by Spencer Kope
“All I want is pajamas and slippers,” I say, having regained some of my composure.
Three sets of eyes turn my way.
I shrug. “If I’m gonna go, I might as well be comfortable.”
10
It’s a slow process dealing with the dead.
Each case is different, but the flow often begins with deputies. They trickle onto the scene and make the initial determination as to whether the decedent passed from natural causes or something more sinister. If it’s the latter, detectives are notified, and if they’re lucky, the call comes during the middle of the workday and not at 3:00 A.M.
Detectives are rarely so lucky.
Usually, by the time the coroner arrives, a disheveled parade of vehicles is in attendance, sparkling in the reflection of their emergency lights. These include marked and unmarked patrol units, a command vehicle to coordinate the investigation, and perhaps an ambulance or fire engine.
Tractors are rarely part of the murder parade.
Despite this, a broken-down backhoe chugs into the cemetery an hour after we crack open the twice-buried coffin. It’s not the prettiest tractor, nor the quietest, but it seems to be in harmony with the cemetery caretaker, who’s perched on its springy seat.
After Ross’s initial series of calls, we’d decided that it would be better for evidentiary reasons if we lifted the entire coffin out of the grave, rather than trying to manhandle Mr. Norris up and over four feet of dirt.
The coffin may still yield latent prints, DNA, or hair follicles that could play into the investigation as we move forward, forensic evidence that we’re going to need if we hope to identify the suspect and rescue the three remaining fishermen.
What began yesterday morning as a straight-up search and rescue has rounded a bend.
This is now a homicide.
Finding a body in a cemetery is a bit like finding a doughnut in a doughnut shop: it’s just not all that surprising. But finding a body in someone else’s coffin, particularly the body of a man who was alive and well the day before … well, that’s three levels beyond doughnuts and grave markers.
No one contests that Jason Norris was buried alive.
His worn and bloody fingertips are silent witnesses to the deed and the aftermath, as is the shredded lining of the coffin. There’s no other explanation. Buried alive equals murder—terrible murder—no matter how you look at it. I only hope that his air gave out quickly and spared him the horrors of the tomb.
* * *
As the tractor clatters to a stop twenty feet away, the rail-thin caretaker in dark coveralls shuts it down and then steps from his perch with an awkward hop. He looks to be in his midtwenties and walks toward us with a pronounced limp. Introducing himself as Johnny Hart, he speaks with a stutter and a bit of Midwest twang.
“B-b-best I could do on short notice,” Johnny says, thumbing at the tractor. “Someone said something about d-d-digging up a grave, so I also g-g-grabbed some lifting straps; figured we could run them through the lifting handles on the sides of the coffin.”
“Will that work?” Jimmy asks.
“Sure, it’ll work. The handles are d-d-designed to take the weight.” Stepping over to the hole, Johnny glances down. “Looks like you already got the d-d-digging part out of the way.” He turns to Jimmy. “You want me to hop d-d-d—” Johnny sighs heavily and starts over. “You want me to hop into the hole and rig it up?”
“That would be great. Need a hand?”
“No, I g-g-got this. G-g-gonna have to close the lid, though, if that’s okay.”
“That’s perfect,” Jimmy replies. “We need to protect the inside as much as possible. For that matter, the less you touch while you’re down there, the better.”
“CSI stuff, right? Yeah, I saw the show. Well, d-d-don’t you worry; I’ll b-b-be like one of them tightrope walkers and pretend there’s nothing to g-g-grab onto.”
Limping back to the bucket of the tractor, he drags out four heavy-duty yellow straps and slings them over his shoulder. As he lowers himself into the grave, the cuff of his left leg hangs up and exposes a few inches of his prosthetic leg. It must just be the lower leg since he seems to be able to bend at the knee easily enough.
He catches me looking and pauses, lifting the leg into the air. “Industrial accident three years ago. I could b-blame it on my stutter, but I should have b-b-been paying closer attention. After they fitted me with this, I figured I should g-g-get a job that involves less machinery.” A grin fills his face again, and without elaborating on the accident he moves forward over the coffin and closes the lid, easing it down gently so it doesn’t slam.
It takes Johnny a couple of minutes, but he soon has the four lifting straps threaded through the pallbearer handles as close to each corner as possible. Handing the ends of the straps to me, he pulls himself out of the hole and fires up the tractor. With the kind of finesse that only comes with practice, he moves the tractor up to the left side of the grave, centers the bucket over the hole, and then lowers it until it’s almost flush with the ground.
I’m trying to figure out what he’s going to do with the straps since I don’t see any tie-down points on the bucket, but he quickly produces two lengths of chain, one of which he loops over the left side of the bucket, the other over the right. He then threads one of these chains through the two straps at the foot of the coffin, and the other through the remaining straps at the head.
Raising the bucket until there’s a little tension on the chains and straps, he lets them settle and then backs the pressure off. Hopping down from his seat, he spends a moment making some adjustments so the coffin comes up level and Norris doesn’t pour out one end or the other.
“Looking g-g-good.” Johnny gives a thumbs-up. Hauling himself back onto the tractor, he stands rather than sits, looking for a moment like a bull rider in the chute just before he settles on his mount. Working the lift on the bucket, he puts tension back on the straps, then slowly begins to lift the coffin from the grave.
I hear a small pop and a groan as the coffin rises flush with the top of the hole. Then, with an explosion of noise, the left lifting handle at the head of the coffin shears off, followed almost immediately by the left handle at the rear. With nothing to hold the left side of the coffin aloft, it pitches violently onto its side and I watch in horror as Jason Norris spills out. I don’t see him land at the bottom of the grave, but I hear it: a sickening thud that sounds all the louder because of the darkness.
Leaping from the tractor—an impressive trick considering his leg—Johnny rushes to the edge of the grave and looks down. “It’s not my fault!” he brays, his words distraught.
As the rest of us press forward and gather around, I can see Norris in an awkward heap four feet below. Thomas Postlewait is holding his head with both hands and repeating “Oh, God,” as if it were a mantra. Jimmy, it seems, is unfazed by the spilled contents of the coffin, and I notice he’s leaning in close and studying one of the sheared-off handles intently, though he’s careful not to touch it.
“Oh, God!” Thomas says.
“It’s not my fault,” Johnny cries again.
Ross says nothing. He’s watching Jimmy and finally asks, “Whatcha got?”
Jimmy shakes his head. “Odd that only the handles on the left side broke off, don’t you think?” Donning a pair of latex gloves, he loosens the dangling handle from its strap and holds it out for Ross, tipping it in the light. “Notice anything?”
It takes Ross only a moment. “Smart bastard,” he says in a hushed voice. “You think he’s just toying with us, or is this supposed to mean something?”
“Probably just messing with us,” Jimmy says.
By this time my curiosity is spilling over. “What is it?”
Rather than tell me, Jimmy waves me over and again tilts the handle this way and that in the wash of light.
It takes me longer than Ross—possibly because I have Johnny the caretaker breathing over my shoulder—but I finally see it. “Hacksaw marks?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy replies slowly. “But notice how he didn’t go all the way through? He wanted them to break off when the coffin was in the air.”
“Okay, that’s sick.”
“It’s not my fault?” Johnny says again, this time as a question.
“No, this was sabotage.”
“So, he wanted this to happen?” I ask. “Why?”
Jimmy shrugs. “Slows us down, for one. It might also contaminate any evidence he left, though if he took the time to do this”—Jimmy hoists up the handle—“I doubt he left fingerprints or DNA behind.”
For a moment, we take turns staring at the handle, the coffin, and the body of Jason Norris at the bottom of the hole. Eventually, Johnny asks the obvious: “Wh-what now?”
Jimmy rocks his head to the left, then straightens it as if working out a kink. “Somebody’s going to have to go down there, I suppose.”
Who that somebody might be isn’t readily apparent, and nobody seems eager to volunteer. Pretty soon we’re all pretending to stare at the hole while sneaking furtive looks at one another, waiting for someone to offer up.
As the impromptu selection process continues, and the frequency and duration of the glances increases, Johnny stands out as an odds-on favorite. He’s the logical choice, and most eyes start to gravitate his way, enough so that he soon picks up on it.
“I can’t touch no dead g-g-guy,” he practically yelps. “I only dig the holes and lower them down; I don’t touch them. That’s b-b-bad luck, touching a dead g-g-g—a dead g-g-g—” He sighs. “A corpse.” He sets his chin and waves both hands dismissively, making it clear that there’s nothing further to discuss.
Imagining that he’s next, Thomas stiffens and calmly says, “I didn’t come dressed for grave robbing.”
It’s a weak argument considering he was pitching out dirt with the rest of us not an hour ago and only became squeamish when we found a dead guy at the bottom of the hole. As if reading my thoughts, Thomas motions toward his already-soiled shirt and tie, evidence to suggest he’d done his part.
That leaves just me, Jimmy, and Ross.
After eyeballing each other for a full minute, I finally say, “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Peeling off my jacket and tossing it aside, I motion toward the cockeyed coffin suspended over the grave. “Someone get that thing out of the way,” I bark. “I don’t want it falling on me.”
Just as I’m about to jump into the hole with the blue-ruffled stiff, headlights slow on the road and then turn into the cemetery. A white panel van materializes out of the darkness as it draws near, the kind of van used by electricians, plumbers, and locksmiths. As it parks behind Ross’s unmarked, I suddenly realize what I’m looking at.
With a sigh of relief, I utter perhaps the rarest statement in the English language: “Thank God! It’s the coroner’s office.”
11
Monday, March 9
Jimmy has this annoying habit of phoning my room to make sure I’m awake.
It’s become more consistent over the years as if he were my personal, self-appointed wake-up concierge. He’s so annoyingly dependable that I rarely bother setting an alarm. I mean, what’s the point?
When the phone rings at 7:00 A.M., I don’t have to wonder who it is or what the person wants. I just roll over, press the handset to my face, grunt some semblance of acknowledgment, then hang up while Jimmy’s still speaking—something about meeting him near the breakfast bar at seven thirty.
Lying on my back, I stare at the ceiling and rub the sleep from my eyes. Do I feel like getting up? No. Because getting up is the first step toward a long day, and last night was long enough to last the rest of the week.
How many times have I woken like this? Another city, another day, another motel—the motel part being the worst of it.
Most people don’t think about motel rooms the way I do.
That’s because they’re on a rare business trip or a vacation, and sleeping away from home when you’re not accustomed to it has an air of adventure. They don’t pause to wonder how many other adventurers have slept in the same bed, sneezed onto the same nightstand, had sex in the same shower. They don’t see it, so it doesn’t exist; and if it doesn’t exist, no one need run around like a madman spraying disinfectant on every surface.
Me? I see everything.
There’s not enough disinfectant for what I see.
If I were CSI, I wouldn’t need fluorescents and alternative light sources to see the fifty-five-gallon barrel’s worth of blood, semen, sweat, saliva, and body oil that has passed through this room. All I’d have to do is open my eyes and witness the glowing shine on every surface and in every configuration. When I shower, I keep my eyes closed so I don’t have to look at the thousand people that were here before me.
If I were normal, I’d probably like some of the places we’ve stayed at over the years, but as things stand, I tend to keep my glasses on while I’m in the room. A little ignorant bliss never hurt anyone … for the most part.
It’s with this lingering thought that I push myself upright on the pristine stained sheets, step onto the immaculate soiled carpet, and make my way to the defiled shower.
* * *
When I arrive downstairs at exactly 7:33 A.M., I see Jimmy working on one of his crossword puzzles at a small round table just off the motel lobby. He doesn’t look up, so I make for the breakfast bar and scoop up a poppy-seed muffin and a small bottle of orange juice. Plopping down across from him, I crack open the orange juice, drink half of it in one tip, then peel down the moist paper sides of the muffin liner.
“What’s the plan, boss?”
Jimmy holds up a finger, asking for a moment as he tries to unwrap his mind from the puzzle. It’s a typical response for him when he’s stuck on a word.
“Which one?”
He points to eleven across, which reads CZAR’S GIFT. Studying it a moment, I note that it’s seven letters across with a b in the third space.
“Fabergé,” I say almost immediately, then take a bite of muffin.
His pencil pauses over the empty boxes, counting out the letters. “Fabergé, as in the eggs?”
I just nod, still chewing, then realize he’s looking for a little more depth in the answer. I hurry and swallow, washing it down with a quick shot of orange juice. “The House of Fabergé was based in Saint Petersburg and made sixty or seventy jeweled eggs over about thirty years. Most of these were made for the czars, first for Alexander the Third, and then Nicholas the Second, who gave them as Easter gifts to their wives and mothers. That’s how they became known as Imperial eggs.
“The last two were supposed to be delivered in 1917, but that was a bad year for Russia. First, the February Revolution removed the czar from power, and then the October Revolution overthrew the provisional government and the Communists swept into power. The following summer, the Bolsheviks executed the Romanov family and Fabergé eggs became a part of history.”
“I suppose you just memorized that from one of your books?”
“You don’t have to memorize when it’s interesting.”
Jimmy smirks at me and shakes his head. Pulling the paper close, he writes Fabergé in eleven across, then folds the crossword puzzle and stuffs it into his Fossil briefcase.
I give him a moment, then ask, “What’s the plan?”
He glances at his watch quickly. “We have an eight o’clock meeting with Canela Perez, the congressman’s sister and chief of staff.”
“Any word on when they’re going to do the autopsy on Norris?”
“Already started. Dr. Herrera said he’ll call with the results when he’s finished, but everything points to asphyxia. Oh, here’s something interesting. Ross had San Jose do the death notification with Norris’s wife and learned that when he left on the fishing trip he had a full head of hair.”
“So, he shaved it off?”
“Or someone shaved it for him.”
* * *
The two-story office complex on Rosedal
e Highway in northwest Bakersfield is a modern building hewn from concrete, steel, and glass. The subdued landscaping merges perfectly with the building and its many small details, resulting in a classy and mentally stimulating vision of architecture that anyone would be pleased to call his or her office.
The only thing out of place is the pair of media vans parked at the curb.
They add a discordant feel to the place, clashing with the building from every angle: there’s no symmetry, no rhythm, no feng shui. One van has its antennae raised thirty feet into the air in an obnoxious display of entitlement and self-importance. A female reporter hovers nearby with a mic in hand as she addresses a camera, no doubt pontificating on the disappearance of the congressman as she details his many controversial statements and positions.
The discovery of Norris’s body hasn’t made it out to the press yet, but it’s only a matter of time. That’s when the real feeding frenzy will begin. I’ve seen it before. As word spreads, the press will swarm the area, circling like sharks around a bloated whale carcass, and turning the office complex into a three-ring circus of biblical proportion.
Jimmy drives by the front of the building slowly. He ignores the dozen empty parking spots and turns at the corner.
“There’s one.” I point to an empty spot in the back lot, well shielded from the prying eyes out front. Parking the Mustang, we find an equally convenient set of glass doors at the rear of the building that lead to the lobby. Taking the stairs, we look for room 207 and find it at the end of the hall on the left.
* * *
The congressional office of Marco Perez occupies sixteen hundred square feet on the second floor of the building. It’s a corner office, so the windows face both south and east. With such a configuration, one might expect a sweeping view of the Bakersfield skyline, but such a skyline doesn’t exist.
Bakersfield is a rather flat city filled with low, flat buildings. The three tallest structures are the Stockdale Tower, the Plaza Towers—both twelve stories—and the ten-story Bank of America Building. Everything after that is nine floors or less, with most under six stories.
