Swope's Ridge

by Ace Collins

  “This’d be so much easier if I hadn’t left Harlow at home,” Janie said. “Too many ticks and fleas out here. Besides, I have Lije as my guide today.” The blind woman slowly made her way along the newly cut path to join them.

  Jameson whispered to Lije, “Who’s Harlow?”

  “Her new guide dog.”

  “Oh, makes sense.”

  Lije went to work. The padlock was thick and his saw blade was old and dull. Sweat poured down his forehead and soaked his cotton shirt. He was almost ready to give up and ask McGee to take a shift when the ancient security device surrendered.

  Twisting it to the left to clear the clasp, Lije removed the lock and yanked on the door. It groaned, but didn’t move. A few tugs finally opened the metal entrance just enough so he could slide his body into the opening and shove the door from the inside. The door squealed and moaned, but finally yielded. Energized, Lije climbed up the stairs and into the old cabin. Curtis quickly pushed her way ahead of the others to join him.

  All signs of the bus’s former duty had been erased. The old seats were gone, replaced by a cook stove that vented out a hole cut in the roof. Nearby stood a small wooden desk and a metal folding chair, along with a metal cabinet and a tiny iron-framed bed minus its mattress. A few empty cans lay beside the stove.

  Lije opened the cabinet door. The shelves were bare. The desk beside the bed didn’t contain so much as a pencil or scrap of paper.

  Curtis wiped dust off the top of the cabinet. “Looks like Schleter simply cleaned out what he wanted after he finished the house.”

  “Not much of a home,” McGee said from the doorway. The others crowded in behind him.

  “It was temporary,” Lije said. “Just lived here during the months he was building the house. Kind of like camping out in a Depression-era RV.”

  “Wonder what happened to the old bus seats,” Heather said. Curtis pointed toward the rear. “Over there. He took them apart and stacked them in the back.”

  Lije walked over for a look. The sections had not so much been stacked as vertically arranged like books on a shelf, set on their sides and slid into place. Grabbing the seat back in the middle, he tried easing it out of its storage spot. It moved about six inches, then hung on something. He tugged several more times, but it wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t see what was holding it in place.

  “Anybody have a flashlight?”

  Curtis pulled a small but powerful Maglite from her pocket and pitched it his way. Lije caught it, dropped to his knees, and shined the beam at the floor of the old bus. “How do you like that.”

  “Got something?” McGee asked.

  “Yep, another big padlock.”

  Curtis leaned over Lije to see. “Looks like a trapdoor.”

  6

  MCGEE TOOK THE FIRST SHIFT CUTTING THROUGH THE huge padlock. “Can’t you shoot this thing?” he asked Curtis.

  “I could, but having a bullet ricochet in here is a sure way to get someone killed. Besides, seeing the great Kent McGee do physical labor is much more fun. I know some judges who’d pay big money to watch this.”

  McGee went back to work, but quickly gave out. Though Lije hated to admit it, he wasn’t used to this much physical exertion either. When he needed a break, Janie took over. The woman, who spent more time exercising each week than the two men combined worked out in a month, labored at a steady but unhurried pace. When she finished, she put the saw down. “It’s ready,” she announced as she pushed herself up off the metal floor.

  After pulling the lock off the door, Lije looked back at the group. “Do you think it’s another dead end?”

  “Everything else has been,” Curtis noted.

  Lije grabbed the clasp and pulled up on the lid. Even using both hands he managed to lift the heavy metal rectangle only a couple of inches. “Need some help here,” he groaned.

  The others moved in, positioning their hands on the metal slab.

  “On three,” Lije announced as he repositioned his hands to push rather than lift.

  “One…two…three! “

  The old trapdoor began to move, its metallic groans mixing with the labored breaths of the quintet. Finally it swung free, hitting against the back wall of the bus with a deafening clang.

  The hole beneath it gaped pitch black. Grabbing the Maglite, McGee gave everyone their first look at what their hard work had uncovered. Hidden beneath the bus was a crude rectangular wooden crate inside what appeared to be a concrete bunker. They could see no markings on the wood.

  “What do you make of it?” Heather asked.

  As if on cue, Curtis took the light from McGee, got down on her knees, and rapped on the crate. Moving her hand to a corner, she pushed it forward, causing a loud scraping sound as the crate slid about an inch. She leaned in closer and shined the light on a series of nails along the edges of the crate.

  As he watched the investigator work, Lije wondered if he was looking at the reason his wife was killed. Would this rough box explain the mystery of Swope’s Ridge? Was this the Arkansas version of King Tut’s tomb?

  “It’s not that heavy,” Curtis said as she tugged at the crate, shining the light down between the box and the concrete sides of the vault, “so we can forget about gold bars or other treasure the Nazis looted in Europe. It appears no one has pried it open since it was sealed. And we know by the brush and tree growth that this bus has been unmolested for decades, not something the old German used. So that makes me think it’s not filled with paper money either. Yet it must’ve meant something special to him at one time, seeing the effort he made to secure it—building the vault and hiding the hatch underneath the old seats. Might contain what Smith is looking for.”

  “Let’s get it out of here so we can open it up,” Lije said. “Diana, move out of the way. Kent, on the far end. I’ll get down here. If it isn’t that heavy, maybe the two of us can lift it out of the hole and carry it into the house.”

  Curtis had a suggestion. “Let’s leave it where it is and use a pry bar. Have you got one?”

  “In the Explorer. We’ll need a hammer too.”

  “Good,” Curtis said. “Let’s get a couple of lanterns from the house. I want a lot more light in this old bus.”

  Heather rushed out to get the tools and Curtis left to retrieve the lights. As they waited, Janie leaned against the old desk.

  “So is this it?” she asked.

  “Hope so,” Lije replied. “What do you think?

  “ “Describe things to me. Tell me what you see.”

  Janie listened intently as Lije painted a word picture of what lay at his feet. He described the kind of construction, the type of wood, the size of the nails. He even took a tape measure from his pocket and gave the exact dimensions.

  “Don’t think I’d want to try to sell this at a garage sale,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” McGee asked.

  “Just a hunch.”

  7

  AFTER THE LIGHTS WERE SET UP IN THE BUS, LIJE grabbed the pry bar and went to work on the edges of the crate’s top. The nails securing the top for so many decades had been pounded in every two inches along the edge of the lid.

  “That old German wanted to make sure it was secure,” Curtis said as Lije finished prying along one of the long sides.

  With the additional leverage, the job became easier. Each push of the pry bar created a loud groan. In the close confines of the old bus, the noise was deafening.

  “This is like fingernails on a chalkboard, only worse,” Curtis yelled. “I’ve got to get away from this racket. I’ll be outside.”

  Twenty minutes later, Lije had just fit the bar under the last side of the crate’s top when a much different noise echoed through the chamber.

  “Gunshot! “ McGee yelled.

  Seconds later, Curtis rolled back into the bus. “Someone’s shooting at us…from up on the ridge. Somebody’s really trying to kill us.”

  “Maybe just you,” Jameson said.

  “What do you m
ean?” Curtis said, never taking her eyes from the open door.

  “We’ve all been out there for hours and you’re the only one anyone’s shooting at. Maybe that enemy is your enemy, not ours. Maybe you’re the target.”

  Curtis glanced back at the others. No one jumped to her defense.

  It was Lije who finally broke the awkward silence. “Where’s your gun?”

  “In my car,” Curtis said.

  “That’s not good,” Janie said.

  “If I stay low,” Curtis said, “I can get to the car. Except for the twenty-foot dash to the edge of the house, I’ll have cover.”

  “Sounds good,” Lije whispered, “except for that twenty-foot part.”

  “You got a better idea? That high-powered rifle can easily pierce this bus. My gun is our only option and the mad dash is mine.”

  Lije was about to offer a second option when Curtis began her dash across the meadow. She got to the back of the house, then disappeared around a far corner. They all waited for the sound of rifle fire. Thirty seconds became a minute and then two minutes. The woods remained quiet. Even the birds had ceased singing. It was as if God had pushed the world’s Mute button.

  “Do you see anything?” McGee whispered.

  Lije shook his head. Finally, just as he was about to make his own dash for the house, Curtis headed back to the bus.

  “Got the gun,” she said as she climbed up the steps of the bus.

  “No more shots,” Jameson noted.

  “No. I’ll keep a lookout up front here,” Curtis said. “I think he took a shot and moved on. That seems to be his MO. You all go back to work and give me a holler when you get the lid off.”

  Curtis was cool under fire, no one could argue that, but was she making any sense? Why would someone take just one shot and move on? And if the shots really could go right through the bus walls, why not let loose with a series of volleys? None of this added up. But then, nothing on this ridge did.

  His curiosity outweighing his fear of the sniper, Lije took a final look up at the place where the old logging road cut through the ridge, then walked back to the rear of the bus. Picking up his tools, he again climbed down in the hole. But instead of going back to work, he looked up into Janie’s blue eyes and whispered, “Did a car leave the ridge?”

  She nodded.

  “Squeaky spring?”

  She nodded again.

  “So we’re safe.”

  “For now.”

  Trusting Janie’s ears more than his own instincts or Curtis’s proficiency with a gun, Lije confidently stuck the pry bar back under the edge of the crate’s lid. He soon was down to the final end. The lid was so loose he was able to easily pry up those last nails.

  “Grab that end,” he said to McGee, “and we’ll shed some light on this.”

  Curtis joined the others at the hole in the bus floor. As the top was lifted off and yellowish lantern light finally found its way into the box, it was as if the air had been sucked from inside the bus.

  8

  CURTIS, MCGEE, AND LIJE FROZE WHERE THEY STOOD, their eyes locked on the horrifying sight. Jameson quickly looked away. Thoughts of the shooter on the ridge evaporated.

  Janie listened to the eerie calm. “I’m guessing I was right. It is a coffin, but whose?”

  The horror Curtis felt soon morphed into professional curiosity and the cool demeanor of a seasoned investigator. While having a body—especially one hidden for at least six decades—appear in the dim light of a lantern was a new experience, seeing a dead body was not. She dropped to her knees to more closely examine the corpse.

  “He’s dressed in a wool suit,” she announced, the beam of her flash light playing over the fabric. Her tone was as flat as the wheat fields of the Great Plains. “Looks like it was nicely made too. The label will tell us more. Might have even been a custom job. The hand-painted tie, the cut of the shirt collar, and the shoes make me think he died in the 1940s or maybe even earlier.”

  “What about the sniper?” Jameson asked, moving away from the body and walking toward the bus door.

  Not bothering to look up, Curtis said, “I’m sure he’s long gone by now.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Jameson stared toward the ridge.

  The investigator didn’t respond. This was her crime scene. “I’m guessing he was in his late thirties or forties. The vault must have been almost airtight. The level of preservation is amazing. He looks like he’s been in here less than a year. And we know that can’t be true.” She continued to examine, but not touch, the body.

  Lije asked, “Wonder why he’s here. Could this have anything to do with why Swope’s Ridge is so valuable?”

  “Can’t answer that,” Curtis said. “Let’s pick this box up and take it into the house. I need better light. Then maybe we can get a few more answers. But before we move him, I need to get my camera and take a few pictures just as he is. No one touch the body.”

  As she left the bus she saw Lije and McGee crouching down behind her to get a closer look. They were obviously curious, but she hoped neither got close enough to touch the dead man. She hurried back with her camera and crime kit. Good. They’d had enough sense to keep their hands to themselves.

  “I was hoping for money or a treasure map,” McGee said. “We’ve found way too many bodies on this place. The curse must be real.”

  “Wonder if we’ll ever know who he was,” Lije said. “And don’t even think that there’s a curse. That’s just superstition.”

  After taking a number of photos, Curtis signaled everyone to surround the box. “Remember, don’t touch the body. Lije and I’ll take the head of the box. McGee, you and Heather take the foot. On three.”

  It was easy enough to lift the coffin out of the vault. The problem came when getting it out the bus door—the crate was narrow enough to go through the opening, but turning the corner required a maneuver that few professional movers could have managed. Backward, then forward, then backward again, and still they had only a few inches sticking out the door.

  “Can’t we just take the body and leave the box here?” McGee asked.

  “No,” Curtis said, “the body could break. We can manage this.”

  By moving inches at a time, they finally made the turn. Then it was just a matter of lugging the homemade coffin up the gradual slope to the home’s front door. Once inside, they set the crate in the living room.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Heather asked.

  They all looked at Curtis, who ignored them as she walked around the coffin to view the body from every angle.

  When at the ABI, Curtis had avoided autopsies, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know what to look for when she had to. It was now time to put that experience to use. The answer to why a finely dressed gentleman had been buried for sixty years beneath an Arkansas school bus intrigued her as much as any case she’d ever been given. And this case was all hers…for now.

  “Let’s get as much information as we can. I’ll record everything. We’ll call it in later,” Curtis said in answer to Heather’s question. “Heather, I want you to find every light you can and bring them into this room. Remove the shades. We need to really brighten this place up.

  “Lije, you and Kent drag the kitchen table in here. It’s heavy and I think it’s long enough. We can set the body on it for an examination platform. This guy looks to be only five ten, five eleven. “Janie, try to find some kind of sheet or tablecloth or blanket to put on the table.”

  “How about a plastic drop cloth?” she suggested.

  “That would be even better,” Curtis said.

  “There’s one in the tool box. I’ll bring it over.”

  Curtis pushed all the living room furniture against the walls, clearing a place for the table. She was transforming the German’s living room into a crude post-mortem examination facility. Using extension cords and a few ropes, she even managed to arrange the available lamps to brighten up the area. It didn’t look like much, but it would wo
rk.

  “Anybody got a blanket or a sheet?” Curtis asked.

  Lije left to retrieve one from his vehicle. When he returned, she handed him a pair of latex gloves. “Put these on. We’re going to move the body to the table so I can get a good look. We’ll support it with the blanket.”

  She rolled the blanket lengthwise and placed it next to the body in the casket. “Now roll the body over on its side toward you and I’ll shove this edge under. Good. Now let’s switch sides. Roll him the other way.” She pulled the rolled edge of the blanket to the side until the blanket was spread out under the body.

  “Okay, now we’re going to lift him up and place him on the table. McGee, Heather, you take one side. Lije and I will take the other. Spread your hands a little so we’re supporting the body. Don’t want it to sag.”

  On her signal, they slowly lifted the man from the crate. With the body free of its coffin, they walked to the end of the table and, with two on one side of the table and two on the other, walked sideways, moving the body until it was in position.

  “Good thing this is a narrow table,” Curtis said. “Now gently lower him onto the table…Good work.”

  She reached for her digital camera and, taking shots from every angle, slowly circled the corpse. Then, starting at the head, she began to carefully examine the body.

  “What’s he got in his left hand?” Lije asked.

  She carefully pulled the leather-bound book free from the man’s clutched fingers. Moving it to the kitchen counter, she and the others studied the cover and the first few pages. It was an English King James version of the Bible, published in the United States.

  “Look,” McGee said. “There’s a name. Henrick Bleicher. Do you think that’s our cadaver’s name?”

  “I’d say that’s a good assumption,” Lije said.

  Curtis moved back to the body. The wool suit was riddled with small moth holes. No, wait. Two larger holes. She took closeup photos, then leaned in closer and shined her flash light directly into them. Unbuttoned the suit coat and carefully moved the fabric to each side. The white shirt revealed a large dark-brown stain in the middle and three holes.