Grave Situation (40 page)

Allan appraised him for a moment
and then turned to another page in his spiral.

“Was the front gate locked when
you got here this morning?” he asked.

Greer nodded his double chins.
“Yeah.”

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 after I
open up. 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 spiral, 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
explained with a trace of apology in his tone. “I removed the sod
when I noticed the lumps under.” He turned, lifted one foot, then
the other. “See?”

At once Allan noted the
similarities in the sole design. Disappointed, he let out a
sigh.

I knew it.

“The sod was in place when you got
here?”

“Yeah, like someone tried to cover
the mess they made.”

Allan paused, thinking a
moment.

After being so careful with the
murders, he leaves the grave like it’s been filled with haste. Why?
Intentional or was he interrupted by something?

“When was the burial?” he asked
finally.

“Wednesday morning.”

Allan scratched his
chin.

Buried Wednesday, desecrated on
Thursday. Did he know 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,
“Fuckin’
kids.”

As Greer disappeared down the slope
of the closest hill, David looked to Allan.

“I don’t believe kids did this,”
he said.

Allan lifted his face to the sky,
blinking against the raindrops coming down. “Me either.”

“If it is him, he just told us
that 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 be on him to solve
the Baker murder.

“That he did,” he said.

“Why would he do this?” asked
Sam.

Allan shook his head. “I don’t
know. It doesn’t make sense.”

Face troubled, David stared into
some void. “You know what this forces us to do.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Allan. “We need an
exhumation.”

“The Department of Health won’t
allow it in this rain.”

“We’ll have to wait until
tomorrow,” said Allan. “The rain is supposed to let up this
afternoon.”

“I’ll call Fitzgerald to get
everything lined up.”

“We should get the funeral
register book. Run the names through the computer.”

David’s eyes narrowed into a
speculative gaze. “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? We should also see if the obituary said where Mister 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 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 around and then 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 mid-afternoon, 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 Fall River for the past twenty years. They’re originally from
Acresville, and bought the plots at Rolling Hills when they lived
here.

“The family held a graveside
service on Wednesday morning. Apparently Mister 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.

42

Acresville, May 22

10:30 a.m.

“History is
marred with accounts of grave robberies,” said Fitzgerald. “During
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, your final resting place
wasn’t necessarily your
final
resting place.”

Crossing his arms, Allan watched a
fluffy cloud drift by in the rich blue of morning sky.
“Uh-huh.”

They stood several feet away from
the gravesite as James Bentley prepared for the exhumation of
Hector Walsh. After choosing a datum point, he divided the top of
the grave into grids using lengths of string tied to metal stakes
driven into the ground. Sam documented everything with
photographs.

Two other people were at the
site—Jack Greer, who sat inside a backhoe and a man from the
Department of Health who made sure proper protocol was being
followed. Everyone present had to be dressed in full protective
gear—Tyvek coveralls, gloves, goggles, masks and safety
boots.

“Resurrection men used to steal
entire corpses,” Fitzgerald continued. “Some of the men were
actually surgeons and medical students who wanted the bodies to
dissect and study. Others were simply profiteers who sold the
bodies to medical schools.

“They used to target fresh graves.
Not only because the soil would be easier to dig, but the body
would be in better shape.”

“Good thing we have willing donors
nowadays,” Allan said.

Fitzgerald laughed. “Yeah, isn’t
that the truth? I don’t condone what they did back then, but the
practice lead to many advancements in the field of
anatomy.”

Allan raised his eyebrows. “I bet.
Sick way to do it.”

He watched James removing the top
layer of soil from the grave and dumping it into buckets lined up
on the edge. After he filled each one, he lugged them to the wet
sieving area he’d assembled nearby. There he spread the soil over a
box sifter and hand checked it first. Then he used water to
separate the soggy dirt from any articles it contained—nothing but
pebbles and rocks.

The old soil from the grave would
be trucked away; new soil would be used in the reburial.

When James got several feet down,
he had Sam help him install wooden shoring along the walls of the
hole to prevent a cave-in. His coveralls were caked with mud and
sweat dampened his forehead.

Allan’s cell phone rang, breaking
his focus on the activity around him. He turned away, pulling the
mask below his chin.

“How’s everything going?” David
asked him.

“They’re making
headways.”

“How much longer do you think
it’ll be?”

“Should be soon.” Reflexively,
Allan looked at his watch—12:53. “I’ll let you know what I find
out.”

There was an intake of breath.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Allan snapped his phone
shut.

He’s worried.

Without the mask, he could smell
the damp earth and rotting leaves. He positioned it back over his
nose again and walked toward the edge of the grave, peering down
with an anxious sigh.

Time, he realized, was fast
becoming his enemy. He had no evidence. No leads. No suspects.
Simply nothing. Now the killer might’ve robbed a grave right under
his nose.

James continued removing soil by
the bucket full, and soon the contoured shape of the casket began
to appear. He eased forward onto his knees, brushing the dirt off
the top with his gloved hands.

“We have something, Lieutenant,”
he called up.

Allan crouched for a better look.
“What is it?”

James leaned back and pointed to a
crescent-shaped indentation in the lower lid of the
casket.

“Looks like the tip of a shovel
got stuck here,” he said. “Round point shovel, I’d say.”

Allan felt tightness in his
chest.

“Have the lids been tampered
with?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

James reached down and gave the lid
a gentle tug. “Lower one’s secure.”

He maneuvered around and tried the
upper lid. For a moment, he became still. Then he leaned over and
dug out the soil several inches below the edge of the lid,
examining something very closely. Allan looked on in
suspense.

“What’d you find?” he
asked.

“There are pry marks on the
underside of the lid,” James answered without raising his
head.

Allan breathed in once, closing his
eyes.

What’d he steal?

Allan wasn’t sure that he wanted to
learn the answer.

Fitzgerald walked over to
him.

“Is it what we were fearing?” he
asked.

Allan rose to his feet, his voice
quiet as he said, “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”

Within half an hour, James had dug
out the soil around the perimeter of the casket. He gave Greer the
signal to bring over the backhoe and then slung heavy straps around
both ends of the casket. As the bucket of the backhoe was lowered
over the grave, James secured the other ends of the straps to the
arm behind it.

He climbed from the hole and gave
the signal with his thumb. “Take it up.”

Working the levers, Greer slowly
and carefully brought the casket out of the ground and lowered onto
the bed of a trailer he had attached to his lawn tractor nearby.
After James undid the straps, Greer shut off the backhoe and jumped
onto the tractor, starting it up.

Allan and Fitzgerald followed him
out to the front entrance, where the three men loaded the casket
into the back of the coroner’s van. Fitzgerald closed the doors and
walked around to the driver’s door.

“See you at the
morgue.”

As Allan drove behind him toward
Acresville, his cell phone rang again. He pulled off the shoulder
of the road and answered. It was the serology department at the
forensic lab in Halifax.

“I have some results for you,
Lieutenant,” a female’s voice told him.

Allan tensed with anticipation. “Go
ahead, please.”

“Trixy Ambré’s blood is a match to
the samples taken from the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf on May
ninth.”

Even though it was something he’d
suspected, hearing the confirmation still gave him
pause.

“Lieutenant?”

“I’m here,” he said. “Thank you
for the info.”

Hanging up, he sat there for a
moment, thinking about Trixy’s murder.

“Miss Ambré was struck with a
blunt, cylindrical instrument. I found a single impact injury to
the side of her head. When I examined the skull, I found a linear
fracture in the temporal region.”