Grave Beginnings (The Grave Report, Book 1)

by Virdi, R. R

  I’ve done this hundreds of times and never once came back as a ginger; I want to see what it’s like. I’ll settle for sleeping with one for now though, find out first hand if what they say about them and never getting any sleep is true!

  I shook my head vigorously to clear out that line of thoughts, a lot of memories and influences are inside my noggin’, some of them are definitely hormoned up male teenagers.

  After getting those thoughts out of me, a troubling notion occurred to me; a guy goes from being the model of stress and obesity to well, just a model. And then the guy winds up dead when he is in far better shape and obviously healthier than before?

  That fit under the “strange and mysterious” label.

  I still had no idea what Norman did however, that was a problem and I had less than half a day to solve this case. That set me into demolition mode as I began tearing apart Norman’s bedroom with reckless abandon.

  The bedroom search turned up nothing but an unusually high number of um…adult material, well maybe not unusually high, the guy was an out of shape workaholic.

  I looked around and noticed the door to a walk in closet. The closet was lined with suits but the thing was, none of those suits were even near as high quality as the one Norman was wearing when he took his dirt nap. They were all cheap average looking suits, the kind you’d expect maybe a high school principal to wear, some were tattered and frayed and others had patches you know weren’t just for style.

  I didn’t need a vast amount of detective knowledge to know that none of this felt right. A closet filled with cheap suits and shoes but I’m currently wearing the only designer suit this guy had as well as a Rolex. He had a multimillion-dollar place in Upper Manhattan but could only afford one nice suit? I didn’t know what that all meant yet but I was sure it was all connected somehow…the how part was just eluding me at the moment.

  I started rummaging through each and every one of the suits in the closet, looking for anything else that could help point me to the cause of his death. Nearly every suit turned up empty until I came to a shiny brown suit with yellow pin stripes; I couldn’t believe he actually had one of those. I dug around a bit, turning out only a few loose threads, some change, tissues…that were used, disgusting, oh and an I.D badge!

  It read Norman Smith, Curator of the American Museum of Natural History.

  AMNH…. Well, now I knew where he had gotten the watch from.

  But that set off more bells in my head, a curator of a museum even one as prestigious as the one he worked at didn’t make the kind of salary needed to live in a place like this. A curator makes tops, maybe about seventy grand; maybe some out there are closer to a hundred grand. I’ve never heard of one making enough salary to support a million dollar lifestyle, unless there was some dirty dealings going on. It’s not unheard of for people to be involved in black market antiquity dealings and such.

  The problem with that theory was, if he was dealing with the black market, yes he would make the money to live this life but it would be kind of hard to keep all this opulence quiet. Second, if he had died as a result of a black market deal gone bad, I wouldn’t be on this case at all, I only dealt with the whole supernatural thing.

  So here’s what I had at that particular moment, a museum curator goes from being portly and balding to model status, goes from an average middle class salary to bonkers million dollar salary and then winds up dead in another guys coffin.

  So I had nothing really, well except maybe the fact that people might not know that he was actually dead considering how he was buried, so, maybe it was due time Mr. Smith returned back to work.

  Chapter Three

  It was really late at night so the museum was probably locked down but I didn’t think that would be a problem for the curator of the place, he probably had a set of keys lying around somewhere. If it came down to it, I was fairly certain I could at least persuade a guard or something to let me in, assuming of course they recognized me in my new found slim fast glory. It made sense though, to go in this late, one, the museum would be relatively empty, so I could search for clues without much disturbance. The other reason was, well I didn’t really have the luxury of sleeping till morning considering that I was on a pretty tight clock.

  I had only ten hours left.

  I did however have the time for a shower, well I made time, I was covered in graveyard dirt, I smelled and I still had dried blood encrusting one of my hands. It would have been awfully weird having to explain all of that to a guard or anyone else I ran into.

  So I stripped down and stepped onto the cool rough stone floor of the shower, taking a few moments to discern what the various…well fifty or so odd knobs and such actually did. After about five minutes I was able to get the shower started and it was heaven! It had fifty million different massage and water pressure settings, you know, the ones that have names like gentle rain and thunderstorm settings. I may have dallied just a bit and enjoyed myself, letting out a series of pleasurable moans as the warm water batted against my borrowed skin. I could’ve stayed there forever, groaning more as I felt my entire body loosening up. It struck me that the pleasurable moaning sounds I was making could be seriously misconstrued for something else someone does in the bathroom. Thankfully no one was around to hear me make them.

  I eventually stepped out and immediately regretted doing so, just once I wish I could live a normal day, shower, go to work some normal job and then come home and sleep.

  But I couldn’t, so here I was.

  I dressed back up in the suit Norman had been wearing when he had died, asides from dirt on it, which I brushed off, it was still in decent shape as were the shoes. I thought that particular suit might come in handy and make me more recognizable to whatever ganked him. It’s a shock to anything normal or supernatural when the person you’ve killed comes back from the grave. I was hoping that I’d run into whatever had killed him and hopefully get some kind of startled reaction; it would certainly be of some help since I didn’t have much else to go on. I decided to pocket the damaged watch and clipped on the I.D badge and began searching for any set of keys I could find.

  I dug around for a bit when I found a key that I wasn’t looking for and a piece of paper, a will in fact. The key and will were lying on a small nightstand next to a photo of a younger Norman and an older looking version of him, their arms around each other and in the background was a small wooded creak. After reading through it I found out that it belonged to Norman’s father, he had recently passed away and left the classic Lamborghini that was sitting outside. Apparently one of Norman’s greatest wishes was to one day inherit that car from his father or at least that’s what his father said in the will and lo and behold he did inherit it. Well at least I could rule the car out for being acquired through foul play.

  I snatched the key up and that’s when another flash hit me, another memory of Norman. He was casually tossing a small ringlet with several keys into the bottom drawer of the very nightstand I had found the will on top of. I gently opened the bottom drawer, as there really wasn’t any need to tear up this place anymore now that I knew where the keys were and found the drawer to be a disheveled mess. There was crap everywhere! Pens, all manner of papers like credit card applications, bills, cruise trip info and more, there was little can of shoe polish, an electric razor, and measuring tape, what the hell?

  After digging through the random assortment of things I managed to find the same ring of keys I had seen in Norman’s vision, I still didn’t know what they were for yet but at least I had them. I put the car key and the key to Norman’s home onto the ring as well and headed downstairs, locking the door as I stepped out, heading to the curb. I opened the door to the pastel Lambo and clambered into the car, it was a bit of an effort, the seats were really low and Norman was a bit tall. I more fell in abruptly than got into it but I was in.

  I let out a low whistle as I looked around, polished rich black leather, equally polished wood and metal adoring the car, even the
gated plating around the shifter was polished. Wow, they didn’t make cars like this anymore, well they did but I couldn’t afford them, it’s not like I have a bank account or even get paid for this gig.

  I put the key in and started her up, the car thrummed to life with guttural growl. It was a deep and bubbling basso beehive, loud and constantly growling away. The car was vibrating, shivering away in the New York winter, I decided to let it warm up properly even though I was low on time. It didn’t make sense to potentially kill a classic like this by driving it without letting it warm up; these old cars could be difficult at times.

  I haven’t actually been in a mechanic yet, I think that some of that car knowledge is my own, maybe I was a mechanic before all of this started. I honestly had no clue.

  After waiting for ten to fifteen minutes I depressed the clutch, which was much harder than I thought it would be and slipped the car into first gear and drove off. Fortunately it wasn’t snowing, it’s a strange thing about New York, every winter it snows and rains and it always has, but every time it does, people forget how to drive despite having lived there their entire lives.

  It didn’t take me much time to get to the museum, about ten minutes give or take, I pulled into a parking garage near the west pavilion. I decided to enter through the Columbus Avenue entrance, I had a pretty good idea of the layout because of Norman’s memories, which were now constantly flooding my brain. Throughout many of my cases, whenever the amount of memories from the deceased begin to increase, it’s a good sign that whatever killed them is near or that I’m in the right place. It’s like getting the hibbie jibbies but instead I’m getting flash after flash of random memories.

  So far so good, I had entered easily with the keys Norman had on him and was now strolling through a corridor alone and in the dark. If ever there was a time and place to be jumped by a supernatural baddy, now was it, but nothing of the sort happened. Most people, sane people would have been relieved to not run into a monster, not me. At this point I would have preferred it.

  I was running out of time and didn’t really have much to go on. I would have preferred being attacked so I could kill whatever it was that killed Norman and be done.

  But none of that happened.

  So I kept strolling through the corridor, passing a sign for an IMAX theater, which was showing a film about the moon and desolation and some such. Would’ve been nice to be able to stop and go watch it seeing how as I don’t normally get the time to do things like that. But again, I was pressed for time and the museum was closed and there’s the fact I’m not entirely interested in the moon unless I’m on a werewolf case and I’ve had a few of those.

  I continued walking past the theater and eventually came to the small mammals section, it was a wooden hall with minute glass walled exhibits featuring mostly rodents. There were different types of squirrels, wolverines, minks, badgers and something called a marten…I had been in a Marten once, didn’t look similar, the one I was in was quite the hefty guy although he was furry too.

  I shuddered at the recollection; it wasn’t my fondest case or memories.

  Something odd was really bothering me as I continued walking; I had made it a fair bit into the museum and hadn’t run into one security guard. It was kind of eerie because I had thought that there would be some people asides from guards working after closing, setting up exhibits and what not or whatever it is that museum employees do.

  I kept on walking past the hall and passed a café, the North American Mammal section, a rose gallery, some cosmic path thingy and that’s when I finally saw a sign for the security offices.

  I headed down to the security office hoping to find someone that would recognize who I was, that way I could start asking questions and maybe get my bearings in this case. I passed the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Hall on my way there but I didn’t stop to look, with all of my paranormal experiences over the years I wouldn’t be surprised if that statue did come to life and started yelling at me. I was way short on time and didn’t need to be yelled at by Robin Williams…the conversation would never ever end.

  As I drew nearer to the office a voice rang out.

  “Hey!” It called gruffly.

  I spun around quickly, the man was shorter than Norman, I’d put him about five ten. He was portly and porcine face, cheeks flushed and pink, beady little weasel brown eyes and a nose that looked like it was constantly being thumbed up.

  Porcine, yup.

  He had slicked back dark hair and his face looked like it was stuck in a perpetual state of scowling. He was dressed like a rent a cop and had that swagger to match, the kind that belonged to those high school kids who never seemed to grow up, the ones who need a constant power trip to feel in charge. He was walking towards me with his chest puffed out, stretching the fabric of his security guard outfit.

  “There’s Stiller,” I muttered to myself in an attempt to keep myself amused on this case, if I didn’t do that I’d go insane…er.

  As he got closer he pointed his massive flashlight, when I mean massive I mean this thing was as long as a nightstick, clearly somebody was compensating. He shone the bright light into my face causing me to squint.

  “Who are you?” he barked.

  “I’m Norman, Norman Smith…the curator,” I said, letting the word curator hang in the air.

  “Oh,” he exclaimed, “sorry sir, sorry, I didn’t, um…” he stammered apologetically.

  Damn right asshole. Shouting at me and shinning a light in my face.

  Before I could speak, he ran the light back up and down my body and of course into my face once again blinding me as he let out a surprised gasp. “What happened to you? You don’t look the same at all? You look younger and you lost a lot of weight!” he exclaimed.

  I showed him my I.D badge and smiled, “Native American sweat lodge. The pounds just melted right off!”

  “Really?” He asked, genuinely sounding shocked, ah bless him, stupid people are the universe’s gift to intelligent people. Make fun of them whilst you can and enjoy it.

  I looked down at his little security tag; it read Rick, “Hey, listen Rick I need some help and I think you’re just the guy I’m looking for.” He nodded but otherwise remained silent. “Do you happen to remember what I was working on or doing at all the past few days?”

  He looked at me a bit confused but answered me nonetheless, “yeah, you were doing something with that new Middle Eastern exhibit. Not open yet, you were doing some stuff with the archaeologists, cataloging and hovering over them and stuff.”

  There we go, now I had something, Middle Eastern exhibit, which meant…nada.

  “Say um, could you point me in the right direction there Rick?”

  He rolled his weasely eyes and pointed the way.

  I strolled forwards in the direction he had pointed for maybe less than a minute before coming to a set of double doors, the kind you see in some grocery stores that lead to some back room filled with stock and what not. I pushed through them and saw what looked like an endless corridor, which branched off into many other corridors.

  “Fantastic,” I muttered bitterly to myself.

  “What’s fantastic?” asked a girlish voice.

  I suddenly remembered those cartoons where someone gets so scared that their soul actually jumps out of their body for a second. That just nearly happened to me, nearly, not did but nearly. I am a fearless paranormal investigator; I’ve killed all manner of monsters before, but occasionally the voice of a random stranger in the same hall as me might surprise me. I made this very clear in my response.

  “Fuck me!” I yelped.

  I whipped to my side to see a young girl; she looked to be in her early twenties. She was about five four, long wavy raven black hair; she had smoky brown eyes that just smoldered and oozed sexuality. She was leaning there against the wall in a tight leather jacket worn over a gray t-shirt that had strategically placed tears that showed a bit too much skin. Her dark blue and tight fitting jeans were cut shor
t at the top and were worn low, revealing a taught midsection. The jeans were also slashed in certain places and went all the way down to her black combat boots fitted with stainless steel buckles. She was staring at me with an arched eyebrow, just waiting.

  Oh, she was also smoking…in the American Museum of Natural History! Kids these days, they’re just, well assholes, they just are.

  “Put that out, now.” I all but growled at her.

  She looked at me like any young kid would when their parents told them to do something that just grinded them, it was a haughty and defiant look. “Who died and made you my dad?” she asked.

  Kids. Assholes. Getting uppity with her elders and still, smoking in a frickin’ museum!

  “I’m the curator,” I said flatly, pointing to the I.D card clipped to my suit.

  Her eyes widened and the only sound that came out her mouth then was a “meep!” She hastily removed, put out and stowed her cigarette, staring at me like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

  “How did you get back here?” I asked her.

  “My…um…my dad works here, he let me come with him and…” she said trailing off.

  Considering that I wasn’t going to be here too long I didn’t really care all too much about her smoking, I decided not to go and get security, she could be helpful. If her father worked here then maybe I could go to him and try and get some answers or leads that would put me closer to solving Norman’s death. Of course that all depended on her cooperating and telling me who her father was and where exactly he was working at the moment, if I called security on her, well chances are that she wouldn’t be all too helpful then.

  “Where’s your father now?”

  She turned her head, avoiding eye contact with me, which was weird. I wasn’t all that intimidating, was I? She raised her arm and pointed to a corridor on the far left, “down that way, he’s cataloging some stuff for the Middle Eastern thingy,” she quietly.