Blood from a Stone

by David M. Salkin

  “The medical examiner who did the autopsy…Greller. They got rid of him, too. He was good guy. He did the autopsy on Mrs. Stone.”

  “Mrs. Stone?” I had been giving all my brain power to Casey and Ben. I had sort of forgotten about her poor mother who’d hanged herself. My brain kicked into overdrive. Did she kill herself out of sorrow or guilt for ignoring what was going on in that house of horrors?

  “Yeah. Anne Stone. Dr. Greller had a few too many questions. Rattled a few cages, I guess.”

  “Like whose?”

  “Not sure. Maybe Mr. Stone.”

  So it was out there again. Stone. That Sick Fuck. I guess I wasn’t the only one looking at him. “You think Congressman Stone had anything to do with her death, Arthur?”

  “The daughter? You’d have to ask Greller.…if you can find him.”

  “I’m asking you. Do you think Stone had anything to do with his daughter’s death?”

  “You do know that Stone is most likely going to be the next President of these United States, right? You sure you want to go digging into his life, Mr. Walker? They got rid of me twenty years ago when he was still a nobody. I don’t think you want to fuck with Earl Stone.”

  I’ve been in plenty of scary places all over the world and I didn’t consider Harkers Island one of them. “I’m not afraid of him, Arthur.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “What did the medical examiner say about Mrs. Stone, Arthur?”

  “Like I said, you’d have to ask him. Greller left Carteret County right after that case. What a coincidence, huh? I have no idea where he is now.”

  “Okay, I’ll just have to find him and ask him myself.”

  “Let me ask you something, Walker. What made you start diggin’ so hard? You know how powerful Earl Stone is? Why are you going after him? Is this political?”

  “No.”

  “You told Bill Peace you knew Casey. Did ya?”

  “Casey Stone kept a diary, Arthur. I found it. She told me some things. I want to know the truth.”

  I could hear Arthur exhale, long and slow. “You have a diary? Or somebody told you about it? If you have an old piece of evidence that could incriminate Congressman Stone, you might just consider moving someplace safe—say…like Afghanistan.”

  “I just got back from there, Arthur, and I have no intention of going anywhere. If anyone needs to hide, it’s the congressman.”

  My next project? Find Dr. Michael Greller.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Agatha

  I love Google. I could find almost anything. It turns out that Michael Greller was not such a common name for doctors. It only took four phone calls to locate him, working at a hospital in Goldsboro.

  I popped open the canned peaches, which I have to say were a little slice of heaven, and remembered to call Mrs. Miles. I promised I would stop by to thank her in person. She was a sweet lady, but she had the Toider accent, which made my head hurt. She also had lived in the same house for sixty years. She would know the Stone history. I’d be speaking to her real soon, too.

  First things first… I devoured a few more spiced peaches, which were so delicious that they made me close my eyes and take a pause, then I called Wayne Hospital in Goldsboro, put in GRE and got Greller’s office extension. Whoever answered told me the doctor was busy and asked for my number. I asked her to give the good doctor a message, that I was calling regarding Anne Stone. She put me on hold so I could listen to some really bad music.

  “This is Dr. Greller. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Hello, doctor. My name is Cory Walker. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but this is very important. I am looking into a twenty-year-old case and—”

  He cut me off. “Are you with the Prosecutor’s Office?”

  “No, sir. I am not a law enforcement officer of any kind. I’m just trying to figure out why Ben McComb has been sitting in jail for almost twenty years when everyone I talk to thinks Earl Stone killed Casey.” Why not throw that out there and see what happens?

  “Who said that?”

  “Some folks who know more than me. What about Mrs. Stone, Dr. Greller? You did the autopsy then you got canned? That right?”

  “Medical examiner in North Carolina was strictly a volunteer business, so nobody canned me.” Click. Just like that. I had a feeling I had really fucked up his day.

  After Greller hung up on me, I decided to walk over and thank Agatha Miles. I walked up the pebble pathway to her house, crunching through tiny stones and seashells, and lo and behold, she was on her hands and knees weeding a beautiful little flower garden. I was impressed. It was hot as hell, and this lady looked to be about a hundred and fifty years old, give or take a year. She had on a straw hat and a denim dress and looked like a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Miles,” I said in my most charming voice.

  “Well, hello there,” she replied with a yellow-toothed smile.

  “I’m your neighbor,” I said, still beaming like an idiot. “I’m Cory Walker.”

  “I know, Mr. Wal-kah,” she said. “We met that first day Miss Belle showed you the house.”

  “So we did. I just want to tell you that those were the best peaches I ever had in my life!” And I wasn’t lying.

  I watched as the little old lady pushed herself up off the ground. My bones hurt watching her. Definitely old school. I liked that. Do a job, no bitchin’ about what hurts. I knew guys like that in the Rangers and Delta, the ones who were always good to go, no excuses. She could hang with me anytime.

  She pulled off a gardening glove and shook my hand. I was careful not to squeeze too hard, but she had a good grip with her bony hand.

  “Call me Cory. You have a beautiful garden.”

  “Why, thank you,” she replied proudly. “Nothing as grand as yours, Mr. Wal-kah, but I do try and keep up.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll need to start weeding myself pretty soon. The gardens were one of the reasons I bought the house. I forgot the part about all the work that goes with them. I guess the original owner was big into flowers.” I was feeshing again.

  “Oh, yes,” she said with genuine admiration.

  She brushed a strand of her white hair out of her face. Her blue eyes were still clear and bright under the million wrinkles and age spots. Getting old sucks. I’ll catch up soon enough.

  “Mrs. Stone… I stole some of my best ideas from her. Well, they were not the original owners, Earl and Anne Stone, but they put in all the gardens. Now your gardens.”

  “Oh, you knew Mrs. Stone? Nice lady? I heard a horrible story about her and her daughter…” God, I loved ‘feeshing’ more than real fishing.

  Her face turned gloomy. “Ahh, so you heard about the Stone tragedy, then?”

  “Not really. I found out a little more after I bought the house. Looked some up on the Internet—just being nosey, you know, in case I see any ghosts.”

  She failed to see the humor in my joke. “Anne Stone was a sweet woman.”

  “I’m sure she was,” I said, trying to backpedal from my faux pas. “So you two were friends?”

  “She was one of my best friends. It broke my heart, that whole business.”

  “I’m sure. Well, I didn’t come over here to make you miserable. At least the garden is cheerful.”

  “Yes. Anne and I spent many hours talking about flowers. She was a master gardener. I’m just a copycat. Have you seen the angels in your rear yard?”

  Yup, I know this one already, I thought to myself, but I let her tell me her version anyway. “Yes. They’re beautiful.”

  “Mr. Stone had them made after Anne and Casey passed. His little angels. I can see them from my kitchen window. So tragic. Well, time marches on, doesn’t it?”

  She picked up her basket of weeds, which I took from her. She thanked me and we walked around the rear yard, where she had a compost pile. I dumped them into the bin for her.

  “Did you know Casey?” I finally asked.
<
br />   “Well, I knew her as a little girl. As she got older, she became very quiet. She always looked so melancholy to me. I guess some folks are meant for the big city. Maybe Harkers Island just wasn’t for her.”

  “But you watched her grow up, I guess,” I said, still trying to ‘feesh’.

  “Oh yes. She was an adorable toddler. Then, as she got older, I tried to help Anne deal with her growing pains. I have three daughters myself, you know, all quite a bit older than Casey. All grown up, now, of course. Nine grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. I lost Henry four years, ago, bless his heart.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Agatha. So you must have been a big help to Anne, an advisor when it came to her only child, then, I guess?”

  “Oh my, yes. Little girls can be a handful. Do you have children?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, if the good Lord blesses you with children, you’ll understand. Little girls become little women pretty fast.”

  That comment knifed my heart. Apparently that sick fuck of a father had thought so, too.

  “Was she close with her parents? Daddy’s little girl?” I was looking into her eyes as I asked, trying to see into her brain. Her face only revealed sorrow.

  “Oh, I don’t know. She was at a difficult age. So sad. I’m sure they would have gotten closer as she got older—if she had been given the chance, I mean.”

  She looked very upset, and now I felt bad for agitating a little old lady who’d made me peaches. I put my hand on her bony shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It must have been very difficult.”

  She walked toward her house, which was another lovely old Victorian, albeit weather-beaten, like her. “Old memories, Mr. Wal-kah. Come in and I’ll show you my family.”

  I couldn’t say no and spent the rest of the afternoon looking at pictures and faking smiles until my face hurt. It was way easier interrogating Taliban insurgents.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dr. Greller

  By the time I got home, it was near dusk. I was exhausted. My very nice neighbor could talk the horns off a steer. I needed a drink. I walked into the kitchen and saw my machine blinking. If Amanda was calling to rescue me, it was too late.

  I hit the Play Message button. It was Dr. Michael Greller. Apparently, he had caller ID. I had really fucked up his day. The message sounded like he was about to have an aneurism. I smiled and called him back, using my most soothing voice. My greeting was met with a very pissed-off response.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, calling me at work to bring up that bullshit? I am done with Carteret County. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Greller. If you would let me—”

  “Who put you up to this?” He sounded out of control.

  “A girl named Casey Stone,” I said harshly.

  That hit the mark and he stopped yelling. “What do you mean? Who are you?”

  “I purchased the Stone residence on Harkers Island. I’m just a regular guy, Dr. Greller. This isn’t political, and I’m not a writer or a cop. I’m just trying to comprehend what the girl is trying to tell me.”

  “Telling you? What the fuck are you talking about? And please don’t tell me you are a psychic or some bullshit. I don’t have time for that crap.”

  “I’m not a psychic, although that would make this all a lot easier. The truth is, I found something in the house, and it has led me to start asking questions…”

  “Oh yeah? Well, here’s some advice— You better watch who you start asking questions about.”

  “So I hear. And I want to know what you think, Dr. Greller. You autopsied Casey and her mother, right? The bottom line is, I don’t think Casey Stone was killed by Benjamin McComb.”

  “Did you say McComb? Sonofabitch!”

  I heard him throw something across the room. Whatever it was, it was heavy and made a tremendous racket as it crashed and broke. “Son of a bitch!” he repeated.

  “You want to clue me in, doc?”

  “He’s on my autopsy table!”

  My stomach did a little flip. I felt my mouth go dry. “Benjamin McComb is on your autopsy table?”

  “Listen, Walker, I’ll call you back in twenty minutes, then you and I are finished with this conversation. You are not to call this number again.”

  He hung up.

  I just stood there in the kitchen, staring at my phone. Ben was dead? I felt sick. How was that even possible? I had just seen him—just talked to him in person. And Stone had gotten to him in prison and had him killed? Could that be? Was the same Benjamin McComb who I’d just spoken to at Maury Prison dead? It was surreal and my head was spinning.

  I paced around my house, hoping Greller would call back. The next twenty minutes seemed to take forever. When my phone rang, the caller ID read ‘Unknown’.

  My heart was pounding in my chest as I answered.

  “Goddamn it!” It was Greller, just as pissed-off-sounding as he had been twenty minutes before. Wherever he was calling me from, it was dead quiet. I had the impression he was sitting in his parked car. He continued speaking loudly. “The name seemed familiar, but I just didn’t put it together. He was a kid when I saw him at the trial. I didn’t recognize McComb’s name. My group volunteers for Maury, Wayne, Eastern and Green correctional facilities. I see prisoners in here all the time. They have a bad habit of killing each other.”

  Coincidence? I felt totally deflated. “What happened to him?”

  “He got worked over pretty good. I don’t think it was one-on-one. Looks like he had the shit kicked out of him before someone slit his throat. Lots of bruising, internal injuries, including a ruptured spleen and broken bones in his face and hands. I usually see guys with shank wounds, you know, deep punctures from homemade knives. Somebody opened McComb’s throat with a real blade, went all the way through his trachea and esophagus—right to his spine. Almost decapitated him. They made sure he wasn’t getting up from this one.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You said you spoke to him in Maury?” he asked, his light bulb finally clicking on.

  “Yeah,” I answered quietly, feeling like I’d killed him myself.

  “Walker, is it?”

  “Yeah, Cory Walker.”

  “Okay, Cory Walker, listen carefully. My guess is, based on what I saw of his injuries, a few guys got together and interviewed your friend Benjamin before they slit his throat. If he knew your name, then so does anyone who spoke to him. You made a big mistake digging up this case.”

  “God, they fucking killed him. I knew this was bullshit. They railroaded him and shoved him in that shithole forever. And now they fuckin’ killed him. Just for talking to me…”

  “That’s exactly right…just for talking to you. So what do you think they’re going to do to you when they find out you’re the one digging up all this ancient history? You can’t bring them back. You should have let it go.”

  “Is that what you did, doc? You let someone rape and kill that girl? Let an innocent man go to prison…and you just let it go?”

  Silence. I had to ask, “You there?”

  “Yeah.” Another long pause. Then finally, he spoke very slowly. “I’m going to talk to you this one time and one time only. If you get an indictment and something solid on Earl Stone, I’ll testify in court. But until then, this is the only time I will ever speak to you. You got that, Mr. Walker?”

  “I hear you loud and clear.”

  “Here it is—the whole story, near as I can remember it. I did the autopsy on the mother only, but I was an assistant on the daughter. Sewell Booth did the girl’s autopsy just before he retired. His work was sloppy. I had asked him about sexual assault in this case. He did the internal himself, alone in the room. I was told it was ‘at the family’s request, out of respect to their daughter’. They didn’t want anyone in there who didn’t absolutely have to be. That’s the only time I’ve ever heard that in my entire career—just to be clear.”

  I grunted an acknowledgement, wishing
I had a damn tape recorder.

  “So he finished the post by himself. He said the girl was most likely a virgin until she was raped during the attack. I wish I could remember exactly what he said word for word, but it was a strange comment, like he was playing to the parents. How would he know if she was a virgin prior to that? You follow me? It wasn’t a scientific comment, more like he was making a point on behalf of the parents. Girls on Harkers Island aren’t typically having sexual intercourse at her age—at least, not twenty years ago. Anyway, he finds the cause of death to be manual strangulation. The hyoid bone was broken, with bruise patterns to indicate hands, not a belt or rope. Basically, in layman’s terms, someone squeezed her throat, broke the little bone in her neck that is attached to the vagus nerve. The hyoid breaks when someone chokes the victim. Great force is exerted and the bone snaps and the nerve tells the brain you’re dead. Then the heart stops. That takes four or five minutes. It isn’t quick. Everything I just explained to you is consistent with what you’d expect in this type of physical attack.”

  “What about the rape?” I asked. “Was DNA collected?”

  “No. The girl had been in the ocean overnight, as I recall. There was no evidence that could be collected, only a visual examination, which I was precluded from seeing. And remember, this was twenty years ago. This isn’t some CSI episode where everything gets solved in a TV hour.”

  “And you asked about it and were pushed out?”

  “Not because of the girl…because of the mother.”

  I ran that through my brain again, not comprehending. “The mother?”

  “Her exam.”

  “What happened there?”

  “Police found her hanging in her home. Her husband had called it in. Except I did a quick exam with Doctor Booth. In the case of the mother, her hyoid was broken, the tell-tale V-marks from hanging on a rope were not present in typical fashion and there were no signs of petechial hemorrhaging. There were no inflamed edges on the skin from a rope.”

  “Doc, you gotta slow down. Remember I’m only understanding about half of what you’re talking about.”

  He sighed and attempted to slow down for me. “Listen… When a person is hanging from a rope choking to death, they die due to lack of air and suffocation, or, if someone was good at tying a real noose, they snap their neck at the bottom of the rope. Her neck wasn’t broken. Her injuries were obviously from being strangled, then hung post-mortem. You understand that? The rope never cut into her skin and she wasn’t flailing around at the bottom of the noose, choking to death. She was hanged after she was already dead.”