by Simon King
A short while later, Dooley hopped in his patrol car and headed out toward Spears Creek Cemetery, situated out on Route 33. The rain had been falling steadily all morning, but now that he was out in it, it felt to have increased in its ferocity.
The road resembled a waterway more than a hardtop and the young constable carefully navigated his way across the thick sheets of water. Traffic was fairly light for the day and it didn’t take him long before reaching the cemetery’s outer gate. It was closed, but visitors were able to walk through the narrow turnstile, installed to keep vehicles out.
Looking out through his window, Dooley could see that the rain had no intention of letting up despite his urgent assignment and thus reached for his hat, slipped it on his head and pulled it down a little tighter for extra protection. Rain or no rain, this was one job he needed to do, even if just to satisfy his own curiosity.
As he hopped out of his car, he pulled his collar up a little higher, trying his best to limit the space between his jacket and hat. The wind was strong enough to push the rain sideways and his face was drenched before he’d walked more than a few yards. Once he reached the gate, he dropped his shoulders and gave in, resounding himself to the fact he was going to get wet no matter what.
The wind was sprinting across the cemetery, sending the trees whipping back and forth as Dooley first went to the information map to locate the exact spot of Mr. Johns. With any luck, it would be near the front, limiting the time he needed to confirm that the grave lay undisturbed, no doubt with the finely resting corpse beneath several feet of fine Kentucky dirt.
He ran his finger along the names on the board, silently ticking each off. Finally, the mental list dinged as the name above his finger matched his mental check list.According to the map, Nathanial Johns was resting at home in row L, plot number 42.
Squinting into the rain once more, Dooley began to head towards the path leading up the middle of the grounds, reducing the need for him to walk further than necessary. He looked at some of the tombstones as he passed, silently reading the names in his mind. As he read someone with the first name ‘Wayne’, he suddenly realized that the names on these markers were of real people, those who had run the course of their lives and ended up here, at Remingtons, until whatever happened in eternity.
A chill suddenly ran down his spine and an uncontrolled shiver shook him lightly as he quickened his step. Remaining in the cemetery any longer than he needed to suddenly wasn’t at the top of his list. He peered across the rows again, hoping to find the grave, confirm its undisturbed nature and return to the relative comfort of his patrol car.
The sign signifying row L lay just ahead, two arrows beneath pointing in opposite directions. To his left lay those in plots 1 to 25, to his right, 26 to 50. Dooley felt another shiver and quickly turned right, already looking ahead for any signs of interference. His radio suddenly burst into life, the Chief’s voice crackling a couple of inches from his ear. Dooley froze as his chest sprang to life like a trampoline.
“Dooley, you get lost out there?”
“Just got here, Chief,” he answered, rubbing his chest as if calming his heart.
“Hurry it up and then head to Mrs. Crowley’s. One of her dogs got into the neighbor’s yard and attacked their rooster again. Jean says it’s a circus over there.”
“OK, Chief.”
Dooley took a deep breath, held it and tried his best to calm himself again. He peered down at the tombstones, this time trying his best to ignore those with photos on them, the ghosts of those that lay beneath his feet staring back.
When he reached the final tombstone in the row, it sat a few spots from the end, the plots nothing more than a stretch of lawn. The grave before him appeared just as he had expected, the headstone looking almost pristine, despite the harsh weather. There was a fresh bunch of flowers laying across the foot of the marker. Dooley knelt to see pink lilies.
Other than the clean marker, there was nothing that jumped out as being out of place. The grass that had been cut and placed atop the dirt, like a well-fitted rug, appeared just as it should. The young officer felt saddened as he stared into the eyes of the man laying beneath his feet and that’s when he froze.
The photo on the headstone suddenly chilled him to the core. Because it wasn’t the photo of the man he’d seen back at the station. The man he’d seen on the computer monitor was a man in his 70s, almost completely bald and with bright blue eyes. The man staring back at him looked more in his 30s, with a thick mop of black hair and dark eyes to match. Dooley reached forward to touch the image and as his fingertips ran across its surface, the image moved, held on by a thin film of adhesive.
Dooley stared into the eyes of a stranger and knew there was more to the mystery than he first thought. But was it a simple case of someone simply changing the photo on the headstone? Some kids maybe? The heaviness in his stomach answered the question for him and he reached up to grab his microphone.
“Chief?” he said with a faltering voice.
“What is Dooley?”
“I think we have a problem.”
Despite the Chief arriving graveside just 15 minutes later, the cemetery proprietor took another hour once Dooley’s boss made the call. After confirming what his youngest constable had discovered, Chief Watkins gave the order to have the grave dug up, closing the cemetery for the day in the process.
Dooley attended the gate and ran the yellow police tape across it, cordoning it off from prying eyes. It was a Tuesday afternoon and being one of Danville’s smaller cemeteries, meant less chance of anyone dropping by in the foul weather.
Once the respective people finally showed up, the rest of the process happened with relative efficiency and within an hour, two men were standing in an open grave, both kneeling down and rubbing the final bits of dirt from the top of the coffin.
As Chief Watkins, Dooley and Frank Potts stood around the rim watching on, one of the diggers looked up for the go ahead. Chief Watkins looked at the other two men then slowly nodded his head. The man bent down, unsnapped the clasp, then slowly pulled the top half of the lid open.
The men watching all gasped in unison as a face stared out from the coffin’s velour interior. It was the man in the picture Dooley had first spotted stuck to the headstone, with one small exception. A neat round bullet hole sat in the middle of his forehead, a faint ring of blood encircling it, as if highlighting its center.
“OK, close it up,” the Chief said, hoping to preserve as much evidence as he could. The man standing over the coffin did, his partner carefully climbing out ahead of him. Dooley grabbed the plastic tarpaulin the caregiver had brought with him and once the men had climbed out of the grave, began to cover the hole.
“Head back to the station and call the Maine detectives, Dooley. We need to get Mr. Johns back and figure out what the hell is going on here.” The Chief looked at his young constable with sympathetic eyes, remembering that it was still the kid’s first week. Dooley nodded, reaching for his keys with trembling fingers, a little thankful to be heading back to base.
It took another two days to bring everything together, during which time Chief Watkins paid the unfortunate widow a visit. He elected to perform the task alone, thinking that a more personal visit might lessen the shock of the situation. He was unsure of just how Nathanial Johns’ wife would take the news of her husband taking a final trip out to Maine.
At first, the grieving widow was unsure of whether to believe the man sitting in her living room. The grief still gripped her tightly most days, the relationship she’d had with her husband of 44 years a uniquely close one. His death came suddenly and unannounced, leaving Doris Johns in shock for nearly a week before trying to come to terms with the tragedy.
But to learn that Nathaniel had somehow managed to travel almost a thousand miles when he should have been enjoying his eternal rest, was nothing short of frightening for her. Chief Watkins didn’t need to show her the photo he’d brought along for comparison, the many fram
es dotting the walls of the home already featuring the man in question.
“May I ask when you visited your husband last, Mrs. Johns?” Brody Watkins asked, reaching for the cup his host had sat before him.
“I haven’t found it easy to go out there. I don’t drive, you see?” She sipped her own cup as Brody set his back down. “Why do you ask?” He thought of the flowers Dooley had pointed out, the fresh bunch of lilies placed on the grave.
“Just curious. Trying to get a sense of time. Could tell me if there’s anyone else that would visit him? Children, friends, anyone who cared for him?”
Doris looked at him and offered up a gentle smile. She took another drink from her cup and Brody could see her struggling with the fresh grief of her loss.
“I’m really sorry to put you through this. I just have to establish what happened.” He tried his best to sound empathic.
“Nathaniel and I didn’t have children, Chief. Our only son passed many years ago. We mostly kept to ourselves, especially during the past few years. We tried to live a quiet life for the most part. The only time we really ventured anywhere was to the west coast of Florida once a year.”
Brody nodded and asked a few more non-official questions in an effort to change the mood of the conversation. It worked for the most part, Doris giving him a brief glimpse into the back room of the home where Nathaniel’s model trains still lived.
He nodded and listened as she explained her late husband’s hobby, talking with an air of affection that only served to weigh heavier on the conversation. Once they headed back out to the kitchen, Brody finished his tea, thanked the widow and returned to his cruiser, the questions continuing to build in his mind.
It took almost another week before the Danville Police Department could put a name to the second part of their mystery. After a chance discovery by a holidaying constable, the name Eugene Garcia was finally linked to the John Doe currently residing in one of the morgue storage units.
The constable had been on a weekend getaway with his new fiancé to Richmond, Virginia. It was whilst enjoying a local newspaper with his breakfast that he came across the small column about a missing person. The photo of the missing man was quite small, but Leonard Parker instantly recognized the face. By the time he was eating dinner that night, the missing man had been positively confirmed as being that of the stranger back in Danville.
But while the identification of the man had been accomplished, the answers to their many questions continued to elude the investigating officers. They had a man purposefully taken almost a thousand miles from his grave to some backwater in Maine, while another had been executed and buried in his stead. None of it made sense and despite putting in many man hours, the investigation stalled before it had even begun.
The late Nathaniel Johns was eventually returned to his final resting place, a grateful Doris attending the second burial of her husband in as many weeks. The process was difficult, but when it was over with, she returned to the home she had shared with him for the better part of 20 years, a place where she felt closest to him.
As for Eugene Garcia, the answers remained as mysterious as the rest of the events leading up to the discovery of his body. Because he was a single man, living a bachelor life with very few friends, the only information the officers were able to obtain were from his sister. But it had been several years since she’d seen her brother, having moved to Montreal with her husband and children.
As far as the pieces they managed to put together, Garcia had been a closet homosexual, unable to fully admit his lifestyle to either his family or the few friends he had, most of whom were little more than workplace acquaintances. The man worked as a shoe salesman, had a clean record and didn’t appear to have any vices, such as drugs or alcohol. As far as anyone could tell, the man was a loner, a clean skin and a simple law abiding citizen.
While the authorities desperately tried to follow any possible clues before they went cold, they were unaware that another organization had taken an interest in the case, one far more inconspicuous than any they’d heard of before. It was the kind of agency that took matters of murder into their own hands, to solve the crimes and end the killings, much like a vigilante mob might track down a local perpetrator. And when this agency identified the true culprit, nothing would save them from the executioner’s punishment.
2
Sam turned and began to walk back the way she had come for a third time, the heels she was wearing beginning to bite into her feet. She knew that within minutes, a neat blister will have worked itself into her foot, reminding her why she never chose to wear these types of shoes. She slowed a little, bent down and tried to run her finger between the leather and her delicate skin.
“You OK?” Tim whispering through the earpiece.
“Yah. Getting a blister,” she replied. Despite easing the pain for a little, it returned the moment she rose back up and continued walking.
“Let’s hope this prick doesn’t take all week.” It was the third straight night the pair had tried to corner a killer suspected of murdering six women, raping each, before killing them and throwing their bodies into the Allegheny River.
Mumma had managed to identify a single piece of footage of the culprit and despite being unable to put a name to the barely visible face, it had shown a man of asian descent. The police had failed to capture the offender after one of its own officer’s chased a suspect when a woman ran screaming from the park the previous week.
She had been beaten almost unconscious and dragged into nearby bushes, before fighting back and escaping the perpetrator’s hold. The poor woman had sustained a deep cut to her right arm, as well as numerous lacerations. The officer gave chase for several blocks before losing sight of him.
Pogrom became involved in the matter by pulling two of its agents from another assignment for a single reason; the killer had struck a possible 9 times in under two weeks, working his way towards some kind of record, a record Sam wanted to deny him. Three victims had managed to escape him, describing an asian man with a thick accent. One woman thought she saw a long scar running down his left forearm, but she couldn’t be sure. As far as the cops were concerned, it was the only real clue they’d had.
After noting down all the possible locations of where the man had struck, Mumma, Tim and Sam all agreed that the best place to try and bait him would be around Highland Park Reservoir, the body of water just a few yards from the very river where all the victims had been found. It would be Sam, doing what she did best, by dressing as close to the similarities of past victims in the hope it would get his attention.
After having no hits the previous two nights, Sam had high hopes that this would prove the lucky night. Tim had taken up a position on a nearby bench, dressed as a wino, complete with a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor and a jacket he’d given his cat to pee on. If anything, Tim liked perfection.
Sam had been walking slow laps of the reservoir, pretending to be upset. It wasn’t difficult, her head hung low as she watched the ground pass beneath her. The few people that had been using the path alongside her had slowly diminished, until it was just her, left to wander the outskirts of the water alone.
The sun had sunk beneath the horizon the previous hour and as Sam continued to stroll along, the lamps lining the path all flicked on in unison. They were spaced around 40 yards apart and the shadows of night swallowed the light at each midpoint. It was a Sunday evening and although the park had been filled with dozens of people only an hour before, once the sun hung low in the sky, most made their escape before nightfall descended over the popular hangout.
“There’s someone approaching,” Tim suddenly whispered. Sam was on the opposite side of the lake and she peered out into the darkness, trying to spot whomever Tim had discovered.
“Where? I don’t see anyone,” she whispered back.
“He’s coming around the far side of the lake, following your lead.”
Sam continued to stroll, her pulse quickening a little. She c
ouldn’t hear the stranger’s approach, but with Tim acting as her eyes, knew it wouldn’t take them long to catch up to her.
“How far?” She hated that she didn’t have any indication of her follower, neither sound nor sight helping her.
“Shhh, he’s close. Should be able to hear him shortly.” Sam tried to quiten her own footsteps and turned her head ever so slightly in the hope of hearing the stranger. Only silence greeted her, the kind one dreaded when hoping for noise. But then there was something, a faint repetitive thudding that grew louder with each step. It took her a moment to recognize the sound of the man’s sneakers on the pavement.
She hesitated slightly, waiting for something to strike her, expecting the man to jump at the woman walking alone.
“Keep walking,” Tim whispered. “He’s not slowing.”
Sam stopped as the man passed her just as she neared one of the lamp posts. He was wearing earplugs, no doubt connected to his cell as he listened to whatever amused him. She watched as he continued jogging, paying her no attention. Her heart felt like a bass drum as she knelt down again, trying to ease the burning pain in her heal.
With a final resolution, Sam removed the shoes and decided to walk barefoot for a bit. There was a bench further ahead and she made a beeline for it.
“I need to sit for a sec,” she whispered to Tim.
“Take your time,” he replied.
Once seated on the bench, Sam lifted her injured foot and carefully inspected it. The blister was significant and Sam knew that if she continued walking in the high heals, it would turn into more than just a blister. She was about to tell Tim as such when she spotted something moving near a hedge. It was a small silhouette, almost the size of a rabbit.