It was a beautiful day, one her mother would have referred to as jacket weather. The sun had brightened a gray sky, but as they walked among the tombstones, Emily Morgan felt the sorrow of each death as they passed by. She didn’t yet know if Marcus and Ackerman were dead, but she had already begun to cycle the stages of grief. But she had to focus. At the moment, her thoughts should remain on the man responsible for the slaughter she had just witnessed.
Emily considered herself a patient woman. After all, it was her job to listen, to genuinely care, and offer whatever counseling service the client required, whether that be a shoulder to cry on or just a sounding board for his or her problems. The nature of her job demanded a humble and understanding spirit.
But even she was ready to strangle Baxter Kincaid.
“Okay,” she said, “we’re here. Now, tell me what it is that you’re thinking. Is the name on one of these tombstones supposed to mean something to me?”
Baxter said, “Well, these were all once people. Every one of them a son, a daughter, a friend. They each had a life, and now they have departed this mortal coil. Onward and upward. You and I will both share their fate one day. So yes, I would expect these names to mean something to you. But that’s not why we’re here.”
With a roll of her eyes, Emily said, “You remind me of someone else I know when you act this way.”
“I’m sure you’re referring to some kind of brilliant detective mentor?”
“Actually, he’s more of a mental patient. But he has this way of being horrible and yet likable at the same time.”
A sadness filled Baxter’s eyes. He said, “It wouldn’t be the first time I was called a mental patient.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just a little distracted.”
“No worries, darling. I want to catch this bastard just as much as you.”
“I thought you wanted off the case, that your job was over?
“I said that before he went and shot up a brothel in my neighborhood. This might be a bit childish, but I think of myself as sort of the local protector of my neighborhood, kind of like Batman watching over Gotham City. Only without all the gadgets and Kung Fu and what not.”
“How is this trip to the cemetery supposed to help us find the Gladiator?”
As they reached the back edge of the property, Baxter opened a wrought iron gate. Then, pointing at a small yet well-maintained home adjacent to the cemetery, Baxter said, “We’re here to talk to the caretaker, who lives on the grounds. I’ve met him a time or two, and I remembered that his name is Granger.”