When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  We stayed there about three weeks, drinking ourselves into oblivion in a cozy fisherman's lounge where stuffed trout cavorted in varnished glory for the guests. Tommy had quite taken to Mr. Loxley, who after initial hesitation accepted the clown as a formidable drinking partner. Mr. Loxley occasionally described supplementing his income with trips into the dump. "Incredible, the things people throw away," he had said time and again. Once, he took us into his workshop where every kind of machine from toaster to dishwasher sat about with insides of wire and metal vomited on the floor. "A gold mine!" Mr. Loxley's eyes seldom betrayed the madness growing behind them. I spent the week in and out of Tommy. He seemed content to ride the wave, so to speak--as long as there was plenty of strong drink handy. I had held onto him until we were checked in at the motel, and he seemed fairly content upon waking. That was likely due to the exhausted and injured condition his body was in when I returned it. Mr. Loxley was perfect though. Tommy loved to drink and talk--argue, if he could--preferably about nothing--and Loxley had an appetite similar in both respects. Things almost took a bad turn one night when, full of liquor, Tommy made a clumsy pass at the lady of the manor. I managed to take over and avert what promised to be a disastrous situation, much to Tommy and Mrs. Loxley's chagrin.

  A phone call to Inspector Cane gave us the okay for return to Greasetown. He told us that Van Reydner was still missing, and that by all appearances; Mr. Adrian had joined her in oblivion. He had not been heard of, or seen, since the day I spoke to him. Authority was still looking though. Surprisingly--mainly because of his earlier malice--Cane described the Authority investigation into Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased. Files had so far shown over fifty clients with questionable deaths. What had put them onto it was a businessman, Henry Ogden. The files said he had been brought to Simpson's after a fatal heart attack. One of the investigating Inspectors knew him, and was certain that Ogden claimed to have suffered the fatal attack in his sleep after a night of extreme sex with his mistress--one, Jane Van Meering. When questioned further Ogden described a relationship with a redheaded massage therapist. This led to further investigation, and the bodies started popping up. Simpson's made the claim that their treatments worked best if applied immediately after Blacktime. As part of their preservation policy, Simpson's acquired written permission to transport a client's remains directly to the facility, forgoing the customary trip to Authority run morgues or private hospitals. Upon arrival, a doctor would determine the cause of death using Simpson's patented non-evasive techniques. When questioned Simpson's doctor seemed to be a genuine dupe. Ogden agreed to a physical examination by Authority physicians and they found no sign of heart attack trauma. Instead, they discovered high levels of barbiturates in his now inert tissues.

  As I sat across from Elmo, I thought about Van Reydner for about twenty seconds. It passed. I supposed professional pride wouldn't let go of her. She was the one who got away. That always led to a twinge about Adrian's absence. He, too, had escaped retribution. I pushed the disturbing thoughts aside and slipped back into somnolence. I had done my job. I found a killer. It wasn't my problem that society was corrupt, or that justice was insubstantial. It wasn't my problem.

  Now, we had suffered through weeks of inactivity. The season had changed. We had been back for over a month. The temperature was rising. The humidity grew to ridiculous proportions at noon. That meant summer was near. Approaching summer didn't mean there would be more sun. It simply meant that after it rained, you could expect to sweat intensely for hours. I looked at the office clock. It said ten-thirty. It was Monday, the seventh of May. Oddly enough, Tommy didn't have a hangover this morning when I took over. The money was running low, so the clown had to settle for minimalist bingeing. The only thing that kept our offices was a secret account that I had taken out while in possession of Tommy. So far, I had managed to keep it a secret from Elmo as well. I began to toss around the idea of releasing my hold on Tommy. Boredom was less acutely felt when disembodied--no aches to complain about, no buttocks turning to sand.

  The phone rang. Elmo and I looked at each other with surprise. I quickly choked down my optimism as I prepared my business voice. It was my theory that creditors always expect stupid people to default on payments. It was the only way I could rationalize their being so unpleasant. My method was to hit them oozing intelligence and self-confidence. It caught them off guard. I always tried to make it sound as though I purposefully missed a payment, just to check up on them.

  The phone rang again. I pulled the receiver to my ear.

  "Wildclown Investigations."

  There was silence for four seconds. Just enough to get the adrenaline going.

  "Wildclown." A voice. It was heavily disguised--completely androgynous and muffled.

  "Wildclown," I parroted.

  "Not doing your job."

  "Thank you," I said, resisting the urge to snipe.

  "Another murder."

  "Such is the way," I murmured, interested now.

  "At the Morocco." The voice was almost mechanical.

  "The Morocco Hotel no longer exists. I was there when it burned down."

  "Don't be a fool."

  "All right, I won't."

  "Same night as the lawyer."

  My mind began to race. "Who?" I didn't expect an answer.

  A resounding click was all I got.

  "Hello?" No answer. So, an anonymous phone caller--perhaps a fellow do gooder? I doubted it. Looking up, I noticed that Elmo was watching me with intensity.

  "I think we may have something." I lit a cigarette, kept the phone cocked at my ear, and put a finger in the dial. Cane first--then the paper.

  Chapter 22

  I was unable to reach Cane on my first or second try, so I busied myself perusing back issues of the Greasetown Gazette. It was simple enough to do. The waiting room was full of them. Even though the Gazette could arrive a day late, it was the biggest paper in Greasetown and gave the best coverage of events--its motto made the claim in 30 point "All the News – All the Time!" Whatever that meant. Not that I was big on news, it was just the best place to find work. And I needed work. Elmo let them pile up in the waiting room, because he believed my many clients could read them while they waited to talk to me. He had big plans old Elmo. In the two years I'd been involved with him and Tommy, I had never seen a single client use the waiting room. I was pretty sure he kept the old papers around because it was his favorite way to pass his sleepless nights. Elmo had piled fifty of the back issues on my desk. I found one dated March 2, 50 N.A., the day of Billings' murder. N.A. stood for the New Age. We had all restarted our clocks with the Change.

  The front page held the usual local political intrigues--Mayor Harvey was up to his old tricks--and vague headlines for world events. They were vague because information was growing more difficult to collect from the Four Corners. The breakdown in our global satellite communications had the effect of making the world a big place again. Just the same, landlines carried information though it often arrived garbled. Eastern Authorities were still stemming the flow of refugees from the Middle East. Camps were set up out of the way of radioactive clouds that followed the Children of God. The Dark Ages had returned to Russia. Post-democratic China massed its troops on the border. Civil wars raged across the African continent. Capetown had been made the capitol of a newly formed AIDS victims' republic. Things were getting exciting.

  I flipped past the headlines to the section set aside for murder and death. I grinned at the ad that ran across the bottom of the page. "King Industries Announces Breakthrough in Afterlife Products." The ad under the banner described a de-mortifying process that married ancient Egyptian techniques with state of the art technology. The downfall of Simpson's Skin Tanning must have been good for the King of the Dead. By the look of the ad, his company had picked up the slack. I almost felt like calling him and asking for a piece of the action. After all, I was instrumental in this surge in business. I dismissed the notion though
. The King made it known that he did not scruple about fairness. His competitors were conspicuously low-key.

  The Murder and Death section contained news articles about recent murders, stories updating old homicides, bounties for murderers posted by their victims and obituaries. Obituaries had become an interesting read, now that the dead could write their own. And I usually enjoyed a good chuckle. Normally I read the whole section to see if I could drum up business. This time I had a mission. I curled my tongue like a snail in its shell--I think better that way. The new murders, about fifty of them, were listed alphabetically by last name. Then, it jumped out at me. I read the story under 'Billings, Conrad.'

  Authority is investigating the murder of a New Garden lawyer early Friday morning at the Morocco Hotel in the Downings District.

  Witnesses on the scene reported the murder arose from a quarrel between the unnamed lawyer and his mistress.

  Authority refuses to speculate on the motive for the killing and will not comment while the crime is under investigation.

  I looked at the byline: Mary Redding. Elmo held out another paper to me. He pointed to a local news story dated Monday, March 5th. The headline read: Fire Consumes Landmark. Fires are not uncommon, especially in the Downings, so they don't get a lot of press. This one read:

  Authority continues to investigate the Saturday night blaze that destroyed the historic Morocco Building in Downings District.

  The fire started at 11:30 p.m., officials said, and investigators at the scene found no evidence of foul play.

  "We are told by our experts that it was likely the old wiring," Authority Investigator Roger Shipton said.

  "We've questioned a lot of the people in the neighborhood, and we haven't turned up anything that warrants further investigation."

  Shipton said that there was no evidence connecting the blaze to the recent murder of a New Garden lawyer at the Morocco Building.

  Authority refuses to release the names of those involved.

  The Morocco Building played a significant role in the post-Change riots of the 20's as a headquarters for Resurrectionist Captain Jack Updike and his supporters. Historians mourned this significant loss.

  No sign of foul play. I had to stifle a giggle. Those dead arsonists must have left some trace. The gasoline should have been detected. And there had to be something left of their bodies--charred bones at least--and the shotgun. Why would Authority sit on this? They usually went out of their way to discredit Downings District. It helped them justify their restrictions on the dead.

  "Elmo, keep looking for related stories. Anything mentioned after the Billings' murder, and before the Morocco fire. A disappearance, anything." The Morocco had stood for years and years, and years, probably the scene of a hundred murders; but the caller had been exact in saying the murder happened the same night as Billings'. That was the night I wasn't doing my job. I hated criticism.

  I picked up the phone, dialed the Gazette. I read the byline for the fire story. Same reporter. The phone line buzzed angrily.

  "Mary Redding, please," I asked when the husky, good-morning voice of a switchboard operator answered.

  "One moment..." it rasped.

  The line continued to snap and pop like Rice Crispies. Five minutes ticked by. I could hear the line transfer, buzz, beep and rattle. A muffled conversation overheard, then...

  "Hello." A clear voice--crisp and sharp. This reporter had purpose. I would have hated to work at the desk beside her on Monday morning. "Mary Redding, how can I help you?"

  "Ms. Redding, my name's Wildclown. I'm a private detective. I understand you covered a couple of stories at the Morocco Building before it burned down in March."

  "Yes," her voice was distracted. "I did."

  "I know about the Billings' murder. But I wonder if you could tell me about the other killing."

  A pause, then. "There was no other killing."

  "Well, what was the other story you covered?"

  "The fire." She was becoming hesitant.

  "But," I pointed out, "the fire did not happen 'before' the Morocco burned down. I assume you covered that story 'after'."

  "I thought that's what you meant." More hesitation.

  "You agreed that you covered two stories before the fire. Did you not?"

  "What's your name again?" She was fast becoming professional on me.

  "Wildclown. I worked on the Billings' case." I then decided to try a lie. Call it a hunch. "I was hired to investigate the other murder. Since I'm familiar with the scene."

  "Oh," Redding relaxed, but remained cagey when she said, "I thought that one was being hushed."

  "I understand." I actually did. "I understand the pressure that Authority can bring to bear on some, shall we say, 'contentious' stories."

  "You can say that again," she laughed. "I'm surprised you know about this one. They really put the pressure on to keep it out of the papers. I don't think any of us ever would have known about it if my fotog hadn't stumbled upon the body. We were there on a tip about the Billings' case. The whole story would have disappeared."

  "I see." I had to keep my bluff going. "Your fotog...you see I didn't know about that."

  "Yeah, poor guy--he'd only been hired the week before. Then to have to see the body. Cotton was quite a mess. You know that much."

  "Yes, he certainly was." I jotted the name on the desk blotter and then took an intuitive leap. "Cotton, well--Ms. Redding, any ideas what happened? Why would anyone treat a body like that?"

  "You've got me. It was like he'd been put in a blender. One of our homicide reporters saw the pictures--said it looked like a tree shredder had been used on him. I saw the body, and it looked fresh. The blood was still pooling--slowly coagulating in the Dumpster. Christ, there was a bottle of gasoline too, like whoever did him in was going to really finish the job--but got cold feet, or ran out of time."

  "And Cotton was registered at the Morocco."

  "Yeah, under the name W. Irving. There would never have been a real name on him if there hadn't been that bit of shredded I.D. In fact, I helped Authority put it together. Just the name: Alan Cotton. We had the last three numbers of his social insurance. Of course, Authority warned me to leave the story alone, right then and there. They said it was a drug killing. Said they found liters of Greaseasy in the guy's sample case--which was conveniently unmolested. Authority said he was a salesman for afterlife cosmetics who was supplementing his income. They wouldn't tell me what company. Just told me to drop it. I would have checked it out further, but the publisher called me personally, told me to drop it. Then the fire..."

  "Well," I said. "That about checks out with my notes."

  "Who hired you?"

  "A friend. I'm not allowed to divulge..."

  "What's your name again?"

  "Wildclown."

  "What the hell kind of a name is that?"

  "It's Scottish."

  "Listen, you're not going to do anything public with the information." Her tone was speculative. "I mean, I know all about journalistic integrity--I mangle it every week--but, I don't want to lose my place here, I've got job security, but it means squat to Authority. I guess I really started to run off at the mouth."

  "I think you have a tough time with your integrity. I think you'd like to see something done with the story." I liked her voice.

  "Probably right." She fell silent.

  "Do you have a place of origin for Cotton. I mean his home."

  "Down past Vicetown on the coast, but surely you'd have that yourself."

  "Just double-checking everything." I tried to push my smile through the receiver. "It's important to be certain of the facts. Listen, thanks for the help. If I can ever be of service--look me up. Just don't call me Shirley."

  "Yeah, I will," she said. Then before she could bring her full faculty to bear, I hung up. Alan Cotton died the same night as the lawyer Billings. Unfortunately for Cotton, whoever had killed him had also destroyed his chance at an afterlife by destroying his body.
I had heard of the bodies of syndicate snitches and both cooperative and uncooperative witnesses ending up that way. Sliced and diced. But why Cotton? If it was drug related, then it could have been punishment or retaliation from some rival faction. Still, Authority had clamped a lid on it. Maybe Cotton was being made an example of. Whoever did it wanted him silent forever. But Authority had slammed the lid on the case. Why? And the fire too. No sign of foul play. They hushed that as well.

  I looked at Elmo. He sat across from me. His long arms were jackknifed like grasshopper legs to launch him out of his chair.

  "Elmo, we might have a case here." My problem was getting somebody to pay me to investigate it. "Let's take a trip to Vicetown." I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair while Elmo slipped out to bring the car around front.

  Chapter 23

  The two-hour drive down the coast was uneventful. I was not surprised that Elmo had elected to come along. If there was still beauty in the world, you could find it on the drive down the coast. It had been a long time since the roaring waves had seen a sunset and the craggy cliffs a blue sky; but there remained a harsh gothic beauty. Whirling clouds of spray churned over the gray rock face where the sea ground its time-laden bulk against the coast. I had even noticed a flock of seagulls stoically facing another day of rain and storm. They stood along the guardrail like so many Heathcliffes baring their souls to the biting counsel of nature. Part of me wanted to join them out there--but I knew they'd go for my eyes. The highway wound in and around granite outbursts rising onto pedestals only in those areas that were near inhabited stretches. The Landfillers were less prevalent near the coast. A lively seabird population scavenged anything that crawled near.