The Gravedigger's Ball

by Solomon Jones

  “Come this way,” the investigator said, ducking into a room that was filled with computers, cameras, and state-of-the-art software.

  When Coletti went in, the coroner was sitting in front of a Mac with a double monitor. He’d been waiting for them.

  “Dr. Aronchik, you know Detective Coletti,” the investigator said.

  “Of course,” the doctor said. “How are you, Detective?”

  “I’m fine. What’ve we got?”

  Dr. Aronchik opened a picture on the computer screen as Coletti and the investigator came and stood behind him to look over his shoulder.

  “This is a photograph of the victim’s face,” he said, zooming in on her eyes and nose. “If you look closely, you can see some bruising along her temples, and her nose appears to have been under intense pressure just before she died. From the alignment of those markings—the thumb on the left temple and the four fingers on the right side of her face—it looks like someone with very large hands held her down with his left hand, and probably shoveled dirt into her mouth with his right.”

  “Were you able to get any prints from it?” Coletti asked.

  “No, we weren’t,” the doctor said, clicking through a number of other pictures as he spoke. “But we did see something unusual when we lifted her hair and looked at the back of her neck.”

  He clicked on an image that appeared to be a single green line with four short spaces in between. “These markings, which are about a quarter-inch high and two inches in width, were tattooed onto the victim’s neck. We know they’re recent because the skin is inflamed in the area, and there appears to be some kind of salve that’s been applied to it.”

  The doctor enlarged the picture to six hundred percent. “When we looked closer, we saw that it’s more than just lines. It’s actually letters and numbers. We have no idea what they symbolize, but if the victim made the effort to have them tattooed there, I would think they meant something to her.”

  Coletti squinted and looked closer. It looked like a serial number that read: H20Z18G 1G 20S5 V22V18T18V5M 2I5V.

  “Can you print that picture for me, Doctor?”

  “I already have,” he said, handing Coletti five copies.

  “Did you find anything else unusual on the body?” Coletti asked as he looked at the picture.

  “No,” the investigator said, donning latex gloves and opening the bag containing the victim’s clothing and personal effects. “We did find this, though.”

  He took out a well-worn book with yellowing pages and placed it on the table in front of Coletti. It was a collection of Poe’s poems. Coletti pulled on a pair of gloves and opened it to the pages containing “The Raven.” The section they’d found next to Clarissa’s body had been torn out.

  “There is one more thing,” Dr. Aronchik said as the investigator bagged the book and handed the bag to Coletti.

  “What’s that?”

  “We examined Officer Smith’s body just before you came in.”

  “And?”

  “We haven’t done the postmortem yet, but he had some injuries indicating that he may have been beaten before he died.”

  “Do his injuries tell us anything about the assailant?”

  Dr. Aronchik opened another folder on his computer screen and brought up a photo of Smitty’s arm. “His ulna is broken in his left arm. It looks like a defensive injury, as if he was trying to fend off a blow.” He clicked another picture of the officer’s face. “His left cheek is also badly bruised from what looks like a blow from a large fist. If you look closely, you can see three bruised areas that are fairly close together. Those marks could have come from someone’s knuckles, and just like in Clarissa Bailey’s case, the assailant was probably right-handed.”

  “So can you say conclusively that they were both attacked by the same man?”

  “I’ll have to see what we find in Officer Smith’s autopsy, but I can tell you that both of their attackers were large, strong, and right-handed. Does that mean it was the same person? I can’t say that for sure.”

  Coletti looked through the bag containing Clarissa’s belongings. Besides the book, there was a purse, her clothing, her wallet, and a phone. Coletti picked up the phone and tried to turn it on, but the battery was dead. He placed it back into the bag with the rest of her belongings.

  “So I’m assuming it won’t be long before it’s publicly announced that you’ve declared Mrs. Bailey’s death a homicide,” Coletti said.

  The doctor looked up at a small television mounted on the far wall. “No, Detective Coletti,” he said as he watched the commissioner step out of police headquarters. “It won’t be long at all.”

  * * *

  Kevin Lynch moved toward the bank of microphones, and all he could think of was how much he hated dealing with the media. He hated the repetition, hated the callous questions, and hated the sense of entitlement that the reporters brought to their work.

  If Lynch had his druthers, he would lose himself in the drudgery of policing and leave the media to find their own way. But in today’s world, the media couldn’t be left to themselves. That’s how pictures of dead cops ended up on Twitter.

  He’d tried to avoid making this latest appearance, but a call from the mayor’s office had forced his hand. The extensive coverage of the murders had transformed this into a political issue, and in the new media landscape, where every phone was a camera and every keyboard was a voice, politics meant visibility, and the public equated visibility with action.

  So it was that Commissioner Kevin Lynch was forced to lay aside his disgust with the media circus and make his second appearance before them; this to make official what they already knew.

  Before Lynch could speak, he had to endure the pronouncements of those whose presence was required in the age of camera-phone journalism. He stood outside police headquarters with the rest of the brass, flanking the mayor and the district attorney as they each made the requisite tough-on-crime pronouncements.

  As their words blurred together in a series of meaningless sounds, the wind outside the police administration building swirled in a figure eight, blowing discarded hot dog wrappers and potato chip bags into the air.

  Lynch watched absently as the trash climbed almost as high as the black bird circling overhead. His eyes followed the bird for the next few seconds. Then his gaze shifted to the assembled reporters. He saw Kirsten Douglas standing at the edge of the crowd, her eyes locked on the bird and her mouth open wide in a mixture of shock and fear. It was then that Lynch knew the story Kirsten had told about the raven in the park was true. He watched her for a few seconds more, and when she felt him looking at her, the two of them locked eyes, and the commissioner almost forgot why he was there.

  A deputy tapped Lynch on the shoulder when the mayor was finished speaking, and Lynch stumbled toward the microphones with his mind still on the raven that had since flown away.

  He reached for one of the microphones and raised it to his lips as a radio reporter ran up to the podium and placed a digital tape recorder in front of him. Clearing his throat, Lynch stared out at the media, who were waiting for their next bloody morsel. Then he looked at Kirsten Douglas once more and delivered the news he’d been given.

  “We’ve positively identified the person who died this morning at Fairgrounds Cemetery as Mrs. Clarissa Bailey of Society Hill. An autopsy was performed this afternoon, and while we’re still awaiting some DNA results and other lab tests, the medical examiner’s office has been able to determine that Mrs. Bailey’s death was a homicide.”

  The press exploded, shouting questions that all centered on one person.

  “Are you any closer to finding the Gravedigger?” yelled a blogger from MSNBC.

  “Has the Gravedigger been in touch with the department?” asked a reporter from the AP.

  “Has anyone gotten a picture of the Gravedigger?” a radio reporter shouted.

  Lynch stood there in the crisp autumn air, the stars on his shoulders gleaming. He raised h
is hand, and the reporters fell silent. The only sounds that remained were those from nearby traffic and the occasional pop of a flashbulb.

  “We’re following every lead in the case, and we’re particularly interested in speaking with a white male who was spotted near the scene this morning. As you know, there was another death shortly after Mrs. Bailey was killed. One of our officers, Patrolman Frank Smith, was found dead in Sedgley Woods. The medical examiner has not yet completed an autopsy on Patrolman Smith, so we’ll have no further comment on his death at this time, other than to say that our investigation is ongoing, and we’re using every resource at our disposal to solve this case quickly. Again, as in the case of Mrs. Bailey, we are very interested in speaking with the male who was spotted in the area around the time of both deaths. We’ll give further updates as information becomes available, but that’s it for now. Thank you.”

  Lynch turned away from the podium to go back inside police headquarters. The press hurled questions after him but quickly settled down when the mayor stepped into their midst and began to speak about the importance of keeping the city safe.

  While the rest of the media were preoccupied with the mayor, Kirsten stood off to the side, still gazing at the sky and waiting for the raven to return. Lynch stopped at the door in the hope of getting her attention, and when she looked in his direction again, he beckoned for her to follow him inside.

  Kirsten looked around self-consciously before ambling toward the door. Four other reporters saw where she was going and attempted to follow her, but when they got to the door, Lynch stopped them. “I need to talk to Ms. Douglas about what she saw this morning,” he said.

  They tried to protest, but Lynch was firm.

  “It’s a police matter, not a media matter,” he said, glowering at them. “Please back away from the door. I don’t want to have to ask you again.”

  They did as they were told, and the deputy commissioners who were walking with Lynch hustled Kirsten inside.

  Lynch moved quickly toward the elevators, forcing her to run to catch up.

  “First CNN, then you make a bird appear. That was an interesting display back there,” Lynch said as he arrived at the elevators and jabbed the up button.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Commissioner.”

  “I’m talking about the raven. That was the same one you saw in the woods, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I believe it was,” she said, trying her best to sound confident.

  The elevator doors opened, and Lynch looked at his deputies. “Gentlemen, I need to talk to Ms. Douglas alone for a few minutes. Can you catch the next one?”

  The deputies backed off, and Lynch stood aside to let Kirsten get onto the elevator first. When the doors closed, he pressed the button for the fourth floor and looked up at the numbers as the elevator went up. “I should’ve locked you up when you pulled that crap this morning,” Lynch said. “I doubt that I’ll ever forgive you for doing that.”

  “I doubt that I’ll ever expect you to,” Kirsten said. “So now that we’ve got that out of the way, what do we do?”

  “We talk.” The elevator doors opened at the fourth floor and Lynch got off with Kirsten hot on his heels.

  “Hold my calls,” Lynch said as he walked into the department’s executive offices.

  “Yes, Commissioner,” said his secretary.

  Kirsten followed him into his private office, and he closed the door. Then he took off his jacket and sat down behind his desk.

  She walked toward the far wall, looking at the framed newspaper articles that lined the wood paneling. There was a column about the murder of a previous police commissioner and a front-page story that had run after a mayoral assassination. There were drug dealers and preachers, a corrupt council president and her streetwise niece. All the stories prominently featured Kevin Lynch, and each of them was written by Kirsten.

  “I didn’t know you were paying attention to my work,” she said as she sat down across from him.

  “But I always knew you were paying attention to mine.”

  “I still am,” she said with a smirk. “But with this case it’s a little harder to do that. I’ve been calling cops all morning. Nobody’ll talk to me.”

  “Tell you what,” Lynch said. “I’ll answer your questions if you’ll answer mine.”

  Kirsten started to take out her notebook.

  “Off the record,” Lynch said.

  “But Commissioner—”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  She stared at him to try to gauge whether or not he meant it, but she’d learned over the years that Lynch was always serious. With a sigh, she put away her notebook and sat back in her chair.

  “Is Coletti working on this case?” she asked.

  “Yes he is.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little too close for comfort?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My sources tell me that the woman at the graveyard with Mrs. Bailey was Mary Smithson’s half-sister,” Kirsten said. “Since Mary tried to kill Coletti, having him on this case might present a bit of a conflict.”

  “I know where you’re going, but I don’t see it that way.”

  “What if Coletti finds that Mary’s sister was involved in the murder? What if he takes the opportunity to carry out some kind of vendetta?”

  “We don’t do vendettas here, Kirsten. We solve crimes.”

  “Tell that to the guy who was shot by the off-duty cop after an argument over water ice. Or the guy whose son was locked up on trumped-up charges because his girlfriend’s dad was a cop.”

  “Those are isolated incidents. Coletti’s a thirty-one-year veteran who’s never been involved in anything like that, and frankly, he’s one of the best I’ve got. I need him on this case.”

  “Even if departmental policy says he can’t work a case where he has a personal stake?”

  “Technically, this is a separate case from what happened with Mary Smithson, and we’re going to treat it that way. That means Coletti is going to stay on this case until I decide he shouldn’t be on it anymore.”

  “That’s a slippery slope, Commissioner.”

  “Maybe so,” Lynch said. “But at the end of the day, I’m the one who has to live with my decision. I’m comfortable with that.”

  The two of them looked at each other across the desk. “Do you have any more questions?” Lynch asked.

  “Just one,” Kirsten said with a weary grin. “What do you want from me?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “I’ve been a crime reporter for twenty years. This is the first time I’ve ever been in the commissioner’s office. You want something,” she said flatly.

  Lynch got up from his chair and sat on the edge of his desk. “I want your help.”

  “I’m a reporter, not a cop.”

  “You’re also the only one besides Coletti who saw the murderer close-up. I know you told us what you saw this morning, but if we’re going to catch this guy, we need more than that.”

  “I don’t have more to give,” she said. “He was big, he was pale, he was scary. That’s all I know.”

  “What about the raven?” Lynch said.

  Kirsten’s eyes grew fearful as she thought of it. “The only thing I can tell you about the raven is that it’s tied to this somehow. I don’t know how to explain it or if I should even try. The last thing I need is for the police commissioner to think I’m crazy.”

  Lynch smiled. “Crazy? I don’t think you’re crazy. Reckless? Yes. Foolish? Sometimes. But in all the years I’ve seen you cover crime in this city, I’ve never thought you were crazy, Kirsten. Not by a long shot.”

  She looked at him, and a tiny bit of trust showed up in her eyes. “Then you know what I saw was real—as real as that bird that was circling over us a few minutes ago.”

  “Of course I know it was real,” Lynch said. “That’s what I’m worried about. If you saw that bird after Smitty was killed and Cole
tti saw it after Mrs. Bailey was killed—”

  “Wait. So Coletti saw it, too?”

  “Yes,” Lynch said, locking eyes with Kirsten. “And if the pattern holds, seeing that bird here could mean someone else is about to die.”

  “Maybe so,” Kirsten said in a small, still voice. “Or maybe the next victim’s already dead.”

  * * *

  Coletti left the medical examiner’s office and loaded the bag containing Clarissa’s belongings into the trunk of his car as Ellison Bailey slid into the passenger seat.

  Ellison’s cavalier attitude was gone, replaced with a sort of shock that permeated his every movement. He appeared older, slower, more reserved.

  “We’re going to have to hold on to your wife’s belongings as evidence,” Coletti said as he got in and started the car.

  “That’s fine,” Ellison said quietly and with a nervous smile. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Coletti pulled out of the parking lot and looked in the rearview mirror at the patrol car that was following them. Then he glanced at Ellison, who seemed lost in the moment. “Are you all right, Mr. Bailey?”

  “I’m fine. It’s just hard to get the picture of Clarissa out of my head. I’ve never seen a dead body before, let alone someone I cared about. It’s sobering.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I appreciate you coming down,” Coletti said, pausing slightly. “I did want to ask you something, though.”

  Ellison turned to him expectantly.

  “What was your wife’s usual routine?”

  “For the past few months she’d been leaving around nine every morning to go to Tookesbury Mansion. She’d swing by Fairgrounds Cemetery. Then she’d come home around four and go upstairs.”

  “Did she seem nervous or afraid lately?”

  “In the years we were together, I never really saw Clarissa get nervous or afraid about anything. Why? Did they find something to make you think she was afraid?”

  “They found traces of gunpowder and other signs that she might have fired a gun today.”

  Ellison looked surprised. “Clarissa? She despised guns. She wouldn’t even allow a gun in the house for protection.”