The Gravedigger's Ball

by Solomon Jones

  “I was just wondering because I happened to be close by when the two of you talked earlier. I couldn’t help overhearing you screaming at her on the phone.”

  The lawyer jumped in. “What does a personal disagreement between a husband and wife have to do with your case?” he said.

  “I don’t know … yet.”

  “So can we stick to things directly related to the case?” the lawyer asked.

  “Sure,” Mann said with a grin while turning back to John. “When did you find out that your wife was a murder witness?”

  “When my flight from London landed, I got a text message from my lawyer. He met me at JFK airport, and we immediately got a flight to Philadelphia.”

  “So you never got the calls from Mrs. Wilkinson?”

  “I was on a plane all day, so by necessity, my cell phone was off.”

  “Yes, but isn’t your plane equipped with a phone?”

  John laughed. “My plane? I fly commercial, Detective. I don’t own a plane.”

  Mann looked at him quizzically. “I read last year that your company owned a 707. In fact, I specifically remember reading that in Forbes.”

  John’s laughter turned to something else. He licked his lips nervously. “We sold it,” he said. “We’ve been liquidating some of the company’s assets over the past year. In this economy, it’s pretty important for any company to do that.”

  “Even your company, Mr. Wilkinson? That’s kind of surprising.”

  “Why?” John said, sounding irritated. “I’m in real estate, Detective. In case you haven’t heard, real estate’s taken a beating over the past couple years.”

  “So how bad is it for you?” Mann asked.

  The lawyer jumped in. “Detective, if you want my client’s financial records, you’ll have to get a warrant for them. And I don’t see how that’s relevant to your investigation anyway.”

  “It’s relevant if they’re having marital problems, or if he has any other motive to do her harm.”

  “Now wait a minute!” John said, his face turning red. “Let’s get something straight. I love my wife, and I will not sit here and allow you or anyone else to imply that I would hurt her.”

  “I’m not implying anything, Mr. Wilkinson. I’m telling you in no uncertain terms that if you’ve got financial problems or anything else that might affect your relationship with your wife, we need to know that, because that would impact the way we’re approaching this investigation.”

  “I don’t know how many different ways I can say it,” John said. “I love my wife, I’m here to see her, and unless you’re going to charge me with something, I’d like to talk to her now.”

  Mann knew he had no choice but to allow Mr. Wilkinson to see Lenore. Neither John nor his wife had been charged with a crime.

  Mann got up and led them to the room where Lenore was waiting. The uniformed cop stepped aside as Mann opened the door.

  Mann looked at John’s lawyer, then at Lenore. “Do you want this guy in here?” Mann asked.

  “I really need a few minutes alone with my husband,” Lenore said. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  John considered saying something different, but Lenore gave him a warning glance, and he nodded in agreement with his wife.

  “You can wait in the next room,” Mann told the lawyer before closing the door so John and Lenore could be alone.

  “Are you, um … are you all right?” John asked in a tone much gentler than the one he’d used when they’d spoken on the phone.

  “Do you really care?” she asked, her eyes flashing angrily.

  They were sitting across from each other in rickety chairs, speaking over one of the heavy tables where criminals cop pleas and make deals before cases ever make their way to a courtroom. They both knew the police might be listening, so they didn’t say anything they didn’t want them to hear.

  “Before I say anything else, Lenore, I need you to know I’m sorry,” John said, his tone sincere. “You know I just came in from London. It was a long flight, and I’m tired, so I might have been a little on edge.”

  Lenore looked at him in utter disbelief. When the words finally came, they weren’t kind.

  “You were a little on edge?” she asked. “Someone was murdered not fifty yards from where I stood, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I found out that whoever killed her wants to come after me, too. So you’ll excuse me if I’m a little more on edge than you are.”

  John sighed. “Look, Lenore, I know you must be tired and under a lot of stress. I am, too. So why don’t we just go home, get some rest, and figure out what we’re going to do tomorrow?”

  “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said, have you? There’s someone out there who wants to harm me, John. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t just pick up and go home now. It’s not that simple.”

  “Do you really think I would let someone harm you? I’d spend every dime I have to protect you, Lenore. You have to believe that.”

  “I believe what I see, and from all that you’ve said and done—or, rather, all you haven’t said and done—I know I’m not your priority. You said it yourself. My involvement in a murder case might scare off your investors.”

  John stood up and closed his eyes tightly while squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Lenore, there’s more to it than that.”

  “Like what? The fact that you want me at home doing charity work and playing bridge? Smiling and waving when I’m on your arm at black-tie functions? Never having a life or identity of my own?”

  John knew that he had to get her to see things his way—a task that under normal circumstances would be easy. When she was upset, however, Lenore could be quite combative. The only way to gain the upper hand was to find and use a kernel of truth that she hadn’t already discovered.

  “I’ve never begrudged you your own life,” he said. “In fact, I’ve always wanted you to have one. You just never seemed to want it for yourself.”

  “Until now,” she said firmly.

  John placed his hands on the table and bent down until they were nearly nose to nose. “So what does having your own life look like?” he asked. “Because I thought I’d provided you with a pretty great life as Mrs. Wilkinson.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want that life anymore, John. I love that life. But I want us to have that life together, not apart.”

  “Then come home with me now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because for once I want to see something through. That’s what having my own life looks like. And it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

  John looked in her eyes for a few minutes more. Then he walked across the small room and stood there with his back to his wife.

  “If you love me at all, you’ll do the right thing,” he said. “Investors don’t like controversy. That’s why I need you to come home.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but the money and the deals aren’t important to me.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Happiness, John, and I’m staying here until I find it.”

  There was a knock on the door just then.

  “Come in,” Lenore said. “We’re finished.”

  Charlie Mann walked into the interrogation room along with John’s lawyer.

  “Do you need anything more from my client?” the lawyer asked Mann as John stood up and prepared to leave.

  “I need him to stay reachable,” said Mann.

  “That’s fine,” John said, turning to his wife with a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Lenore, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to come with me? I can get you the best security money can buy, and when things are safer you can come back.”

  “I’ve made my decision, John,” she said as her eyes grew moist with tears. “You’ve made yours, too, so please, get on with it.”

  He tried to hug her, but she pulled away. Duly chastised, John stood back and looked at her. Then he took out a business card, scribbled his perso
nal numbers on the back, and handed it to Charlie Mann.

  “I have to go back to New York to tie up some loose ends. These are all my phone numbers and e-mail addresses. You have my lawyer’s numbers, too. I’ll be back here as soon as I can.”

  He reached out to hold his wife once again. Her tears were flowing freely now, and John wanted to make them stop. He whispered the one thing they both knew for sure. “You’re my biggest investment.”

  As Mann and the lawyer looked on, Lenore pulled gently away from her husband and touched him on his cheek. “One day soon, you’ll act like it.”

  With a last glance at his wife, John left with his lawyer. Mann wanted to say something to make Lenore feel better, but he didn’t have the words to do so. He was still trying to figure out what to do about his own relationship. Seconds later, opportunity knocked.

  Sandy walked into the interrogation room, fresh off her interview with the cemetery manager, and Mann’s eyes lingered on everything about her. Sandy liked that, but she wasn’t about to be distracted by it.

  “Hi, Lieutenant Jackson,” Lenore said, her eyes filled with pain.

  Sandy knew that pain all too well, and she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for Lenore. “I assume that was your husband,” she said.

  Lenore nodded as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  Sandy paused, unsure what to do. Then her humanity took over, and before she could stop herself, she was crossing the room to hug Lenore.

  “It’ll be okay, honey,” she whispered as she held Lenore. “Men do what they do, and no matter what, we come out a little stronger in the end.”

  Their embrace lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough to let Sandy know they were more alike than they were different. When they released each other, Lenore smiled with gratitude. Then Sandy turned to Charlie Mann, who was still mesmerized by the sight of her in jeans and a tight leather jacket.

  Sandy stood there for a moment, basking in the power of her raw sensuality. When she was satisfied that Charlie had seen all she needed him to see, she gave him the news she’d come to deliver.

  “We just got word that Professor Workman’s house burned down this afternoon. They found his body and a woman’s body in a shallow grave on his property. Coletti’s already there.”

  “What about the killer?” Mann asked.

  “They think he’s still in the area. They’re searching for him now.”

  * * *

  The Gravedigger drove the black Ford out of Elkins Park without incident, because from the outside, everything about the car appeared to be average. Its dull paint was speckled with water spots from the morning’s rains. Its tires and rims were worn and dingy. Its engine was louder than most.

  But on the inside, its charcoal gray-cloth seats and interior were soaked with the blood of its dead owner, and so were the Gravedigger’s hands.

  As he crossed back into Philadelphia, the killer knew, even as his sanity continued to crumble, that he’d need the help of his benefactor. When he received the text message saying a car would be waiting at Ogontz and Limekiln Pike in thirty minutes, he was grateful, but he was also afraid. In the slow-moving after-work traffic, he risked being spotted, so he set out to get off the main streets.

  He drove the labyrinth of one-way streets and twisting avenues on the Philadelphia side of the border, looking for a place to hide. Before long he was in a place where his heart had gone too many times over the last year, a place where he’d refused to go physically until now.

  He drove along the stone wall that so often plagued his daydreams. He felt intensely lonely as he passed beneath the bare branches of the tree-lined street, and then he felt crippling sadness.

  As he drew closer to the location where he knew his heart would take him, tears he hadn’t cried for a year began streaming down his face. When finally he arrived there, with the raven circling above, he parked the car and told himself he desperately needed to leave. He sat there and chided himself for mourning all he’d lost. He looked at his hands and cursed himself for killing so many people. Then, as suddenly as they’d begun, the tears stopped, and he turned to look at the spot in Northwood Cemetery where he’d buried his wife a year before.

  “I came back to see you, Helen,” he said through trembling lips. “Did you miss me? Because I missed you more than you’ll ever know.”

  He dried his eyes with his hands, streaking dirt and blood across his face. The red and brown smears looked almost like camouflage, which was fitting, because in the killer’s mind, he was at war. He was fighting against himself, he was fighting against his grief, and he was fighting against the urge to simply kill everyone and everything in sight. Even as he continued to lose his tenuous grip on his sanity, though, he knew he couldn’t totally lose control. There was a plan, after all, and that plan would allow him to get back the only thing that would make the pain go away. That plan would allow him to bring back his wife.

  “I know you must be lonely, Helen,” he said as the tears began anew. “I’m lonely, too. But it won’t be that way for long. When I’m finished, we’ll be together again.”

  The sobs began, softly at first. Then they rapidly grew into uncontrollable shrieks. He pounded his fists on the dashboard. He stomped his feet on the floor. He rocked back and forth in his seat. He gave in to his anger.

  His tirade was visible from outside the car. It caught the attention of neighbors who watched him from their homes and called police. When a cruiser rolled slowly down the street and crept toward the car, the killer stopped and looked in the rearview mirror, and everything he’d worked for flashed before his eyes. He wasn’t going to let it end this way, so he did what he had to do. He wiped the tears from his face once more, mouthed a silent good-bye to his wife, and put the car in gear. Then he gunned it.

  The skidding of the tires was instantly followed by the sound of lights and sirens. As the black Ford and the cop car flew south on the residential street, the police officer reported the chase to radio, and every unit within five miles headed in that direction.

  The Ford screamed down the road that ran along the perimeter of the graveyard, then skidded onto a two-way street that ran between the graveyard and a school. By then, two more police cars had joined the chase, and all four vehicles were traveling at nearly a hundred miles per hour.

  The Gravedigger looked nervously in the rearview mirror as the police cars closed in. Then he glanced at the blood on the seat. He knew he had to escape from them in order to have a chance to fulfill his promise to his wife. He would either succeed or die trying. He pressed the accelerator to the floor, pushing the black Ford around yet another corner and skidding on the blacktop as he barreled down a series of small, one-way streets with names like Bouvier and Gratz.

  He sideswiped dozens of vehicles and barely missed a man and a woman who were returning home from work. As the chase intensified and police cars crisscrossed the tiny streets in an effort to cut him off, mothers herded their children inside. Teens dodged the speeding cars. The sound of wailing sirens filled the air.

  The killer made a sudden right and hit the long block of Sixty-seventh Avenue that led toward Broad Street, barely missing an old woman as she disembarked from a bus. The policeman that was behind him wasn’t so fortunate. He drove into the woman, knocking her twenty feet into the air, and skidded to a stop as other cars continued the pursuit.

  As the killer approached a winding street called Old York Road, a police car came from the right and screeched to a halt, blocking the car’s path. The killer skidded and swerved, clipping the front of the police car before heading south.

  Police radios blared as commanders tried to give orders to break off the pursuit. But the calls for assistance drowned out the orders, and the police cars moved even faster.

  The killer couldn’t outrun them, but he knew he had to make it to Ogontz and Limekiln Pike, so he did the only thing he could to stop the chase. He began targeting pedestrians. He drove onto the sidewalk and hit a man. He swerved back int
o the street and hit another. And as the casualties began to pile up in his wake, the commanders’ orders finally took hold.

  The police broke off the pursuit. Five minutes later, they found the black Ford, but the Gravedigger was gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Though Workman’s home was still standing, the fire department wasn’t sure if it was structurally sound. That was bad news for Coletti, because he wanted to see if there were things in the house that would indicate what else Workman had hidden when they talked.

  As the fire marshall set about deciding when to let the police into the house, Coletti stood amidst spinning dome lights on the manicured lawn that encircled Workman’s property. The stench of smoke still filled the air, and smoldering embers floated on the autumn breeze. Cheltenham Township police were on the scene, as were several fire companies from Philadelphia, Cheltenham, and La Mott.

  The news media were there, too, including the woman who’d been hounding Coletti throughout the day. He tried to avoid Kirsten Douglas by standing far away from the gathered media, but it was hard for him to do so. She was yelling his name from beyond the perimeter, and her voice was louder than all the other reporters combined. For that reason alone, he was obliged to turn around and talk to her. He hadn’t heard a woman yell his name in quite some time.

  As crime scene officers busily took pictures and measurements, documenting every inch of the scene, Coletti walked to the edge of the crime scene tape that extended the length of Workman’s property. He lifted the tape and made his way over to Kirsten. When the other reporters saw him, they flocked to the spot where Kirsten stood.

  “I’ll give you guys a statement in a few,” Coletti said. “I need to talk to Ms. Douglas first.”

  Undaunted, the remaining members of the media followed Coletti, shouting questions as he calmly walked Kirsten to his car, which was parked at the end of the driveway. The reporters reversed course like camera-wielding lemmings when a township supervisor showed up to give a statement to a television station.

  Kirsten and Coletti got into the car, and he turned to her with a weary grin. “Okay, the commissioner told me I should talk to you,” he said. “What do you want to know?”