clothes and a bible were set out on the counter.

  “Mister Walsh was autopsied,” Fitzgerald said, indicating the stitched-up Y-incision in the man’s torso. “It wasn’t me who did it.”

  Allan walked over. “He was from Fall River. Coulter would’ve been the one.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “No,” Allan said.

  “This is strange.”

  “I know.”

  Allan gave the body a quick appraisal, thanked Fitzgerald, and then left. In the hallway outside the autopsy room, he took out his pen and spiral. He opened to a blank page and wrote:

  1. Didn’t take anything. Why?

  2. Taunt?

  3. Motivated by some ghoulish curiosity?

  4. Cold feet?

  5. A statement? He knows the information about the missing body parts was kept out of the papers.

  Allan closed the spiral with a snap. He called David and told him of the discovery. For a moment, the Chief was quiet on the other end.

  “I don’t understand,” David said. “Why go through all that work?”

  “Who knows? Only he can answer that.”

  “James is going to see if he can lift any prints from the casket. Mister Walsh will be reburied in a new one.”

  “Have him cast the tool marks as well.”

  “I will. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  When Allan hung up, he placed another call to Coulter’s office. Lawrence Sodero answered.

  “Hello, Lawrence. Can I speak to the Doctor, please?”

  “Lieutenant Stanton. Hang on a sec.”

  Within moments, Coulter came on the line. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “Hector Walsh,” Allan said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Walsh?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you perform an autopsy on him?”

  A pause. “Yes, I did. Last Sunday. Why do you ask?”

  Allan told him about the desecration, about the subsequent exhumation.

  “Mister Walsh passed away in his sleep,” Coulter told him. “His wife couldn’t wake him up on Saturday morning. That’s how he ended up with me—to see what he died from.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “I see.”

  “Why are you in Acresville for that?”

  “I’ve been here since Wednesday,” said Allan. “I’ll tell you, but this doesn’t leave our discussion?”

  “I understand, Lieutenant.”

  “The homeless man who was murdered here was missing his hands.”

  Coulter paused again. “And you think that case is related to Trixy Ambré? Because of the eyes?”

  “I do.”

  “I can see why you would. How does the grave desecration fit in?”

  A third pause. “I’m not sure. There weren’t any parts taken from the body.”

  “Well, I wish you all the best in your investigation.”

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  “Anytime, Lieutenant.”

  Allan walked outside to the parking lot and climbed into his car. He rested his head on the steering wheel. He felt tired and troubled.

  What am I not seeing? he wondered. What the hell is this man up to?

  43

  Acresville, May 23

  9:35 a.m.

  When the phone rang, Herb was sitting on the sofa with a half-emptied glass of whiskey in hand. The wall clock showed 9:35 a.m.

  Who the hell is that? he wondered.

  He decided to ignore it. Probably a wrong number or those annoying telemarketers trying to bum money.

  Two rings. Three. At four, the answering machine kicked in. Through its speaker came Slick’s voice. Slowly, Herb turned his head toward it.

  “Hey, pal. I need to see you.” There was a mix of urgency and edginess in his friend’s tone. “When you get this, call me right back. It’s important.”

  The answering machine clicked off. Herb downed the last of the whiskey in one gulp.

  What does he want?

  He got up and dialed Slick’s number. “What is it, man?”

  “We need to meet.” Slick seemed different somehow. “Now.”

  “What’s this about?”

  A pause. In the brief silence, the connection seemed to fade in and out. Herb imagined his friend talking on his cell while driving in his car.

  “Something’s come up,” Slick told him. “It’s important that I see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Not on the phone. Meet me where we always do. In half an hour.”

 
With that, Slick hung up. Herb released a heavy sigh as he put the phone down. He was puzzled. What was going on?

  He went to the kitchen counter and opened the linen drawer. After moving aside a small pile of dishtowels, he stared down at the revolver and then, taking a deep breath, he pulled it out. The gun was as he’d always left it, loaded and ready to use.

  Herb felt foolish taking it with him whenever he met Slick; they were friends after all. Yet with everything that happened to him these past few weeks—the loss of his farm, the start of that twisted job—his paranoia and mistrust of people seemed to have only gotten worse.

  He shoved the revolver in the back of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. 10 o’clock.

  He drove to the forest service road on the outskirts of town. As he turned onto it, he saw fresh tire marks in the dirt ahead. He wondered if Slick had beaten him here.

  A quarter of a mile in and there was no sign of him. Perhaps some forestry workers or even a Natural Resources officer had come through. At some point, they would have to return. This had better be quick.

  Herb turned around at the meeting spot and cut the engine. While waiting, he rolled down the window. He leaned his head back against the rest and shut his eyes, breathing in the pleasant smell of pine and spruce. In the trees around him, came the sounds of birds singing. Further away, somewhere on the mountainside, he could hear the faint buzz of chainsaws.

  He opened his eyes at the rumble of an engine. Through the windshield, he watched Slick drive slowly toward him. Unlike the previous times they met, he didn’t pull up next to Herb. Instead, he parked on the other side of the road several yards away. Herb knew something was wrong.

  A few moments passed. Behind the wheel of his car, Slick watched Herb, but made no gesture for him to come over.

  After checking the road behind him, Herb slipped out of the truck. As he shut the door, Slick emerged from his car. Right away, Herb noticed his tight-muscled walk and heavy-lidded stare. Slick’s right hand was tucked away in the pocket of a black leather jacket that seemed inappropriate for the weather.

  Without preface, Slick said, “Tell me where you got those eyes and hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Just tell me where you got them.”

  Herb paused a moment, trying to remember the name on the paper that Slick gave him prior to starting his first job.

  “Cecil Whytewood,” he answered at last.

  “You’re lying,” Slick snapped.

  Herb felt a spurt of anger. “Watch your tone with me, man. If you want to go out there and dig up the grave to find out for yourself, be my guest.”

  Slick stepped back. His hand remained in his pocket.

  “And what if I did? Would I find all his parts still there?”

  “What the fuck are you getting at?”

  “You never went anywhere near Whytewood’s grave,” Slick told him. “I just heard from a reliable source that the hooker they pulled from the Halifax harbor last week was missing her fucking eyes. And that park vagrant murdered right here in Acresville was missing his hands. That’s where you got those body parts. From them.”

  Herb swallowed. He watched Slick’s eyes searching his face with quick, nervous movements.

  Keep calm.

  “Who said?” he asked.

  “The man I work for,” Slick spat. “Like you, I’m just the hired help. He told me the cops are getting close. They found the Walsh grave you dug up and connected it to those murders.”

  Heart racing, Herb tried to fight back a wave of panic. He knew accepting this job had been a mistake. There were no adequate reasons to justify his actions—he’d murdered three people. Partly out of revenge, partly out of a wish to redirect his pain back on the world.

  Now life behind bars awaited him. Caged like an animal. Trapped alongside lowlifes and sodomites. In the newspapers, on the television, everyone would call him a murderer, a madman. That would be his only lasting legacy. How had he let this happen?

  Slick took another step back. “Tell me you never killed those people.”

  Sweat dampened Herb’s forehead. He opened his mouth, but found he couldn’t answer. Slick gaped at having his suspicions confirmed.

  “Fuck, what’ve you done?”

  Herb lowered his gaze and swallowed.

  For a moment, he didn’t want to let her go. Somehow he felt peculiarly united with this woman. She, like himself, had been a victim of life’s misfortunes.

  He shut his eyes tightly.

  I’m sorry.

  Then with a rush of power, he hurled her into the water.

  Herb flinched. Unbidden, another memory came to mind.

  As Herb reached in and yanked the vagrant out by the lapel of his trench coat, the poor man blanched.

  A tremor carried his words, “Whaddya doin?”

  Silent, Herb hauled him to the front of the truck and pressed him against the grille with terrible strength. Through the vagrant’s trench coat, he could feel the man’s thumping heartbeat, strangely mimicking Herb’s own racing pulse. His fingers tightened on the knife hidden behind his leg.

  “Forgive me, friend,” he whispered. “On Monday you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time in my life.”

  He watched the vagrant’s Adam’s apple move in one convulsive swallow, watched his eyes widen as confusion gave way to terror.

  “Buddy,” the vagrant murmured.

  Herb bit down on his lip, fighting back a sudden rush of emotion. With great reluctance, he raised his head to look Slick straight in the face.

  In a voice laced with regret and humiliation, he said, “The less you know, the better.”

  Slick blinked. “Have you gone fucking crazy? You killed two people?”

  You don’t know the half of it, Herb thought.

  “And what you asked me to do is somehow more acceptable?”

  An expression of incredulity crept across Slick’s face. “Murder was never part of the job.” He winced as if his head hurt. “I never thought you’d be capable of something like this. What the fuck happened to you, pal?”

  Herb shot him a look of marvel. “What happened to me? What happened to us, Slick? When you were a kid, is this how you saw yourself? Look at all the things you’ve done in your life, man. What you’re involved in right now. Had you always wanted to be a career criminal?”

  “No,” Slick hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t put this back on me. Murder is much worse. I am who I am. You know that. How can you even compare what you’ve done to what I’m doing? You knew beforehand what this job involved. I didn’t twist your arm to take it.”

  Herb could see the sense of betrayal that had spurred this venomous anger in Slick. How many times, he wondered, had he stared into this same face and questioned this man’s unlawful behavior? The shoplifting. The robberies. The drug dealing. All of it committed as if it were second nature.

  “There’s no reason for my behavior.” His voice fell off. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I’m not the man you thought I was.”

  Slick frowned. “You should’ve gotten the fuck out of Acresville years ago and away from that farm.”

  “I know that.”

  “Two people are dead because of you. And now I’m involved. There’s no way I’m going to jail for this. I was part of a lucrative little business here. Now, you’ve fucked everything up. I should’ve never tried to help you out.”

  In spite of himself, Herb smiled. “I guess I should’ve thanked you for such a great job offer.”

  Slick paused a moment. When he spoke again, his voice took on a bitter calm. “You’ve become a liability to us, pal.”

  Those words stopped Herb. Quiet, he watched the comprehension of Slick’s own exposure and subsequent prosecution begin to overpower him. He saw something change in his eyes. They became cold, calculating.

  “Sorry, but I have to fix this problem now.”

  Jaw clenched, Slick took one step backwa
rd, then another. As he withdrew his hand from the pocket, Herb froze at the sight of a black pistol.

  “What are you doing, man?” Despite his best efforts, he detected the tremor in his own voice. “You going to shoot me now?”

  Eyes moist, Slick raised the gun. “Yes.”

  Instinctively, Herb put up his hands. The reality of a loaded weapon aimed at his chest jolted him. He could feel his pulse racing. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

  Around him, the world went still and silent. What he saw was an intense and painful image from his past—a frightened little boy lying face down in the grass of his backyard, his breath coming in harsh gasps. At any moment, the boy expected to feel the hard jab of his father’s rifle barrel against his head.

  Now, years later, the man that boy had become, wondered once more what it would be like to be shot.

  A sudden click pulled Herb from his reverie. Focusing again on the man before him, he realized Slick had cocked the pistol’s hammer.

  “So this is how’s it going to end,” he muttered. “At the hands of my only friend.”

  Anguish began to fill Slick’s face. “Sorry, but I’m not going down for this. My mistake was ever offering you that job.”

  “No. It was my mistake for ever accepting it.”

  Watching the gun, Herb saw it begin to tremble. Six feet, he estimated, separated the two men. He tried to summon the courage to make a lunge for the pistol. Could he manage to reach it before it went off?

  He unlocked his knees, inched one foot forward.

  “You know, Slick,” he said softly. “When you left that night, I could’ve easily phoned the police and told them what you were doing. But I didn’t. You must’ve had some trust in me then.”

  “I did. But like you said, you’re not the man I thought you were.”

  In the tense silence, Herb reined in his thoughts. He looked past the gun now to the man holding it.

  “Do you really want my death on your conscience?” he asked.

  He saw that his question seemed to give Slick pause. Briefly, the purpose left his friend’s eyes, replaced by the hesitance of someone facing doubts. Herb wondered if he was seeing the first chink. He decided to take it a step further.