| |
Acresville, May 21
12:02 p.m.
It was no act of murder, but it filled Allan with a revulsion that equaled his sense of foreboding. A light rain pattered steadily against the hood of his raincoat as he stared down at the desecrated grave of Hector J. Walsh.
He glanced around the dreary landscape. Nearby, David and Sam talked quietly to the cemetery’s caretaker. His name was Jack Greer, a squat, chubby man of fifty who was balding on top. The rain had pressed his remaining hair flat to his head. He wore dark work pants and a flannel jacket, no hood.
Allan watched them for a moment. Then he focused his attention on a mound of sod heaped to one side of the grave. Lips pursed, he stared at it.
He wondered if this was the work of their suspect. It had to be. Did he actually dig up the grave or just make it look that way?
Allan knew that question would have to be answered. He slowly shook his head, absorbing the task in front of them.
Four boot impressions were in the topsoil where the sod had been. He knelt to one knee for a better look. Two, he saw, had clear details of the sole and heel design; the other two contained a small amount of standing water. From their general characteristics, they all appeared to have been made by the same pair of boots.
Allan reached into a pocket of his raincoat and produced his notebook. On a blank page, he wrote down his time of arrival, the address of the scene, those present, and the weather conditions.
Someone shouted, “Detective!”
Allan looked up, saw David coming over.
“Do you need to speak to Mr. Greer?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
David motioned the caretaker to join them. As he approached, Allan’s gaze drifted to the man’s boots, to the mud that rimmed their soles. Inwardly, he winced.
Without ceremony Greer said, “Damn kids, I tell ya.”
Allan shot him a quizzical look. “Pardon me?”
Greer leveled a pudgy finger at the grave. “This,” he said in a disgusted tone. “Last year, they kicked over headstones. Tossed flowers around. They even sprayed graffiti on the wall outside. This year they’re messing up graves.”
Allan appraised him for a moment. “Was the front gate locked when you got here this morning?”
Greer nodded his double chins. “Yeah. But they can easily climb over the wall.”
Allan scribbled down the details. On the dampening paper, the ink was barely taking.
“Did you check for any other desecrations?”
“Yeah. This was the only one touched.”
Looking around, Allan tried to gauge the size of the cemetery. It was large, he realized.
“You checked everywhere?” he prodded Greer.
Another nod. “I did. Since those incidents last year, I do a quick walkabout every morning. Damn kids.” Palms out, Greer gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “I don’t understand it. What’s the attraction? You gotta be sick in the head to do stuff like this.”
Allan closed his notebook, the page too wet to write on. He had written very little anyhow.
“There are a lot of idiots out there,” he said. “You quickly realize that in my line of work. Vandalism reflects the attitude of the group of people committing it.” With his pen, he pointed to the man’s feet. “Can I see the bottoms of your boots, please?”
A guarded look came across Greer’s face. “What for?”
Allan showed him the impressions in the topsoil.
“Those belong to me,” Greer said with a trace of apology in his tone. “I removed the sod when I noticed the lumps under.” He turned, lifting one foot, then the other. “See?”
At once Allan noted the similarities in the sole design. Disappointed, he let out a sigh. He knew it. He just knew it.
“The sod was in place when you got here?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t how we left it. You couldn’t tell we even put it down. There were no gaps or overlaps. Not like the mess this morning.”
“Were all the pieces messed up or just a few?”
“All of them. And they all had big lumps underneath. We rake and roll the soil before laying the sod.”
Allan paused, thinking that over. “When was the burial?”
“Wednesday morning.”
Allan scratched his chin. Buried Wednesday, desecrated on Thursday night. He wondered if the suspect knew Walsh or his family.
“Thank you,” he said. “That’ll be all for now.”
Greer wiped rain from his face. Then without another word, he turned and left. Several yards away, Allan heard him mutter under his breath, “Damn kids.”
As Greer disappeared down the slope of the closest hill, David looked to Allan.
He said, “I don’t believe kids did this. Do you?”
Allan lifted his face to the sky, blinking against the raindrops coming down.
“No. No, I don’t,” he said.
“If it’s the suspect, he just told us he’s still in the area.”
Allan detected an edge in David’s voice. Despairingly, he felt David’s burden as his own. Though never spoken, Allan could sense the attitude of other officers in the Acresville department. All hope seemed to rest on him to solve the Baker murder.
“Dr. Armstrong thought he might be from here,” he said.
Sam asked, “Why would he do this?”
Allan shook his head. “Don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe he’s taunting us. Trying to get under our skin.”
“It’s working,” Sam said.
Allan threw him a glance. “Just stay focused.”
Face troubled, David stared into some void. “You know what we need to do, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Allan mumbled. “We need to do an exhumation.”
“Just to make sure,” David said.
“The Department of Health won’t allow it in this rain,” Allan told him. “We’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I think the rain’s supposed to let up this afternoon.”
“I’ll call Fitzgerald to get everything lined up,” David said.
“Let’s get the funeral register book,” Allan said. “Run the names through the computer.”
David’s eyes narrowed. “You think this man was at Walsh’s funeral?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Allan paused, amassing his thoughts. “Did he just pick this grave by chance? You have to ask yourself that. We should check the obituary to see if it said where Mr. Walsh was going to be buried.”
“I’ll take care of all that,” David said and left the scene.
James Bentley arrived and held a briefing with Allan and Sam. The men exchanged concerns about the weather. Everyone agreed that the rain was going to hamper the investigation. The topsoil in the grave had already turned to mud. To safeguard against further damage, they pitched an awning over it.
Sam took up his post at the front gates of the cemetery. Only authorized personnel would be allowed past him. There would be no visits granted to loved ones.
Allan retrieved his camera from his car and photographed the scene at varying distances and directions. James moved out from the gravesite with a metal detector. When he didn’t find any evidence, he switched his search to the stone wall where the perpetrator’s likely point of entry and exit had been. Allan helped him.
By midafternoon, the rain had become sporadic—moments of showers interrupted by lulls. Surrounded by it for so many hours, Allan felt the dampness beginning to seep into his bones. He needed to sit. He needed to eat. Already the day seemed too long.
His cell phone rang. It was David.
“I have some information,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“Hector Walsh and his wife lived in Halifax for the past twenty years. They’re originally from Acresville. They had bought the plots at Rolling Hills when they lived here.
“The family held a graveside service on Wednesday morning. Apparently Mr. Walsh never wanted a funeral. He said they were too expensive.”
“Who was at the service?”
“Only his family and a few close friends.”
“Have you seen the obituary?”
“I have. There was one in the Gazette and the Herald. They were identical and never mentioned where the burial would take place.”
Allan exhaled. “Thank you.”
Hanging up, he shook his head, confused and frustrated.
And the mystery deepens, he thought.
