Gravely,
A skeptic
Mal lowered the letter, and we all exchanged puzzled looks.
“This guy is really starting to piss me off,” Duncan said irritably.
“I think we all feel that way,” I said. “But let’s not let our anger cloud our vision. What does the letter mean? Does anyone see a message in there somewhere?”
Another silence ensued, and Mal held the letter up to the computer camera so Duncan could see it.
Cora said, “Things having to do with death are mentioned several times, though that may simply be an attempt at sounding menacing. But there’s a reference to six feet under, deadlines carved in stone, and the sign-off of ‘gravely.’ Could it be referencing a cemetery?”
It seemed as reasonable a guess as anything else at this point, but it certainly didn’t narrow things down much. “That makes sense, Cora,” Mal said. “It does sound like references to a cemetery, but which one? There must be dozens, maybe hundreds in the city.”
“I don’t think it’s an accident that the ink used on this letter is green in color,” I said. “Are there any cemeteries with the word green in the name, Cora?”
Cora started tapping away on her smartphone. After a few seconds she shook her head. “I can’t find one named Green, but there is a Green Tree Meadows Cemetery and a Greenwood Cemetery.”
“Well, that narrows things down with regard to the general location,” Duncan said, “but it doesn’t tell us which one of those it might be, or what to do and where to go once we get to them.”
I said, “Based on past experience, I’m guessing I have to speak to someone in order to get the next clue. And dead people don’t speak. So that means a caretaker or an office employee of some sort.”
“What about the flower?” Mal asked. “It must be significant somehow.”
“Maybe it’s a reference to a name,” I suggested. “Aster could be a last name.”
“I have another idea,” Cora said, still working on her phone. “When I searched for the words green, cemetery, and Milwaukee, Forest Home Cemetery also came up. It’s a city landmark, and it has a special section for green burials called Prairie Rest. And Greenwood Cemetery, a Jewish cemetery, is adjacent to it. According to the Forest Home Web page, the Prairie Rest area is filled with naturally growing wildflowers, chief among them, blue asters. And the Greenwood Cemetery also has a green burial area, called Prairie Green, which contains wildflowers, prairie grasses, and trees.” Cora looked up at us. “Like a weeping willow perhaps?”
“What the heck is a green burial?” Duncan asked, ignoring her suggestion for the moment.
“It’s a burial involving biodegradable coffins or urns,” I said. The others looked at me curiously. “I looked into it when my father died,” I explained with a shrug. “The bodies are allowed to decompose naturally, so there is no embalming involved. Sort of a return-to-nature philosophy.”
“Is your father buried there?” Duncan asked. “That might be why the writer targeted that cemetery.”
I shook my head. “In the end I had him cremated. His ashes are in an urn in his office.”
Both Mal and Cora turned to look in that direction, as if they expected my father to come strolling out of the room at any moment.
“I intend to scatter them one of these days,” I said, feeling awkward. “I just haven’t decided where yet.”
The others refocused and turned their attention back to the letter.
“It seems we have several options to explore,” Mal said. “Where should we start?”
“I think Cora is on the mark with the Forest Home and Greenwood cemeteries,” I said. “It fits all the clues the best. I think we should start there.”
Cora had returned to her phone, and she said, “It looks like Forest Home Cemetery handles the grounds keeping and the day-to-day business activities for Greenwood. So that’s where you should probably start. But if you’re hoping to hook up with any of the staff there, you’re going to have to wait until Monday. According to their posted hours, they’re already closed for today, and they’re closed all day Sunday. On Monday they have hours from eight to four thirty. The grounds, however, are open from sunrise to sunset every day.”
“The cemetery is quite large, isn’t it?” I asked.
Cora nodded. “Nearly two hundred acres just for Forest Home. I don’t know how much of that comprises the Prairie Rest area.”
I frowned. “I can’t imagine the letter writer expecting me to search the whole place. And since the time parameters give me until Tuesday, I think I’m supposed to meet with someone, like I have the other times. So I say we wait until Monday.”
Mal said, “The green hint could refer to a name rather than the burial type.”
“Good point,” I said, looking over at him. “Any chance you can be free on Monday to go to the cemetery with me?”
“As luck would have it, I can. The boss shuts down for two weeks between Christmas and New Year’s.”
“Then it’s a date,” I said with a wan smile.
“Boy, you sure know how to show a guy a good time,” he joked.
“Hey,” I said with a shrug. “At least you can’t say my dates are boring.”
“There is nothing boring about you, Mackenzie Dalton,” he said with a warm smile.
Duncan cleared his throat. I suspected that for a second there, Mal had forgotten Duncan was more or less in the room with us, because he blushed and started to squirm.
Duncan said, “I’ll call you tomorrow, Mack, and let you know what time I can come by.”
I got the sense he was staking his claim on me with that comment. To put his mind at ease, I said, “I’m looking forward to it.”
“See you then. You guys take care.” And with that, Duncan was gone.
Chapter 8
With nothing we could do about the letter until Monday, I shifted my focus back to Sandra Middleton and her brother’s case. “Did you guys have any time to look over the information Sandra gave us?” I asked Cora.
“A little,” she said. “But I left soon after we started looking at it, because of your text.”
“Then I think we should head back to the group and see if they have come up with anything.”
Mal and Cora both nodded, and after placing the letter and its contents in plastic Baggies for safekeeping, I put them in my father’s office so they’d be out of sight. I doubted we’d find any prints or trace evidence on any of it; the letter writer had been much too careful so far. But I felt it was better to be safe than sorry.
Once the evidence was taken care of, we headed down to the bar. I told Cora she should go on ahead to the Capone Club room, and that Mal and I would be there shortly to join her and the others. Cora eyed me warily—I suspected she knew I was up to something— but she didn’t ask any questions. As soon as she was gone, I hobbled my way around the bar to where Clay Sanders was sitting, Mal close on my heels. As I approached, Clay looked at me, smiled, and gave me an acknowledging nod before then looking away. Clearly, he didn’t think I was coming over to him but rather merely walking by. As I sidled up beside him at the bar, he turned and gave me a quizzical look.
“Mr. Sanders,” I said, balancing on my crutches, “I wonder if I might have a chat with you.”
Clay looked wary and a little guilty, not surprising given that he had written several articles about me in the local paper that weren’t exactly flattering. “May I ask what about?”
“I have a proposition for you.” I gave him an enigmatic smile, hoping his natural curiosity would overcome any misgivings or doubts he might have about my invitation. “It’s one I think you’ll like,” I added, further baiting the offer.
Clay narrowed his eyes at me, weighing my offer. Then he shrugged and said, “Where would you like to chat?”
“My office?”
“Lead the way.”
Mal had been standing right behind me, and he moved aside so I could turn and head back the way I’d come. Clay eye
d Mal with curiosity but said nothing to him. Once inside my office, I gestured toward the couch, and Clay went to it and sat. Mal remained standing by the door, a frown on his face. I settled in the chair on the back side of my desk, the one that visitors or employees typically used. I didn’t want the barrier of my desk to come between me and Clay.
“Mr. Sanders, I’ve noticed you’ve been hanging out in my bar a lot lately.”
“Yeah. So?” he said with a shrug of indifference. “I like your food. And it is a public establishment.”
“True,” I said with a smile. “My food is better than most bar fare. But I know you hang here for reasons other than that. You’re a reporter. You’re here because you’re hoping to find more stories.”
Clay said nothing, his expression impassive. This disappointed me. I was hoping he would deny my statement so I could see how his voice changed, assuming it did. So I decided to prompt him a bit more. “What?” I said with a questioning look. “No denials?”
“You’re right,” Clay said. “I’m a reporter, and I’m always looking for a new angle or a new story. But that’s not the only reason I come here.”
No change in his voice with this comment, I noticed.
“I really do like your food.”
Again, no change.
“And frankly, you’re old news,” he concluded.
With this statement, I got what I wanted. Up until now, Clay’s voice had tasted like a ripe, juicy orange. But as soon as he told me I was old news, the taste turned tartly bitter, as if I had bitten into the peel.
“That last statement was a lie,” I said to him. “I know this because the taste of your voice changed.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Mal shift nervously where he was standing by the door. “Mack, are you sure you—”
I shushed him by holding up a hand.
Clay looked from me to Mal and back at me again, his expression curious but wary. “The taste of my voice changed?” he said.
I nodded. “You see, I have a disorder known as synesthesia. It’s a situation where one’s senses get cross-wired, mixed up in a way. And my senses are . . . well . . . hypersensitive. I can often see, smell, taste, hear, or feel things others can’t. And I experience each sense in multiple ways. For instance, everything I see triggers a smell or a physical sensation of some sort. Smells have an accompanying sound or physical sensation. Many of these secondary senses are minimal and brief, but they’re there. Sounds always trigger tastes or visual manifestations, and voices, at least men’s voices, always have a taste to them. When people lie, it changes their voice in subtle ways that most people can’t detect. But I can because the taste of the voice changes. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Clay nodded, but he looked skeptical.
“I see you have your doubts. Perhaps a small test would help convince you?”
Now he looked intrigued. “What sort of test?”
I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers together, my hands in my lap. “I’d like you to make a series of statements to me. Let’s start with three of them at a time. Say three things to me, but have only one of them be a lie, an untruth, if you like. And then I will tell you which of the statements are true and which one is false.”
“Okay,” Clay said. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, hands fisted, chin on his hands. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “My name isn’t really Clay Sanders. I’m thirty-six years old. I have two brothers and three sisters.”
I looked back at him and smiled. “You’re not playing fair, Mr. Sanders. I specifically said that two statements should be true and only one should be false. Everything you just told me is a lie.”
Clay’s eyes narrowed at me, and he cocked his head to the side.
“Therefore,” I continued, “your name really is Clay Sanders, you are not thirty-six years old, and while I can’t tell you how many siblings you have, you don’t have two brothers and three sisters.”
“Okay,” Clay said with a grudging smile. “Let’s try it again.” He paused, looking as if he was thinking. “Give me a second,” he said. “I’m trying to think of things you wouldn’t have been able to find out about me by doing some basic research.”
“Take your time,” I said, my smile still in place.
He did. Whether he was stalling to try to unnerve me or because he really was thinking hard, I couldn’t tell. After a minute or two of silence, he said, “I hate the taste of mushrooms. When I was a kid, I saw a dead body and never told anyone about it. The name of my first dog was Sunny.”
“Interesting,” I said with an arch of my brows. “You’ll have to tell me the story about the body one of these days. And I promise never to put any mushrooms in your food. What was the name of your first dog?”
Clay leaned back into the couch, one hand in front of his mouth, as if to hold back whatever he was about to say next. After a few seconds he said, “Okay. I’ll admit that’s a cute little parlor trick.”
“It’s not a parlor trick,” I told him. “I can do it with almost anyone.”
“Almost?”
“There have been some rare exceptions.”
Clay digested this, nodding slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Is this what you were doing for the cops? Acting as some sort of human lie detector?”
“In part, yes. But all my senses are affected. I can do other things.”
“Other things?”
My smile switched to a cautionary one. “Not so fast,” I said. “I’m sharing this information with you because I have a deal for you. I’m trusting you to keep my . . . abilities to yourself for now.”
“And why should I?”
“Because I think they can be of some use to you.”
Again, Clay narrowed his eyes and studied me, contemplating. “How?”
“You are aware of the group that has formed here at my bar called the Capone Club?”
Clay nodded.
“The group has an interest in solving crimes that have already been adjudicated or are unsolved. That was how we got involved with the Gruber-Hermann case.”
“You got involved with that one because the brother of one of the victims is a member of this club,” Clay said.
“True,” I acknowledged. “And I’m glad to see you do your homework. However, there are other cases on our radar, one in particular that we are looking at now. The group is interested in pursuing this case, and it may or may not turn out to be a case in which someone was wrongly convicted. But either way, we are going to look into it. And it occurs to me that you are a valuable resource we can take advantage of.”
“You want me to help your group investigate old crimes?” His skepticism came through loud and clear, and with the tiniest hint of that bitterness. The flavor change made me think he was interested, despite his tone of indifference.
“Yes, I do. And in exchange for your help, you will get an exclusive on anything we uncover.”
Clay steepled his hands and tapped at his chin. “You’re saying I’d be a member of this Capone Club and privy to any information they dig up?”
I nodded. “And you’ll also be privy to some more of my secrets. But those can’t be printed.”
“You’re referring to this disorder you have?”
“More or less. There are other things, too, but first you’ll need to earn my trust.”
Clay seemed amused by this. “Anything to do with the recent death of your employee?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you, at least not yet. I can’t. It’s an ongoing investigation, and I don’t want to color it or interfere with it by giving you any information I might have.”
That was it. I had successfully dangled all the bait I had, and now it was up to Clay to bite on it. I hoped I wasn’t making a big mistake by bringing him in. I figured the others would be wary enough of him, at least in the beginning, to keep him on a leash. But I would have to be extra careful around him, watching everything I did and everything I said.
&
nbsp; Clay glanced over at Mal with a scrutinizing look. “I know about you,” he said.
Mal and I exchanged looks.
“I know you’re a cop,” Clay went on, eliminating my hope that he had meant something else. “You’re working undercover. My guess is that you’re investigating that construction company boss you work for.”
“How did you—” I began.
Clay looked back at me. “I am an investigative reporter, and I’m damned good at my job. I got interested in your boy here when you started parading him around as your new boyfriend, and I did a little digging. I thought he looked familiar, and sure enough, when I looked at some old case photos from a drug bust that happened a few months back, I saw your guy here lurking in the background. The hair was longer, and he looked like a druggie, but I could tell the face was the same.”
Mal sighed loudly and raked a hand through his hair. “Mr. Sanders, you can’t—”
This time it was Clay’s turn to do the shushing. He held up a hand and said, “Your secret is safe with me. I’m all in favor of beating crime, and in general, I support the police.”
“I never would have guessed that based on the articles you’ve written so far,” I said. “You were a bit harsh with the department.”
“I was just rattling their cage a little, curious to see what might fall out.”
“What fell out was Duncan Albright. You nearly cost him his job.”
Clay shook his head. “He did that to himself by dragging you into it.”
“He didn’t drag me. I went willingly. And your stories didn’t make my life any easier, either.”
He waved away my complaint. “You have to admit, my stories have been good for your business.”
He had me there. What he didn’t know was that his stories had also been the impetus that brought me to the attention of the letter writer. And I wasn’t about to tell him. Not yet, anyway.
“Look, I’m interested in your proposal,” Clay said, leaning forward again, arms on his thighs, hands interlaced. “But I can’t let you dictate what I do or don’t write about.”
Shots in the Dark Page 7
