by M J Preston
From there, things ran very effectively. Logan fought hard to get all of the officers a pay raise; he took the drug problem in the high school serious and gave Mick full rein to organize the officers how he saw fit. There were differences of opinion, but overall, they became friends very fast. The people of Thomasville had warmed up a little as well, but they still turned to Mick when it came to more personal matters such as family disputes.
Logan became the liaison to the town council and Mick the link to the people. This was not to say the Logan did not get out and meet the residents of Thomasville. In that regard he made himself available to all of the community, volunteering at the schools, giving lectures on crime prevention and of course regular duties. When a wildfire threatened to destroy Bob Anderson’s farm, Logan had been there. When Filmore Creek overflowed, turning many farms into wetlands, Logan was there with a sandbag in hand.
He quickly gained respect throughout the community, but he was an outsider and always would be.
2
The black station wagon came over the hill, and Logan crushed out his cigar. “Time to go to work.”
The wagon pulled up beside them. A yellow circle emblazoned one door, and in that circle printed in large white block letters: Thomasville City Coroner. Logan got out of the cruiser to meet Jeff Henderson, and they spoke briefly as Mick watched. Henderson was also an outsider; he had come to Thomasville six years before.
Mick was preoccupied with the fact in a very short while they would be excavating a young boy’s body from the ground. At the moment he craved a cigarette desperately, yet was thankful that Logan smoked those smelly cigars. He didn’t know who it was that stated once you’ve been off cigarettes for thirty days it was over. He still got the urge after meals and on the occasions when he took a drink. Never mind extreme times of stress, which just happened to be now.
“Let’s go, Mick.” Logan was getting back in the car. “Henderson’s gonna follow us.”
He put the car in gear and followed the wheel ruts Logan had forged only an hour before. Logan gave verbal directions, but there really was no reason to. The tracks from the cruisers first trip were well entrenched within the field’s damp soil.
Logan didn’t want to waste any time. The sky had shifted from pastel blue to depressing grey. That meant one thing and one thing only: a storm was coming.
They rounded the bend pushing through Hopper’s cornfield, knocking down the few stalks that had not been bulldozed in the first trip.
Mick did not feel well at all. This was not his first exposure to a tragedy, but the circumstances and the child sent a wave of panic through him that was alarming.
Tiny droplets of rain started to fall on the windshield.
“God damn it, not now,” Logan griped. “Tell me you packed the modular tent.”
“It’s in the trunk, but it’ll be a bitch to set up.” Mick turned on the wipers, and the rain responded by coming down just a little harder.
“It’ll be a bigger bitch if we’re up to our knees in muck,” Logan responded.
He was right of course, but the modular tent was a heavy canvas that weighed better than 200lbs, and Mick worried that he hadn’t packed all the aluminum poles. Couple that with what a pain in the ass it could be to put up and take down made Mick hate the old surplus tent.
“There it is,” he said, tent leaving his mind. Anxiety throbbed like a dull ache in his stomach. What the fuck am I doing here, he thought, ignoring the obvious reasons. He then wondered what kind of shape the body would be in. You mean Tommy, don’t you?
Just ahead a single strip of yellow police tape flapped back and forth in the wind. Mick looked over to see that Logan was staring at him. Does he know what I’m thinking?
“I know this stinks, but what we are about to do is very important,” Logan said.
“I hear you,” he agreed and wondered if Logan had sensed his anxiety and was propping him up.
They waited a minute for Jeff Henderson to get the coroner vehicle up beside them. The rain intensified, went from a minor sprinkling and ramped right up to an all-out downpour. The three men got out of the vehicles and gathered at the hood of the cruiser.
“Keeps raining like this and we’re gonna need a tow truck to get out here,” Henderson said, staring up at the sky.
“Bite your tongue, Jeff,” Logan spat. “We brought the modular. Probably best we get that set up first.”
“I don’t think we’ll need any picks; the ground looks pretty soft. Are you guys ready?”
“Ready as we’re ever gonna be,” Mick said.
He left them and went around to the trunk of the cruiser. Logan looked down for a moment, then gave Henderson a glance. At least Mick’s words were truthful – and if they did not get moving, he was going to lose his nerve.
This was not Mick’s first body – but he knew this kid, and that made it different.
Setting up the tent hadn’t been as bad as Mick thought it would be, and thankfully all of the parts were there. The shelter was approximately nine feet at its peak and big enough to park a mid-size car in. The olive drab canvas had a front and rear opening so that it could be joined with other sections. The three buttoned one side – the other they left open to make use of the graying daylight.
Logan took numerous digital photographs of the site before they disturbed it. Not one of these three men could put their professionalism ahead of the fact that they would be unearthing the body of a little boy. Then, finally, with the tent erected, tools laid out, and photographs were taken. Each man grabbed a shovel and prepared to dig. Henderson looked at the two of them, let out a deep sigh, and scooped the first shovelful of dirt.
They worked in shifts. Henderson was first, Logan second, and then Mick. As they dug Henderson told them to move slowly so as not to damage the remains.
“The remains have a name,” Mick said, removing another scoop.
“We don’t know who it is yet, Mick,” Logan interjected and waved his hand at Henderson to leave it alone.
You’re only saying that because it’s protocol. We know exactly who it is, Dave.
Twenty minutes in and they were all covered in mud up to their waists. Small muddy rivers ran down the tent and into the grave. Mick scooped slower now. He knew it would have been worse had they not erected the mod, but it was still miserable work.
Henderson was just about to take over when he felt a shovel slide across a smooth and slippery surface. He fell back against the edge of the grave and said, “Jesus, I think we’re there.”
“Stop! Get out of the hole,” Henderson ordered. “I’ll take it from here.”
He climbed out thankfully as Henderson slid in and tossed a shovel out.
“Hand me the bucket and the garden shovel.”
At the opening of the shelter lay an arsenal of tools Henderson had brought with him. Logan grabbed the bucket and garden shovel, then handed them down and watched, fascinated.
“I take it you’ve done this before, Jeff,” he said.
Mick held onto the tent’s aluminum frame, feeling dizzy. He did not look well at all.
“Murders in Alberta,” Henderson said, nodding. “Four women, all strangled and buried in an abandoned strip mine. They never caught the guy.” He scooped out one full pail of dirt after another, exposing the cocoon that encased the body.
“Jesus Christ, he put him in a garbage bag,” Mick cussed.
“As terrible as that is, he may well have done us a great favor.
I guess that the bag has helped preserve the evidence.” Henderson continued cleaning the mud around the black plastic. As he did Logan took each full pail and dumped it just outside the doorway.
Mick watched in a state of shock, wondering whether or not he was going to be able to keep from vomiting. He felt nauseous: not because the sight was particularly gory, but because of the gravity of the s
ituation. He kept telling himself, Don’t puke; they’ll look at you differently.
Logan spotted his 2IC wavering. “You okay, Mick?”
“Yeah; just a bit dizzy.”
“There’s a plastic bag in my toolbox, Dave. Grab it and hand it to him,” Henderson said. “Hang on, Mick. Try not to throw up. This is a crime scene!”
Logan fumbled through the coroner’s bag, and Mick tried desperately to keep from puking. He watched Logan pull out the bag and felt his stomach retract, sending a gush up his esophagus. When it got to his mouth, he swallowed hard, forcing it down, but his stomach waged a counterattack and contracted even more.
“Take it,” Logan shouted, handing over a clear plastic bag marked medical waste in bold letters.
Mick almost laughed at this – but his stomach beat him to it, and he emptied his lunch directly into the bag in two convulsive heaves. He noted perversely that there were still large pieces of pepperoni from the cold pizza that he’d eaten a couple of hours ago. Guess I better start chewing more, he thought, and threw up again, filling the bag to the halfway mark.
Henderson was out of the hole and Logan beside him, rubbing his back, saying, “Get it all out.”
He had never been so embarrassed in his life.
Logan handed him a napkin, and he wiped his mouth. Once he was sure that he wasn’t going to get sick again, he dropped the paper rag into the bag and tied it up. He stepped out of the tent and into the fresh air. That gave him some relief. Then he felt a hand pat his shoulder.
“I feel like a fucking idiot,” he griped.
“Why? Think you’re the first guy that ever puked on a crime scene?” Logan whispered.
“No, but...”
“No, but nothing! The important thing is that you didn’t contaminate the scene and none of your subordinates saw a thing. Jeff and I won’t say a word. Right, Jeff?”
“I’ll take my payment in beer,” Henderson called, climbing back into the hole.
Mick looked at Logan ashamed, but his boss and friend were reassuring and sympathetic. He hadn’t even considered the impact of him vomiting might have had on his subordinates. “Now what?”
“Now you tie off that bag, place it in the trunk of the cruiser and dispose of it when we get back to town,” Logan said. “Jeff, I think we should take a five-minute breather.”
“I guess a good puke was just what I needed.”
“Don’t puke again, Mick; I’m all out of bags,” Henderson laughed.
Logan smiled a bit. Black humor in what some might have thought inappropriate times often saw police officers through rough moments such as this.
Henderson climbed back out of the grave, wiped his dirty hands on the back of his pants and reached into his breast pocket. He produced a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out and prepared to light up.
“Let’s do this over there.” Logan pointed to the wood line. They all walked, looking to the ground, careful not to step on anything, and moved under the canopy of trees. “I’d say this is no man’s land.”
Logan lit up.
Mick heard himself say, “Can I have one of those?”
Logan looked surprised but didn’t say anything. Smokers often welcome returning members with open arms. He was no different. Besides, if there ever was a day to start smoking again, this was it.
Henderson shook out a cigarette. Mick took it gratefully. His wife would give him hell for this, he knew – but she wasn’t here. He lit up and took a deep draw off the cigarette as his two companions looked on. Strangely it did not taste the same as it had when he was a full-blown smoker. He took a second drag and let out a muffled cough. Just this once, he told himself.
“Kind of reminds you of the tough kid in school, doesn’t he, Jeff?” Logan cracked.
“Yeah, Sluggo Collins,” Henderson shot back, and at this, they all broke into a fit of giddy laughter. Thankfully, nobody was close enough to see the exchange, but a cop, a firefighter or even a soldier would have understood. They were not making light of their situation, but dealing with it. Laughing was merely a vent to let out the day’s accumulated tension.
The laughter broke off into spaced hiccups and then faded altogether. They fell silent: smoking, not making eye contact, all their minds upon the grave and its inhabitant.
Just when it seemed one of them might speak up, Logan stifled that. “We better get back to work.” He extinguished the cigar on his boot heel, then reached into his pocket and produced a large pill bottle. “All right, gents, put ‘em out and drop your butts in here.”
With that done, Logan screwed the lid back on and replaced the bottle in his pocket. He would dispose of its contents later.
Back inside the tent, Henderson climbed into the grave. Ten minutes later he’d uncovered most of the garbage bag as Logan documented it by taking more pictures. Below the body, Henderson had dug two trenches.
Mick watched as all this took place. He felt out of place, inadequate.
“Mick, I have a job for you to do,” Henderson said.
“What,” he asked, eager to redeem himself.
”Go to the wagon. In the back there’s an old wooden box; inside you’ll see some straps. Bring them back here, and then I want you to go back with Dave and get the mobile gurney. You’re gonna have to help him with that, Dave.”
As Mick set out to get the straps, Logan spotted a small hand protruding from the bag. A chill licked up his spine.
As if Henderson had read Logan’s mind, he carefully reached up and tucked the hand back inside the bag and out of sight.
The shape of the body was easy to define beneath the black plastic cocoon. If there were any doubts, they had been expelled now: they had unearthed a child.
Logan did not know Tommy Parkins that well, but what he did know was that he was a boy who was very outgoing and friendly. Most of what he’d learned was on the fly as they searched and he was filled in by everyone who knew the boy. Thanks to his time in Homicide, he had developed a skill for building a relationship with victims. In the course of an investigation, you learned about them through family and friends. So he knew that Tommy Parkins loved baseball and fishing, that his favorite color was blue, his favorite meal was spaghetti and that he wanted to join the army when he grew up. It helped him keep perspective when he investigated a murder, and it also gave closure when he cleared a case – but not all cases got cleared. In Logan’s mind, three names were unresolved, and they still haunted him.
Behind him, there was the ‘schloosh schloosh’ sound of Mick trudging back through the muck with the straps over his shoulder. He pushed into the tent, past Logan. “Here you go.” He handed them down to Henderson. “What are you doing, Jeff?”
Henderson took the straps. “You boys go get the gurney, and I’ll show you.”
Mick and Logan went back to the car to remove the gurney. Considering the muddy ground, both of them knew that they would be carrying it rather than wheeling it. On top, there was a body-bag wrapped in cellophane ready for use. Henderson had readied this before leaving the mortuary. Each man picked up an end and carried it back to the tent where Henderson waited.
“Stop right there in the doorway, gents,” he said, stepping up to the gurney. He unfolded, then unzipped the body bag as the two officers looked into the tent and studied what he had done. The garbage bag was unearthed entirely, and though they had kept most of the rain at bay, there were still puddles forming around its outer edges. The straps Mick had dropped off were now placed neatly under the bag in a parallel fashion and extended upward to the sides of the grave where they could be handled easily. They had been set at specific points on the body where it was unlikely to buckle.
“That’s why you are digging those holes under there,” Logan said.
“Yep.” Henderson turned to Mick. “Now listen, are you going to be up to this?”
“I think
I’ll be okay,” Mick replied.
“That’s not good enough.” His tone was stern. “If you’re not up to it, tell me now. I don’t want this body dropped.”
“You have my word. Tell me what I have to do.”
Henderson explained the chore they were about to carry out was a five-man procedure. One man was to be positioned on each strap, bringing up the slack as the fifth man steadied the body and removed it from the hole. As Henderson explained earlier, he had employed this exercise while unearthing the victims of a serial killer. The principle was similar to lowering a casket into the ground – though in reverse. In this case, Mick and Logan would be pulling double duty on the straps while Henderson steadied the body. The fact they were lifting the body of a small boy weighing approximately eighty-five pounds made the task at hand a little easier, at least physically.
Henderson jumped back into the hole, positioned himself at the head of the grave, and gave his first order. “Okay, now start taking up the slack: but slowly.”
Mick and Logan stood with two straps each bundled into one hand and used their free hands to bring up the slack. They both fixated on the other’s movements, trying to move in unison against the stick grasp of the muck. There was the sound of suction as the muddy ground struggled to hold its grip on the plastic bag and its contents, followed by a pop as the plastic pulled away from the vacuum.
It was working.
Logan and Mick continued holding each other’s gaze, ensuring what they did was in total harmony. As the body was slowly raised, Henderson moved and adjusted himself to accommodate for any potential shifting. To add to the discomfort, Mick and Logan were both hunched over to keep from brushing against the canvas walls of the tent.
All around, the rain tapped on the canvas, beating like a funeral drum.
“Almost done, guys,” Henderson assured as the body crested the edge of the grave. It was mere inches from each of their hands. The sickening feel of wet plastic grazed both man’s knuckles, but they held the strapping firmly. Logan spied a protruding fingertip from the corner of his eye and silently prayed that Mick could not.