The Dark Man (2 page)

I asked for it, and I got it. I watched as a rotting two-by-four rose straight up off the floor and stood there, like a soldier at attention, for a full five seconds before it launched itself across the bedroom and missed my head by less than a foot.

The second time I was here, nothing happened. Not a damn thing. I sat and walked and perched and squatted and napped in this godforsaken place all night, alone, waiting on something to come back and challenge me again. Nothing but dead, boring silence.

Tonight, though … yeah, it feels different. He’s here, and I plan to get some answers out of him.

These days, it’s rare that I’m able to get out and investigate for fun. Now that
Graveyard: Classified
has basically gone the way of its own name, I have plenty of money that accompanies a guilty conscience; the latter keeps me from disappearing to a beach hut in the South Pacific. I can’t just walk away from this life. There are promises to keep and wrongs to avenge.

What I do is, I work freelance, trying my best to assist police departments in investigations, both fresh and cold cases, in turn helping families find answers that were buried with their kin. When it comes to family matters like what a loved one intended in a will, or when it comes to proof in an ongoing investigation, paranormal evidence hasn’t been officially or legally cleared for use. However, it often gives those involved enough clues or hints to proceed appropriately.

I do that kind of work to cherish the relief that I see in a stumped detective or a worried family member’s eyes, and I haven’t decided if I’m selfishly or selflessly building up karma.

This kind of investigation, what I’m doing here tonight, has nothing to do with an ongoing case.

It has everything to do with little Chelsea Hopper.

A ghostly messenger residing here requested me by name, and I think some of my answers may be on the other side of that bedroom door.

I had to hop on a flight early the next morning, and a day later, after some much-needed rest, I’m sitting here in a stuffy office that could double as a gym sauna.

The detective’s suit doesn’t fit him well. One of these days, I may introduce him to Melanie, who used to be the head of wardrobe before
Graveyard: Classified
was cancelled. She’d know exactly how to dress him properly, maybe give the poor guy an upright, professional appearance, rather than this slump-shouldered, slept-in-his-suit look he’s rolling with now. Realistically, he’s probably in his late forties, though the impression he gives off is, “I’m missing Bingo night and
Matlock
reruns, you whippersnapper.”

He says to me, “This stuff is legit, right? What you do?”

I get this question often enough that it doesn’t bother me anymore.

Maybe a little bit.

I tell him, “I’ve seen crap you wouldn’t believe, Detective Thomas. I’ve watched chairs slide across rooms by themselves. I’ve seen an indentation form in a couch cushion, just like somebody sat down beside me to watch the big game. I’ve had my hair pulled, scratches and burns all over my body, cabinets flung open, knives flying at my head …”

“I remember, definitely. I was a big fan of
Graveyard
, back when it was still on. I just thought, you know …”

“That we made it all up?”

“Hate to say it, but yeah. Special effects are so good these days. I don’t mean to accuse you or anything, but some of those shenanigans … a bit hard to swallow.”

“Come with me one night. I’ll show you firsthand. You guys do ride-alongs, right? Same thing.”

He holds up a palm and gives me a fake frown. “Thanks, I’m good. Better for me that it stays on the other side of the TV screen. I’ve seen enough on
this
side of the grave to keep me awake at night.”

I’m here in Virginia Beach, Virginia, this week. The VBPD called me in to see if I could do anything about this cold-case murder that recently popped back up in the national spotlight when an explicit diary was uncovered.

Apparently, the former mayor had been having an affair with his secretary—go figure—and after she floated to the surface at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay ten years ago, nobody considered him a suspect. Mayor Gardner passed away back in 2012, according to Detective Thomas, and without any further leads, the diary was pretty much useless. There was proof of an affair in pasty, white, fleshy, gray-haired detail, but
not
proof that he murdered her, or hired someone to do it, after Louisa Craghorn threatened blackmail, the details of which she described in the final entry.

Before she was murdered, Louisa was young—thirty-two at the time—Filipina, and loved her Pomeranian. She liked taking a pottery class on Thursday nights and ran six miles four days a week. She had been married to her husband, Dave Craghorn, for just under two years when Mayor Gardner approached her about a promotion.

And, evidently, the stipulations included an inappropriate relationship, considering he had been married to the same woman for forty-nine years. She’s alive and well, and also happens to be quite the public socialite around the Hampton Roads area. Ellen Gardner is still sparkling in her early seventies and loves to entertain guests, and from what Detective Thomas says, the diary revelation hasn’t slowed her down in the slightest.

Detective Thomas clears his throat and takes a sip of steaming coffee. “You want some?” He holds the mug higher and tells me, “Should warn you, folks around here make it strong enough for a spoon to stand upright.”

“As delicious as that sounds, I’m good. Had my fair share already.” I lean back in the uncomfortable chair across from him and cross my legs. “So you explained some of the history on the phone, Detective. What’re we looking at here and how do you think I can help?”

“Straight down to business. My kinda guy.” He picks up a file box that’s stuffed to the rim with folders and clasp envelopes. “This is the Craghorn case history. Or, well, I should say that it’s the start of it. There are four more in our file room downstairs. And … now it might be more appropriate to call it the Craghorn-Gardner case.”

My eyebrows arch at the sheer amount of it all, and my head ricochets backward like I just bumped it on a low doorway. “That much, huh?”

“Tell me about it.”

“You had
that much
evidence, and the case still went cold?”

He pulls a shoulder up along with the corner of his mouth. “It happens. Sometimes you just … sometimes the bloodhound loses the trail.”

I nod and clasp my fingers, then lean in on my elbows. Once in a while, I have to play the role of
human
investigator to get at the root of what someone is really looking for. It helps when I switch to my normal role of paranormal investigator.

I ask the detective, “What were you going to say there, just now? You stopped yourself.”

The telephone on his desk rings loudly. He ignores it in favor of staring at me, waiting as if he’s trying to decide how to answer.

That is, how to answer
me
, not the phone.

Five rings pass before he picks up the receiver and immediately slams it back down, hanging up on his clueless caller. “Sometimes,” he says, “you just give up. I hate to admit it, but after you’ve exhausted every possible option, after you’ve got a few more gray hairs and the bags under your eyes look like they’re carrying bowling balls, you have to admit defeat. Sometimes, the bad guys get away with it, Mr. Ford.”

“Understandable. Who was the lead on the case back in ’04? Is that detective still around?”

Detective Thomas raises his hand, almost sheepishly, without saying a word.

“You? I didn’t think active homicide detectives tackled cold-case investigations. Or is that just an assumption I made up?”

“Once Elaine Lowe—that’s the surviving husband’s housekeeper—once she came forward with the diary she found, I requested this assignment. Immediately dropped everything I was working on because I wanted another shot, and here I am, six months later, no closer than I was back in 2004. New evidence, a new list of suspects who were cleared, and a whole lot uglier.” He sighs as he flips a folder closed and drops it on his desk.

“And murder was your original conclusion way back when?”

He nods, grimaces when he sips his steaming hot coffee.

“I read the content you sent me, Detective, but from what I gathered, the body had, uh, it had decayed so much that you weren’t quite sure.”

He grins at me. “Then you didn’t read all of it.”

He’s got me there. I didn’t, because when he called and asked me to hop on the next flight to Norfolk International, I was bone weary after the third farmhouse investigation. The events of two nights ago had prevented sleep from coming easily, and I’m dying to get back there to follow up, but the karma ain’t going to refill itself.

Part of the idea is, I feel like if I do enough of these investigations, I could look at pitching a new show idea to some producers who may be willing to overlook the fallout from the demise of
Graveyard: Classified
, but until I’m ready for that day, I’m not about to step back into prime time until I can find some peace for Chelsea Hopper, and in turn, myself. What I caught the other night could lead to a breakthrough even though I haven’t had time to fully analyze its meaning.

Ulie hasn’t been the same, either. The only thing I can do from here, three thousand miles away, is hope that my ex-wife, the aforementioned Melanie from wardrobe, is taking good care of him. She reports a tucked tail and whimpering, but he’s finally eating again.

I say to Detective Thomas, “Guilty as charged. Although that’s probably not the best thing to say to a cop, huh?”

Thankfully, he snickers. If I can get away with bad jokes, we might have a decent working relationship. Given what I do, it helps if my clients are easygoing and have an open mind. Judging by the fact that I’m here already, he’s either willing to try or has crossed the DMZ into desperation.

“You’re off the hook, Mr. Ford. I sent a lot, I know. Anyway, so, whenever a
naked
body pops up in the water, you suspect what?”

“Homicide. But if she was clothed, then my first thought would be an accident or suicide.”

“Exactly. Could be the natural wear of the currents pulling her clothes off, but more than likely, she comes out like that, she went in like that. When her husband had reported her missing, the guys looked for her and came up with nothing. Missing Persons monitored her credit cards and bank accounts because sometimes these women—or men—they get into drugs, or they just want to be gone. Maybe they finally leave an abusive relationship behind, or they ran off with the gardener—or in this case, the Gardner. Pardon the pun.”

His ambivalence doesn’t sit well in my gut, but I suppose after all he’s seen, it’s just another day on the assembly line.

“And you found something that told you otherwise?” I ask.

“Upon deeper inspection, once the ME got past all the—you know what? I’m going to spare you the wet details. The contusions around her neck showed signs of strangulation. At first glance, you might have suspected it could have been something underwater. Seaweed. Stray rope from an anchor. Maybe she’s out skinny-dipping, knocks her head against a rock, she sinks, the current drags her into something, and that’s all she wrote.”

“I’m guessing that wasn’t the case.”

“You’d be guessing correctly. The bruises revealed what we consistently see in these types of murders, and that’s a really strong grip.” Detective Thomas cups his hands around an invisible neck, and I have to say, it freaks me out when he grinds his teeth as if he’s actually performing the act itself. I’ve battled demons with a crucifix, side by side with terrified clergymen, but this gives me serious goosebumps. It’s almost like he’s—never mind. I’m on edge after the other night. It’s nothing.

“Were you able to tell, say, the size of the hands, or maybe the strength of the squeeze? Meaning, like, male or female?”

“Trust me, Mr. Ford, we went over all that during the preliminary investigations. That’s the simple stuff. If you catch the deceased at the proper time, you might have a better chance of determining something like that on a good day while pulling a few miracle cards, but not after a body has been in the bay for over a week. We were lucky the ME was able to come up with what he did.”

I sit back in my chair and put my finger to my lips, thinking. I’m not necessarily or inherently built with the deductive reasoning skills of a seasoned detective, but more than once, I’ve come up with an angle that helped spark their creative thought processes before I ever set foot in an investigation site. Beginner’s luck, I guess. Often a baffled, desperate police department has begrudgingly brought me in at the request of someone at the station who was a fan of the show, and frequently, the spirits of “the deceased,” as Detective Thomas refers to them, are uncooperative. I can’t
make
them talk any more than I can make a proper omelet on a regular basis. If it ain’t in the cards, it ain’t happening that day.

I still charge them for my time. The way I see it, detectives go to work every day and don’t solve cases, yet they still get paid. I could easily do this work pro bono, no problem, but I’ve found that if someone is paying me, they’re far more likely to be reasonable and accommodating.

I stop and start a few sentences. I come up with nothing, not a single approach that I think Detective Thomas can check out. He tried it all. He’s been trying again for the last six months, which means we’re down to my last line of questioning for him.

“Then that leaves us here,” I say, sitting up straighter. “A lot of times PDs will call me in for the novelty of it. They’re out of options, and they think, ‘Oh, what the hell, this guy works for peanuts. Why don’t we give him a try?’ I don’t like those. I’m not saying you
are
one of those, I’m just saying it’s hard walking onstage where the crowd hasn’t been warmed up first. See what I’m saying?”

He taps a pencil against his cheek and acknowledges me by dipping his chin.

“Then, other times, some detective has seen something he can’t explain and wants a second opinion, which I’m happy to help with. Those are great. It means there might be something there, and we might already have a solution to work toward. Even rarer still are guys like you, the ones who call with a little extra edge to their voices, the ones who are hesitant to say exactly
why
they’re calling. Guys who are nothing but curious? They’ll admit it right away. They’ll say, ‘This weird thing happened; we want you to come check it out.’ But detectives like you, been at this twenty years or more, seen everything there is to see, all the evil in humanity … you don’t need me. You got new evidence, fresh clues. You’re not ready to throw in the towel after six months, Detective. I don’t believe it when you say you’re back to where you started. You called me here for a reason. Something spooked you. So let me ask you this: What was it? What did you see?”