One Grave Too Many

by Beverly Connor

  “Can I ask why you are interested?” he asked Diane.

  “I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

  “I see.” He looked at the sheriff. “Do you know where you want to look?”

  “A site that was being used from about five to ten years ago,” answered Diane.

  “Let’s see. I covered most of them up for Dad.”

  “Do you have one that could have been visited by George Boone or his son, Jay?” asked Diane.

  “Dad mentioned George was out here with his son a couple weeks ago for target practice. That’s just awful what happened to that family. Is this about them?”

  “Maybe,” said Frank. He explained about the bone.

  “There’s one place I had a hard time getting to. I just lightly covered it, so it might have eroded out. Let’s go take a look.” He hung his apron and hand towel on a post, and led them back out the fence. He looked at the sign as he was closing the gate and shook his head. “Some folks think that’s clever, but I told Dad it looks like an invitation to me. Let’s go in my Jeep.”

  It was a bumpy ride down an infrequently used dirt road. The sheriff rode in front beside Whit. Diane and Frank rode in back, which made the ride for her even more like a buckboard. The rough ride through the woods was too much like the ride through the jungle. Diane gripped the seat until her fingers cramped. When they stopped with a lurch, Diane thought she would throw up her scant breakfast.

  “You OK?” whispered Frank.

  Diane nodded, but accepted his help in getting out of the vehicle.

  “We have to walk from here,” said Whit. He sprayed himself with bug spray and tossed the can to Diane. “Lot of deer ticks in the woods, not to mention mosquitoes.”

  After the four of them sprayed themselves, they set out through the woods. The North Georgia woods are quite different from the jungles of the Amazon and Diane found herself missing it. The rain forest is far more dense and so green, lush and full of oxygen it made Diane happy just to be breathing. The trees are tall, with leaves big enough to curl up in. The thick rain forest canopy doesn’t let much wind down to the understory, so the stillness there is palpable.

  Here a breeze fluttered the leaves and ruffled Diane’s short hair. The smell of insect repellent traveled with them and masked the natural scents of the forest. As the trail became more overgrown, the woods threatened to become as thick as the jungle, and Diane was glad she had dressed for it. Shortly, they came to another dirt road intersecting the path they were on.

  “We keep going on this overgrown path,” said Whit, to Diane’s dismay.

  She stopped in the middle of the road. “Where does this road go?”

  “From the main road to the upper pasture. We use it to bring in hay.”

  “How long has it been here?” asked Diane.

  “Couple of years for the part leading to the pasture. That’s when Dad bought the new land. It used to turn here and go back to the house.”

  “So at one time it went to your house but not the pasture?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They got lost,” said Diane, looking up and down the road.

  “Who?” asked the sheriff and Whit together.

  “The intruders. They were looking for the way to the dump site, but the terrain has changed since they were last here, and in the dark they couldn’t see this overgrown path. They didn’t know the new road leads to the pasture. That’s why they disturbed the cows.”

  “You pretty sure there’s going to be a body up ahead?” asked Whit.

  “No. Maybe just a wild goose,” said Diane.

  Whit grinned and led the way through the thick brush. The trail was interrupted by a large gully about fifteen feet deep with a stream flowing in the bottom.

  “There used to be a earth bridge and culvert here,” said Whit, “but it got washed away last spring.”

  “How do we get across?” asked the sheriff.

  “There’s an easier way down the bank down yonder.”

  As they were discussing the easiest way to descend to the bottom, Diane scrutinized the walls of the ravine. It was solid rock face with jagged cracks caused by roots and weather. She positioned her pack on her back, stooped down and eased herself over the side and climbed down using the cracks in the rock face for hand-and footholds. She was crossing the narrow creek when they noticed her. Frank and Whit looked at Diane then at each other with that “now we have to do what she did or look like a wimp” look.

  “Which way did you say is easier?” asked the sheriff.

  “Down the bank about a hundred yards. There’s a kind of path down to the bottom,” said Whit before he and Frank began climbing down the side.

  As they were descending, Diane started up the other side. This side wasn’t a rock face like the other, but there were large boulders and rocks weathering out of the surface. She climbed, testing each rock before she put her full weight on it, pulling herself up. On top she waited for Whit and Frank. When they reached the top she held out a hand to help each of them up on the bank.

  “You do that real well,” said Whit.

  “Thanks.” It was an easy climb, but from their panting, she decided not to mention it.

  “She explores caves and does some rock climbing,” said Frank, dusting off his hands.

  “A woman of adventure. You dating anyone?”

  “Yes, she is,” said Frank.

  Whit laughed. “I may give you some competition. By the way, why do you think there’s a body here?”

  Diane explained to him about the clavicle Frank got from George and her analysis of it.

  “And that led you here? Amazing.”

  “That and the item in the paper about your trespasser,” said Diane.

  “Adventurous and clever too. You’re definitely going to have some competition, Frank.” He slapped him on the shoulder.

  The sheriff made his way around to them, wheezing and breathing hard. “I sure hope we find a body. I’d hate to come all this way for nothing.”

  “It’s just a short ways now,” said Whit. He led them through more undergrowth to a depression that was once a small gully. It was now covered with leaves and detritus. Protruding from the ground here and there were the unmistakable shapes of bones.

  “Here it is,” said Whit. “Dad used to dump his carcasses here. He plugged up that narrow end with stumps and branches from where he’d cleared a pasture so the carcasses wouldn’t wash into the big creek. He was a little sloppy about covering them up, but hell, it’s out of the way.”

  “I can see where someone might have thought it would be a good place to hide a body,” said the sheriff. “But weren’t they taking a risk that your father would see a body when he threw more carcasses in?”

  “Sometimes Dad would throw a little dirt over them, especially in the summer. Maybe that’s what they did—if there’s a body here.”

  Diane stepped carefully around the depression, inspecting the ground as the men discussed the relative merits of hiding a body one place or another. Another mass grave. She’d vowed never to dig another one. The side of a deer skull showed partially through the dirt and leaves. Not human. This was not a mass grave for humans. Though she had a hard time understanding how anyone could shoot a beautiful, healthy animal. . . . On the other hand, she did enjoy fishing. Her brain was hopping from one thing to another—trying to deal with the prospect of excavating a mass grave.

  “What’s your opinion, Doc?” said the sheriff.

  Diane stood and looked over at them, surprised at how she had completely tuned out their conversation. “I’m sorry, what are you asking?”

  “Where do you think is the best place to get rid of a body? Whit thinks this place, Frank votes for the foundation of a building, I say a wood chipper.”

  “In a pigpen,” she said. “Pigs eat everything, including the bones.”

  Chapter 23

  Diane stooped down and took a small crime-scene evidence flag from her pack and stuck it into the gr
ound.

  The three men stood staring at the flag for a moment.

  “Mr. Abercrombie, I believe we need your permission to excavate,” said Diane.

  “You found something?” said the sheriff, surprise in his voice.

  The three of them came walking across the dump site past protruding bones and suspicious lumps beneath the ground to where Diane was crouched. There, about the size of half a golf ball and stained brown like the surrounding dirt, a small, odd-shaped squarish bone lay on the ground next to the flag.

  “That’s a human bone?” asked the sheriff. He glanced around at the other bones peeking through the surface of dirt and leaves. “How can you tell it’s human among all these animal bones?”

  “Every bone is distinctive. It’s a human talus—a bone of the foot.”

  “You’re sure about that?” asked the sheriff.

  “Yes.”

  “OK, what do we need to proceed?” asked Whit.

  “It must be excavated as a crime scene—not dug up by untrained hands.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Yes, but you don’t have to use me,” said Diane, hoping he’d say something like, “My cousin’s a forensic anthropologist—I’ll have her do it.”

  “Why not?” said Whit. “You’re here.”

  “All right. I have an archaeologist at the museum, and I’ll get some experienced excavators from the university’s archaeology department.”

  Diane sat in one of Jonas Briggs’ stuffed chairs studying the chessboard as he called his former archaeology students. He had moved his knight to the king bishop three position—only three moves for each of them. They were still in the beginning of the game, battling for early control of the board. As he hung up the phone, she captured his pawn and stood up.

  “I’ve gotten four of my best excavators. They are very enthusiastic.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is certainly an unexpected turn of events.” As he stood, he looked at the chessboard. “Will you capture your pawn, please?”

  Diane took his black pawn and captured hers. “Shall I pick you up at your house early tomorrow morning?” she said.

  “Yes, please. The crew will meet me there, and they can follow you.” He took his jacket hanging on his coat-rack and followed Diane out the door.

  “You know, the terrain is a little rough. There is a substantial gully to traverse.”

  “I have traversed many a substantial gully in my time. You do not need to worry.”

  “Anyway, Whit Abercrombie said he would see about arranging for a temporary bridge across the creek. He thinks perhaps the county will do it.”

  “A creek—is that all we’re talking about? A creek?”

  “The creek is in a fifteen-foot-deep gully.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “I’m not. But it would look bad for me if I killed one of my curators on a field expedition.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to make you look good.”

  They rode the elevator to the ground floor.

  “Here.” Diane handed him one of the three laptops she had been given by Kenneth Meyers to field test.

  “This looks nice.” He rubbed a hand over the metallic case.

  “I think it is. I haven’t looked at mine yet, but I believe it’s the top of the line and good for field work. It works with a cell phone, so you can send any information to the museum. Let me know how it works.”

  “If the anthropology department knew how many perks this job came with, they’d send someone else over.”

  “That’s what Sylvia Mercer said. I’m going to ask her to work with you on the faunal identification. She’s the zoologist.”

  “Does she get a computer too?”

  “Not one of these. She gets one for her office, like your other one.”

  “I get two computers. Well, this is just dandy.”

  Diane laughed at him and sent him on his way. Jonas Briggs went home to prepare, and Diane went to the faunal lab and Sylvia Mercer’s office. Sylvia was in the lab rearranging the equipment.

  “Dr. Mercer, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Shoot, and call me Sylvia, please. I hope you don’t mind me rearranging the lab a little.”

  “No, whatever works. Remember that clavicle I was looking at the other day?” Diane didn’t wait for an answer, but told her how she’d found the probable place it came from.

  “The site is filled with animal bones. I was thinking that if I could match the taxidermist’s records with the animal bones above and below the human remains, it might help establish the approximate time of death. I’d like you to identify some of the animal bones.”

  “Sure. If you’ve found a clavicle and astragalus, aren’t the bones probably pretty much comingled?”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot of mixing, but I’m hoping enough stayed in place to give me a lead.”

  “Do you need me to come to your site?”

  “It would help, but I don’t want to take you away from your research.”

  “I can manage a few days. This sounds rather interesting.”

  Interesting, Diane thought to herself. Jonas Briggs, his students and now Sylvia Mercer all thought this was interesting. They saw the science, the puzzle. They wouldn’t be so fascinated if they had seen it through her eyes, the dreadful tragedy of it. If they’d dug grave after grave after grave filled with the bodies of people who once had life and who had loved ones who still mourned them.

  Diane thanked Sylvia and left for her own office. In the hallway outside Andie’s office, she was surprised to run into Frank’s ex-wife. Cindy had her blond hair pulled back into a loose twist and was dressed casually, with little makeup.

  “Hi. I was just looking for your office.”

  “Good to see you again. I hope you and your husband had a good time at the reception.”

  “It was great. We really appreciated your invitation.”

  Diane directed her through Andie’s office into hers and offered her a seat. “What brings you to the museum today?” She wondered if she sounded too harsh. She hadn’t meant to, but she thought she knew why Cindy was there, and she was growing weary of the pressure.

  “I thought it would be more polite to invite you to dinner in person than through Frank. Men often get things muddled.”

  “Thank you for your offer. I would like to come, but I’ve had something come up that’s going to take me away from the museum most of the time for a while, so I’m not making any plans.”

  Cindy shifted in her seat and gave Diane a wan smile. “I understand. But you have to eat.”

  It occurred to Diane that Cindy herself must be under a lot of pressure from her husband for her to be here doing something that so obviously made her uncomfortable.

  “I’ll probably be eating here at the museum in the evenings. I’ll be putting in overtime, since I’ll be gone during the day.”

  “Of course. Perhaps next week, then.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m doing something that will take quite a while.”

  She hated to sound so cryptic, especially since it made her sound like she was lying.

  “Something rather important has come up and I have to attend to it.” She got out her calendar. “How about next month? Saturdays are usually good for me.”

  Cindy’s face hardened. “That will be too late.”

  Diane cocked an eyebrow. “Too late?”

  “Look, Diane, I’m really no good at this, so I’ll be blunt. I’m sure you’ve guessed anyway. David wants to talk to you about the museum. This . . . this . . . . ”—she searched for words—“opportunity has come his way. It means quite a sum of money. It could pay for Kevin’s college education and then some.”

  “He’s been approached by Mark Grayson.”

  “More likely, he approached Mark Grayson.” There was such bitterness in her voice that Diane suspected they had had harsh words over it. “He tells me there are plenty of great places for the museum other than this building. I’ve
been in the rooms here. None are filled. You could house the entire contents in a much smaller, more modern building.”

  “I know what the argument is. It’s the one Mark’s been telling everyone, and it’s wrong. Do you know why Mark is so keen on this?”

  Cindy shrugged her thin shoulders. “Something to do with Japan—hotels and golf courses. Mark wants to purchase the building and land through another company and sell it. That’s about all I know. He promised David a substantial commission if he could influence you.”

  Through Frank, thought Diane. And through his son? Surely, Cindy wouldn’t allow that. “Unless the numbers add up to something fantastic for the museum—and right now they don’t—it isn’t going to happen.”

  Cindy looked away. Her eyes rested on a photograph of a stalagmite-and-stalactite formation, but Diane doubted she was seeing it. When she brought her head around again, her soft brown eyes were now as hard as flint.

  “This is just a job for you. There’s nothing you lose by agreeing to sell, and there is everything to be gained for other people—for us, for Kevin. If you had children, you would understand. You do things for your children. If you care about Frank, you should care about his child.”

  Cindy Reynolds’ face suddenly transformed from hard and angry to startled and frightened. Diane realized her own anger must have taken over her face as well as her pounding heart.

  “Mrs. Reynolds, I did have a child.” She clutched the locket around her neck. “She’s now dead. Murdered by a man who was willing to kill thousands just to get what he wanted. I am weary and sick of men who think that what they want is more important than anything else in the world. I am singularly unsympathetic to people who are collaborators with that kind of man. If you indeed are a good mother, you won’t use your son to get what your husband and Mark Grayson want.”

  Cindy gripped the arms of the chair and stood on shaky legs. “I . . . didn’t know. Frank never said anything.” She paused, apparently searching for words. “David doesn’t know I came here. I hope you will not mention it to him, please.”

  “I don’t have any reason to ever speak with your husband.”

  “Thanks . . . I . . . I can see my way out.” Cindy left through Andie’s office, looking defeated. Diane followed, watching her go out the door.