by Spencer Kope
Snapping his fingers, Ben says, “There was this lady a couple of years ago who insisted on being buried dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. She even had a pair of custom-made ruby slippers, if you can believe that.”
Jimmy asks, “Did anyone check Johansson’s grave?”
“Why?”
Pointing at the corpse, Jimmy says, “He’s not in it.”
Ben grins as if it were a joke and shakes his head.
“As I said, we only figured this out shortly before you arrived. Last time we saw this guy was earlier in the week when we released his body back to the funeral home. I couldn’t tell you where they buried him.”
“But the funeral home would have picked him up after the autopsy, right?”
“Sure.”
“And you have the name and address of the funeral home in your records?”
“Yeah, we track everything. The public tends to get upset when we misplace a body.”
The irony is too rich for Jimmy. He looks Ben in the eye and then slowly casts a downward glance at the remains of William Johansson.
Ben smirks and shakes his head. “Uh-uh. This one’s not on us. We passed him off to the funeral home; whatever happened after that is on them.”
“I guess I better talk to them, then,” Jimmy says. “How about that name and address?”
“Sure,” the pathologist replies. “Let’s check with the receptionist.” He motions for us to follow and leads the way from the autopsy room.
As we exit, I cast a final backward glance at William Johansson, the old man who somehow managed to stir up a storm of trouble, even in death. He doesn’t look back, but I swear there’s a smile on his face.
6
Riggs Funeral Home is quick to insist that they buried William Johansson in Greenmont Cemetery, a relatively small and isolated graveyard several miles southwest of the Bakersfield city limits.
Ralph Riggs, the owner and chief body-slinger at the funeral home, is sure that we must be mistaken about the corpse at the coroner’s office. He’s sure that the recently deceased don’t just crawl out of their fresh graves, and he’s damn sure they don’t walk their dead ass to town and park themselves on a city bench.
He’s sure of a lot.
“So, you’re a hundred percent certain that William Johansson was in that casket when it went into the ground?” Jimmy presses.
“Certain as I’m standing here.” Ralph spreads his arms as if to emphasize his presence.
There’s an air about the guy that I can’t quite peg. He dresses like a banker, talks like a preacher, and presents like a salesman. My image of an undertaker has always strayed toward that depicted in westerns: some lanky plainsman in a dark wool frock coat and some version of a black felt hat. Ralph doesn’t fit the image.
“Can you describe Mr. Johansson?” Jimmy asks.
Ralph thinks a moment, eyes drifting up.
“White gentleman in his seventies, bald head, maybe six foot tall, though it’s hard to be certain.” Ralph winks. “By the time we get them, they’re usually horizontal”—he waves his open hand back and forth in a flat line—“if you get my meaning.”
“And you saw him in the coffin?”
“I did. His son wanted him buried in a sky-blue tuxedo, which is something we don’t get a lot of requests for. Navy blue, black pinstripe, even jeans and a T-shirt, but not sky blue.” Ralph rocks his head from side to side with one corner of his mouth pinched up. “That shade in particular. It’s kind of hopeful, like robin eggs in the spring, and I find that people aren’t generally that optimistic at a funeral.”
“Imagine that,” I say.
He grins and shrugs. “I know; go figure. In any case, it was an open-casket ceremony and we didn’t close the lid until right before we loaded him into the hearse. After that, two of my guys were with him until he was lowered into the ground.”
“Did they stay until the grave was closed?” Jimmy asks.
“No need. By the time they get around to putting the dirt back in the hole, the mourners are almost always gone. Besides, our job is to deliver the deceased; the cemetery handles the rest. Grave digging is no longer about backs and shovels, gentlemen. These days it’s about backhoes.”
Somehow backs and shovels sound more respectful.
* * *
Greenmont Cemetery is maybe ten minutes outside Bakersfield, and Jimmy wants to swing by and make sure nothing’s out of place. As a courtesy, he calls Diane and asks her to locate a cemetery official and advise him of our visit.
Ending the call, Jimmy drives in silence for several minutes, but I notice he keeps checking his watch, despite the clock on the dash. Soon, he’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, a neurotic tic of his that surfaces when he’s either nervous, thinking, or antsy.
“What’s going on with you?” I finally ask.
“What?” He acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“No.” I wag a finger at him. “I said what? You don’t get to answer a what with a what.” His fingers start up again on the steering wheel—da da da dum, da da da dum—so I point at them and exclaim, “See! That’s what I’m talking about. That, and you’ve checked your watch six times in six minutes.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Really.” I raise my eyebrows. “Look, I know it’s been a long day, but you need to either stop checking your watch and lay off the drumming, or you need to level with your partner.” I draw out the word partner, to drive home the point.
The drumming stops and he’s quiet for a full minute. Then, with a sigh, he asks, “What do you think we’re going to find at the cemetery?”
I shrug. “Lots of graves … hopefully closed.”
“But you already know that William Johansson—”
“There might be an explanation,” I interrupt, not wanting to hear it.
“A man, dead and buried, shows up on a city bench. That in itself is unusual, but how do you explain the fact that he’s wearing Jason Norris’s clothes and has his wallet—the very man we’ve been searching for, I might add; the man who’s still missing, along with three of his friends. That’s a little too much coincidence, don’t you think?”
He’s right, of course. I just don’t want to admit it.
“You know why I’m in a hurry?” Jimmy’s suddenly all talkative. “Because I’m afraid of what we might find.”
“If someone dug up that grave, it would have been reported by now.”
“Not necessarily,” Jimmy shoots backs. “You heard Riggs. The place is isolated. Maybe it’s the kind of place people don’t visit often. And if they do, maybe they’ll see a pile of dirt and just assume it’s for an upcoming funeral.”
I want to argue with him but can’t. The one thing I learned about Jimmy a long time ago is that when he’s got something on his mind, it’s best to just let things play out.
* * *
Greenmont Cemetery reveals itself as a flat, uninspiring rectangular oasis of neutered green, something akin to the color of watered-down guacamole. The lawn is well tended but looks anything but robust. Any virility the grass once held has long since passed, much like the residents of this out-of-the-way spot. The headstones are flush with the ground, and the only structure on the property is a diminutive toolshed.
Following the directions provided by Ralph Riggs, we park at the back and find William Johansson’s grave a short walk off the narrow road that dissects the cemetery in half. From all appearances, it seems to be undisturbed. There’s no marker, but we have little doubt it’s the correct plot because it’s the only grave in the small cemetery with rectangles of freshly cut turf resting over recently turned soil.
The flowers are another giveaway, though not by much. A small wreath of red and yellow roses, carnations, and chrysanthemums is on a wire stand resting solemnly at the head of the unmarked grave. It looks like the type of generic wreath equally suited to funerals or weddings and was most likely the weekly special at a discount florist
. Gathered around it are a half dozen other arrangements, and several individual flowers.
“Looks like a grave,” I observe dryly.
Jimmy seems more at ease, as if the sight of the intact grave has settled something in his gut, but rather than replying directly to my observation, he makes this weird noise at the back of his throat that falls somewhere between hmm and harrumph.
“So maybe it’s a hoax after all?” I say, pressing the point. “Maybe someone snatched Johansson’s body in transit and sat him on the bench as some kind of elaborate prank. Probably filmed it too. It’s stupid what people will do for YouTube clicks these days.”
I snap my fingers as another thought occurs to me. “What if it’s a competitor? You know, someone trying to undermine the funeral home?”
Jimmy laughs and gives me a look. “Not everything is a reality show.”
I shrug. “Just a thought.”
Jimmy doesn’t reply but instead begins a slow walk around the gravesite as daylight begins to fail. I can see his eyes roaming over the replaced turf, examining every cut and gap. He does the same with the flower arrangements and the spot where a headstone will soon rest.
“It still doesn’t explain why Johansson was wearing Norris’s clothes—” He suddenly stops and cocks his head to the side. He’s not looking at the fresh grave, but at the marker two spaces over. Moving closer, he kneels and brushes his hand across the bronze face of the gravestone, which identifies the interred as another Johansson, no doubt a relative.
Glancing at the grass around the marker for a moment, he rolls back onto his haunches and shuffles backward, taking in a wider view of the area. Seconds tick by in utter silence, each one seeming to be an eternity unto itself. He barely moves, and I can tell he’s trying to make sense of whatever he’s seeing. It’s a bit unsettling watching him, mostly because when he’s done this sort of thing in the past, it hasn’t ended well.
When the truth finally finds him, it rocks his world like thunder before a storm.
With a roar, he leaps to his feet.
The sound and commotion are so startling that I give an involuntary yelp and stumble over my own feet, nearly falling backward onto Johansson’s grave. I don’t have time to think or analyze because Jimmy’s running away from me at a frightening clip, making a beeline for the Mustang.
I have rules about cemeteries.
Well … now I have rules about cemeteries. I may have just made them up, but they still apply. The main rule, the most important rule, is that if someone starts to run, you follow. You don’t pause to assess the situation; you don’t worry about looking silly or scared, you just run. At a minimum, you need to run as fast as the person you’re following; that way you don’t get left behind. Getting left behind is bad.
If you can run faster, that’s even better.
I’ve seen some odd things that I can’t explain during my time with the Special Tracking Unit, things revealed by shine that convince me there’s something beyond death. This should be comforting news, and it usually is, but not when I’m standing in a graveyard on the cusp of night.
As we near the yellow Ford, I expect Jimmy to slow and fumble for his keys, but instead he runs right past the car. Confused, I follow and watch as Jimmy slams full force into the latched door of the lone toolshed.
The flimsy door explodes inward, carrying him with it.
I arrive a moment later to the sound of tools being tossed around, then Jimmy appears in the doorway with two shovels in hand. He shoves one in my direction and starts back toward the grave at a half run without a single word of explanation.
I can’t take it anymore.
When we reach the grave site, I bark, “Jimmy!”
But he just squats and starts frantically ripping loose clumps of turf from the top of Johansson’s grave, tossing them to the side. I raise my voice an octave and demand, “What are you doing?”
“Help me!” He doesn’t look up. “Get this turf off so we can dig.”
“Uh-uh!” I snap. “It’s illegal, and that cemetery official is on his way. If he finds you digging—”
Jimmy drops the shovel with a suddenness that’s shocking. Motioning for me to follow, he directs me to the nearby gravestone that so captivated him just before he ran off to the shed. “See that?” He points.
I have no idea what he’s talking about and say as much.
“Look at the dirt,” he replies in frustration. “When the backhoe dug Johansson’s grave for the ceremony, they dumped the dirt on a tarp over there.” He points to a spot on the opposite side of the burial site, well away from where we stand. “I know they dumped it over there because you can still see the impression where they laid down the tarp.”
He points to the ground, adamant. “There shouldn’t be any dirt here.”
“I still don’t—”
“It means the grave was dug up sometime after the ceremony. Whoever dug it up also used a tarp or some type of plastic sheeting, but unlike the cemetery workers they got sloppy and some of the dirt ended up spilling off the edge.”
I’ve been to my share of funerals, so I know that a covering is placed over the ground where the attendees are seated. This is done for ambience, but also to cover the graves in that area so they can’t be seen. People don’t like walking on graves. Call it taboo, or superstition, but it’s just not something one does if it can be avoided.
I’ve never thought about what they do with the dirt.
“What are you saying?”
Jimmy points forcefully. “I think Jason Norris is in that grave.”
Without another word, he hurries back to the burial mound and continues removing sod.
“That’s crazy.” I’m still not convinced, but am alarmed at the prospect. As Jimmy’s shovel tears into the earth, I suggest a backhoe. “It could take hours digging by hand.”
“Do you see a backhoe?” His words are terse, and he lifts his hands in frustration, saying, “Because I don’t. I’m sure they just haul one in when it’s needed, and I’m not waiting around.”
“Six feet, Jimmy!” I plead. “This is a big grave, and if we have to go down six feet it’s going to take half the night.”
“The dirt is soft; we can do it in an hour. Besides”—he throws a shovelful of dirt—“six feet is a myth. In most places, a couple of feet of soil over the top of the casket is all that’s required. A couple of feet is easy.”
He pauses to toss more sod from the grave, then leans on the shovel a moment to catch his breath. “Give me another option, Steps, and I’ll listen, but don’t tell me to stop. Everything we know tells us that Johansson was in this grave when it was closed. Whoever dug him up went to a lot of trouble to make the grave look undisturbed.”
Jimmy straightens and then pushes the shovel into the loose soil with a quick thrust. Before tossing the dirt to the side, he pauses and looks up at me. “Someone dug up this grave. They took Johansson’s body and then filled the hole up and carefully replaced the sod. Why would they do that? Think about it.”
He’s right, and the truth of it slaps me in the face.
Picking up my shovel, I approach the head of the grave and quickly move the flowers off to the side, careful not to disturb or dislodge any of the petals. As I prepare to plunge the steel blade into the twice-fresh grave, I imagine for the briefest of moments that I hear the muffled cry of something deep in the ground, something broken and unintelligible. I cast the thought aside and try to forget, but it’s too late.
The haunt of the graveyard has me in its grip, and as I dig, the sweat of my exertion rises to dampen my shirt. A chill soon settles in my bones and I shiver, not from the cold but from the prospect of what might await us.
7
Dusk.
I’ve always assumed it was just that gray period after the sun goes down, a word synonymous with twilight, albeit less mystical. As it turns out, there’s a bit more to it than that. Dusk, it seems, is the latter stage of twilight, the darkest part, which sounds ea
sy enough until you learn that there are three twilights: civil twilight, nautical twilight, and astronomical twilight. Each comes with its own version of dusk so that civil dusk comes right before the transition between civil twilight and nautical twilight, and nautical dusk casts its shadow right before it steps across the threshold into astronomical twilight. Finally, there’s astronomical dusk, which is the darkest and final part of the three twilights, the lonesome umbra that’s eventually consumed by night.
Twilight, dusk.
Deeper twilight, deeper dusk.
Deepest twilight, deepest dusk.
Who knew it could be so complicated?
* * *
It’s about an hour after sunset, well into astronomical twilight, when two sets of headlights turn off the road and into the cemetery. By this time, we’re working by the light of two portable lamps that Jimmy retrieved from his kit, which is in the trunk with our luggage and the small collection of tools and equipment we haul around everywhere we go—all the things one might need for murder and mayhem.
As the vehicles make their way toward us and then park, I lift one of the lamps and wave it in the air, feeling for a moment like some old railroader signaling a conductor with a kerosene lantern.
It’s not like they don’t see us, so I’m not exactly sure why I wave the lantern, only that it seems like the polite and helpful thing to do. Jimmy looks up at me from the hole, sighs as if he knows what’s coming, then stretches up a hand so I can help him climb free of the thrice-dug grave.
By this time, we’re two feet down, and the feel of the soil, which has grown firm and dense, suggests that we’re getting close. It’ll have to wait a few minutes while we explain to a cemetery bureaucrat why we’re digging up a grave without a court order under the cover of astronomical twilight.
