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A question niggled at the back of my mind after leaving Myra. How did broccoli man know about my dead body? He wasn’t a reader, based on the overflow in the box that held local newspapers. I drove to his house and parked on the street, my engine running.
I peered at the weathered house. A metal contraption caught my attention. Above and beyond the cowboy silhouette lawn art, at the far corner of the roof, sat an old-fashioned antenna. Broccoli man kept up with the neighborhood through television. The bodies and investigation had made the local news.
Sheriff Don’s earlier comment about how convenient it would be to dispose of a body in a building slated for a controlled burn also rumbled in my mind. It was a good time to take a tour of the neighborhood where the other body had been left. Could there be some link to the training sites? Could a body be overlooked or hidden somehow? The sheriff had dismissed the thought, but I had to be sure.
As I cruised past my rehabbed house to the end of the double-long block, I spotted a sagging garage on a vacant lot. I lowered my window and studied the detached garage. The white paint was chipped and weathered. One end was supported by a two-by-four piece of lumber.
Sirens sounded in the distance. Then, the deep horn of a fire truck blared as it lumbered through the streets. I put my car in gear and headed towards the noise. I could have stayed put. The fire truck stopped in front of the failing garage.
I parked a safe distance behind the fire engine and watched as the firefighters hustled off the truck with water hoses. I don’t know what came over me, but what I did next defies any reasonable explanation.
I plead temporary insanity.
I couldn’t contain a feeling of dread as I observed the men prepare for the fire exercise. The feeling started in the pit of my stomach and welled up through my chest until I leaped out of my car and ran toward the garage, yelling, “Stop, stop!” at the top of my lungs.
The crew hesitated when they saw me. One man, whom I guessed was the fire chief, barked an order to the others to stop the session. He was massive. I guessed his height at about six-and-a-half feet, and his shoulders the width of a doorway.
The chief pivoted, towering over me in his uniform of khaki colored jacket with wide reflective yellow tape, yellow helmet, and khaki pants tucked inside brown rubber boots, and demanded, “What seems to be the problem?”
“There’s a body in that building you’re going to torch!” I yelled hoarsely, out of breath from my sprint. My belly and chest ached and I gasped, struggling to catch my breath.
“Stop work!” the chief yelled. The other firefighters stopped unloading equipment.
The chief stomped to the garage side door and looked inside. Satisfied, he twisted, glaring at me.
“Follow me,” he ordered.
“Okay,” I nodded and trailed him to the side door of the garage.
“Watch your step,” he snapped, and spun towards me, surprisingly graceful for a large man. “Now, I want to know what this is about. What body and where?”
Standing inside the dimly lit structure, I saw it was empty and clear of any debris. I looked into the rafters above the garage, and saw ... nothing. The chief glared at me, and asked suspiciously, “What’s going on, lady?”
“Uh,” I stammered, “well, there were two bodies found in this neighborhood, and when I saw the firefighters and the training exercise...”
“You thought we were burning bodies in buildings scheduled for training!” he barked.
It did sound incredible.
“Lady, you’d better get off this site, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing, spitting, interfering with a firefighting exercise, and anything else I can think of!” the beefy man growled.
“Okay, never mind,” I muttered and left embarrassed, my head down and chin tucked in. I hoped the chief would forget my lapse in sanity, and none of the firefighters at the scene would remember a hysterical, bushy-haired woman. I heard the trainees grumble and the chief mutter, “loony public,” as I slunk off to my car. It wasn’t my best moment.
As I got in my car, my cell rang. I plucked the phone from my purse. “Where have you been?” Myra demanded. “They found another body!”
I raced over to meet her in the same neighborhood where my Bluebird house waited for a buyer. Sheriff Don Williams and Myra waited outside the entry of a rambler with light blue siding and detached garage, while two men removed the body.
“Whoever did this, left in a hurry. They must have been spooked by the patrol cars in the area,” I overheard the sheriff say to Myra, adding, “The new owner discovered the body in the living room.” I joined them on the sidewalk.
How sad, I thought as we watched the sheet-covered figure on the gurney. When the police loaded the form into the transport vehicle, the sheeting caught on the door. From my vantage point, beside Myra and the sheriff, I glimpsed an elderly white man dressed in a hospital gown. He was unshaven and looked rough.
Three bodies so far, and who knows how long this would go on? My house was within six-blocks of this latest body. If this wasn’t solved soon, I’d never get my house sold, the neighborhood would suffer from the unsolved crimes. I’d be doing consumer research for the rest of my life. I blanched thinking about the showing scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Sheriff Don left and got into his patrol car, following the van.
“My brother called me. He thought I’d like to know right away,” Myra confided. “I overheard the men say it was frigid in the house. Most likely to hold off the smell of decomposition.”
“Oh boy,” I said, glumly.
“You know; this isn’t helping the resale value on your house.”
“No kidding.”
“Why are they using this neighborhood as a disposal area for these poor people?” Myra asked, adding, “It’s not a terrible part of town, not like some areas.”
“There must be some sort of connection,” I speculated. “It could be familiar. The person or people responsible for leaving the bodies know how to get in and out fast, without causing any commotion. Maybe they live in the neighborhood?”
“Or work here,” Myra suggested.
“Huh.” I was skeptical. The neighborhood was mostly residential, with a couple of mom-and-pop stores. There wouldn’t be many jobs to draw people. Residents would have to commute for work. This house was similar to other housing stock; it was a single-story with a detached garage, but met the fate of many homes during the recession. It was abandoned, likely after the owners found themselves under water in an overpriced housing market. After some cosmetic work, painting and clean up, it would be ready for new owners.
All and all, it was an attractive area, except for the recent rash of lifeless bodies. Trees were budding, tulips and daffodils were starting to bloom in the early spring. The house I’d flipped had new spring color in the front yard as well. Lush green grass was growing and bushes were filling out.
We were about to leave the premises, when Sheriff Don returned in his patrol car. We stopped at the edge of the lawn.
“Oh oh,” I said, as he parked and lowered his window.
“Hello, Sheriff,” Myra said. “Back, so soon?”
“Hello, Myra, Katelyn,” his deep voice greeted us, a gleam in his eyes. He nodded and said, “Just got a call from the fire chief. Seems he’s getting someone from the public at controlled burn sites looking for dead bodies. It’s annoying. You don’t want to annoy the fire chief.”
He studied my face for any reaction.
“Do you have any leads in these cases?” I tried to keep my tone and expression neutral.
“I can’t discuss it. It’s an ongoing investigation,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “but, we can’t have civilians playing investigator when we don’t know what’s behind this. It interferes with police work. You understand, Katelyn. It’s my job.”
“I understand,” I said reluctantly. I felt warmer towards Sheriff Don. He redeemed himself for his interrogation about Jimmy’s unfortunate appearance in my attic. And, he hadn’t forced the episode with the fire chief. He drove away.
“He’s such a nice man,” Myra said, watching until he was out of sight.
“Uh huh,” I said, sighing at the memory of Sheriff Don’s broad shoulders. My mind snapped back to the present. I turned to Myra. “Do you think we should still have the open house this weekend?”
“It can’t hurt. We have a house to sell,” Myra said, her head high, chin out and determined. “We must show whoever is doing this, they’re not going to scare off buyers or investors.”
“Are you ready to do a cleansing?” I asked, watching her expression.
“Arrgh, all right,” she said, with a grimace. “Let’s do it. I’ll meet you at the house.”
“Great. I’m almost there.” I jumped into my rusty Ford, eager to get on with the ritual.