Hidden Graves

by Jack Fredrickson

  ‘I don’t want you to be caught unprepared,’ I said.

  ‘Unprepared for what?’

  I told her about my conversation with Sergeant Bohler, the grid map I’d printed out and the spot where all the blood had been found. And I told her what I’d asked Bohler to do.

  ‘My God, Dek! What if you’re wrong?’

  ‘It probably won’t get that far. Bohler doubts any judge would be crazy enough to give her a warrant to dig at Wade’s estate even if she was crazy enough to ask for one.’

  She exhaled softly against the phone. ‘I emailed Theresa, saying that my becoming deputy campaign manager this close to the election would look like eyewash, a meaningless reward for a contribution. She was very understanding.’

  ‘She won’t be if men come with shovels. She’ll blame you for me.’

  ‘Imagining they’d be involved in secret burials seems … so unfair. No, it’s nightmarish.’

  ‘Murder is worse.’

  ‘You’ve alerted Jennifer Gale?’

  ‘I’ll call her next. She’s owed this story. She and her cameraman got beaten, badly, just across the street from Wade’s place.’

  ‘The election is in two days,’ she said.

  ‘I doubt Bohler can act that fast. If anything happens it will be long after Timothy Wade has been elected.’

  ‘You and your Sergeant Bohler better be right, if she does decide to proceed. Otherwise, good people are going to get muddied. You, most of …’ She didn’t finish. She let it taper away.

  ‘No, not me so much. You’ve got more to lose. That’s why I called you.’

  She paused for a long moment. ‘Ah, hell, I’m a tycoon now. And I’ve weathered you before.’ She clicked off.

  I called Galecki’s. ‘Don’t hang up,’ I said to Mrs Galecki. ‘Tell Jenny the story might break.’

  Mrs Galecki hung up, but I hoped she’d done it after I got the words out.

  I didn’t have to hope long. Jenny called within a minute.

  ‘Bohler might go for a warrant to dig up Wade’s estate to look for graves,’ I said.

  ‘Now, like today?’

  ‘Not today. Maybe not tomorrow, or in two months, or ever. Bohler is a cop in a Democratic county in a Democratic state. She has to decide whether messing in Wade’s estate is worth the risk to her career. If she thinks it is, she still has to convince her superiors at the sheriff’s department to get the case back from Chicago PD and then to assign it to her. Then she’s got to convince a judge to give her a warrant. Then she’s got to assemble—’

  ‘Digging up Wade’s estate on election day would be so perfect.’ Her voice had risen, imagining video, imagining audio. She’d been only half-listening.

  ‘Not for those who believe in elections.’

  ‘And I’d have to figure out who’d air my report,’ she said.

  ‘That’s probably a long way off—’

  ‘Channel Eight, right here,’ she said. ‘My old station. They’ll do it.’

  ‘Make sure your team includes Bernie, Stanley, Frank, Eloise and any other tough cousins you’ve got.’

  ‘The story could run simultaneously, here and in San Francisco, then break national.’ She clicked me away.

  What happened next happened quickly.

  And happened wrong.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Nine o’clock, Monday, the morning before election day.

  I balanced the last of Amanda’s spaghetti, a cup of coffee made with Bohler’s very excellent grounds, my tiny television and myself on my electric-blue recliner, expecting to see the usual numbing, last-minute pleas from candidates for the public’s trust and, unspoken, the opportunity to pursue privately profitable shenanigans.

  But that morning there was no numbing on television. The local stations were playing, and replaying, a short video just sent out by the Wade campaign.

  A somber Timothy Wade sat in the living room where we’d met. The room was darkened, except for two lamps and the fire roaring in his reasonable fireplace. He was dressed in a medium-colored suit, a crisp white shirt and what I guessed was the obligatory red necktie. I could only guess at the color of the tie because my mini TV offered images only in black, white and mostly gray. He half-smiled with teeth as white as his shirt.

  ‘As you know, we suspended active campaigning after we encountered what might have appeared to be a simple prank in a farmyard. We knew otherwise. It was the latest in a series of threatening moves made by a troubled individual. My campaign manager, who you might have heard is my iron-willed, big sister …’ he paused so the folks in the viewing world could laugh to themselves appreciatively, ‘… insisted I step back a bit until the threat was dealt with. That’s now done. We will not reveal anything about this individual other than to say he’s suffered a history of emotional issues. His family has retained excellent professional help for him and I’ve been asked to entrust the individual’s future to their most capable hands, and to honor his family’s request for privacy in this matter. I’m happy to comply.’

  He cleared his throat and went on: ‘Today, the day before the election, we are facing a new threat. Anonymous, unfounded accusations have been made against me and my sister concerning the disappearance of a person I knew long ago. Specifically, this fairy tale even has us burying his body in our back yard.’

  He raised his hand, palm out, and managed a rueful half-smile for the camera. ‘I know; I know. It’s crazy. But the Cook County Sheriff’s Police has decided to search our grounds nonetheless for this secret grave.’ He sighed. ‘Ah, politics. Crazy, aren’t they?’

  My cell phone rang. ‘You watching the news, Elstrom?’ Sergeant Bohler asked. There were vehicle noises in her background; she was in a car.

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ I clicked her away.

  ‘In the interest of putting this nonsense behind us immediately,’ Wade was saying, ‘my sister and I are inviting every accredited news department to come join us here at our home this morning to witness this instance of political dirty tricks run amok.’ He reached down and brought up a plate of cookies. ‘So, to you news folks, come on up. We’ll be serving coffee and cookies.’ He smiled and the video ended.

  My screen shifted to a news commentator. I turned down the sound and called Bohler.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Those two Wades are incredible,’ she said, sounding out of breath. ‘At six-thirty this morning my boss gave me permission to call Chicago PD.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have to ask for the case to be assigned back himself?’

  ‘Ordinarily, but this time he wants plausible deniability. He’s afraid of the Wades so he left it to me to back-channel the request. If it goes wrong he’ll claim he gave me no such permission.’

  ‘According to what Wade said on the news, you got permission.’

  ‘Faster than a fly can fly,’ she said. ‘The Chicago police gave me a verbal to take it back at seven o’clock.’

  ‘Why so fast?’

  ‘They’re afraid of the Wades, too. I know a rare Republican judge. He hates Democrats because they control the courtroom assignments and they move him to a different one every month. He drools in anticipation of taking down any Democrat and was delighted to prepare the warrant himself. I got my search team assembled just an hour ago and now we’re driving north to Winnetka.’

  ‘One of them called the Wades?’

  ‘As I said, faster than a fly can fly.’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t rush. Obviously the Wades know you’re not going to find anything if they’ve summoned news organizations to witness your folly.’

  ‘They’re arrogant, those Wades. And it’s too late. If I quit before I start, they’ll say I knew it was a political trick to begin with. I have to play it through.’

  ‘And get humiliated.’

  ‘I want you there, Elstrom, right beside me, my shovels and my saliva-spattered warrant from a crackpot judge. You suggested this. I want you there.’

&n
bsp; I owed her that. I told her I’d see her in Winnetka.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I walked past three-dozen cars and four news vans on the road up to Wade’s estate. Two sheriff’s cars and two sheriff’s vans were parked on the circular driveway, inside the gate.

  The gate was open. The guard in the shack recognized me and pointed to the flagstone walk at the side of the house. ‘The party is around back,’ he said.

  ‘Everyone’s invited?’

  ‘Mr Wade said not one damned fool is to be kept out.’ He stared at me long enough to be sure I understood I fit in that category.

  A bit of camouflage cloth was visible behind him, wedged behind a wastebasket. It could have been the sleeve of a jacket.

  ‘Got a black balaclava to go with that camo jacket?’ I asked what was certainly one of the bastards that had worn it, attacking Jenny.

  He jabbed a thumb toward the side yard. ‘Happy hunting.’

  I followed the path around to the back. It was easy to see clear down the long slope to the road where I’d parked the night I’d snuck onto the property, and it was easy to see how the thick damp blanket of rotting leaves that lay on the ground would play hell for the cops trying to find a grave. Or two.

  A long folding table had been set up on the brick patio behind the house. Two large silver urns of coffee were on it, along with huge trays of bagels, cream cheese and cookies. I recognized several of the television reporters milling abound, sipping coffee. The local stations had sent their big guns to report the circus.

  Eight officers in tan shirts and brown pants moved in two ragged clusters down the hill. Two pairs of deputies in front pulled leaves back with wide plastic rakes so the two pairs of officers following could see to probe the ground with long, thin metal rods.

  Thanks to me, they were wrecking Bohler’s career. No grave would be soft enough to find with a probe after twenty years, and Wade’s arrogant invitation to the press meant that Shea’s grave, if he was even dead, was nowhere nearby.

  Spotted everywhere down the slope were scores of reporters and cameramen. Jenny stood by a tree partway down the slope, away from everyone. I walked over.

  ‘Gutsy counterattack,’ I said.

  ‘The Wades are forcing us to report there’s nothing here.’

  ‘You’re looking better,’ I said, though her face seemed more purpled than the last time I’d seen her. She hadn’t covered any of it with makeup.

  She didn’t bother to answer the lie. ‘That’s Sergeant Bohler down there?’ she asked, pointing.

  There was no mistaking Bohler’s bright yellow hair. ‘She gambled a lot, thanks to me.’

  ‘Gambled and lost?’

  I nodded.

  Jenny nodded toward the closest cluster of news people. ‘Even as jaded as they’ve gotten, covering crooked Illinois, I don’t think anyone believes that sainted Timothy Wade could have had anything to do with a secret burial, let alone a killing.’

  ‘They don’t know what you know.’

  ‘They weren’t knowledgeable enough to get beaten, you mean.’

  ‘The guard out front was especially happy to point the way for me.’ I told her about seeing a camouflage jacket in the guard shack.

  She forced a smile. ‘Oh, we must take his picture on the way out.’

  ‘Did you bring your cousins for protection?’

  ‘Just Jimbo, with his camera. We tagged along with the regular Channel Eight crew.’

  ‘Play safe. Don’t go near the guard shack.’

  One of the groups of deputies had reached the bottom and was turning to probe a new swath up the hill. ‘That’s only their third trip. This is going to go on for an agonizingly long time.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all going to be over, today,’ I said.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I admired Bohler’s tenacity. Despite the near certainty that nothing would be found on that slope, she urged her searchers on until every square foot had been probed. It wasn’t until two o’clock that she scrambled up the hill for the last time, red-faced, sweaty and furious.

  ‘There’s not one damned soft spot on this whole hill,’ she said.

  I felt red-faced and sweaty, too. I’d been so wrong.

  The rest of her team trudged up with the news crews and disappeared around the side of the house at the front.

  ‘My boss wants me in his office at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,’ she said. She held up a hand when I opened my mouth. ‘It was me, too, Elstrom, not just you. I was too willing.’

  She left without saying a word to Jenny, standing next to me. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized her; her appearance was so changed.

  Jimbo, lugging his camera, was the last to make his way up the hill. It took him longer because he was using a cane to favor his leg. He didn’t look at Jenny and he didn’t look at me as he headed to the front.

  ‘You’re a good man, Dek,’ Jenny said. ‘You attempted justice here today.’

  ‘I guessed wrong.’

  ‘You put yourself on the line for the killing of someone who was deceitful to you. That’s to be admired.’

  ‘It blew up in my face, and in Bohler’s. And it will blow up in Amanda’s face as well when word gets out I’m behind all this. Perhaps it landed hardest on your face, though I can’t figure out why you were beaten. There’s nothing here.’

  ‘Maybe whoever attacked us got something wrong.’ She touched my shoulder. ‘I called my station in San Francisco. I’m heading back tomorrow. They’re being generous, insisting I take a couple more weeks off, read books I’ve meant to read since college and let my bruises fade. Then it’s back to the pumpkin patch.’

  ‘The pumpkin patch?’

  ‘Pumpkins, remember? That night in San Francisco when we met for dinner, I’d just aired a most unmemorable piece on pumpkins. Pumpkins are the reason why the Wade story was so important to me. I can’t waste more time reporting on pumpkins.’

  A quick glance at the set of her face told me she wasn’t really thinking about pumpkins. She was thinking about her husband, who died reporting war.

  I walked her to the front of the house and guided her with a firm elbow down the drive and past the guard in the shack. The Channel 8 van had pulled up, idling.

  She stopped me a few yards away. ‘That night, in San Francisco, we talked about our ghosts. Do you remember?’

  ‘I remember everything about that night.’

  ‘The way you talked about Amanda,’ she said. ‘You were nervous, remember? Not wanting to hurt me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Our ghosts,’ she said. ‘My dead husband, your ex-wife. We must cherish them.’

  She squeezed my hand and let it go. A cameraman helped her into the back seat. They drove away.

  I turned to go the other way down the road, to where I’d parked the Jeep.

  And almost ran into Timothy Wade.

  SIXTY-SIX

  ‘Care to chat for a moment, Mr Elstrom?’ he asked.

  I followed him back up the drive and around to the patio at the back of the house. We sat at a white iron table.

  ‘Was that Jennifer Gale you were just speaking with?’ he asked.

  ‘I violated my promise of confidentiality to you, since she was so badly beaten.’

  ‘I almost didn’t recognize her, she was so horribly bruised.’

  His calm, almost singsong manner signaled something more sinister to come. And he hadn’t asked how Jenny had gotten beaten. I said nothing and waited.

  ‘And how is Amanda?’ he asked.

  The back of my throat went dry. He wasn’t asking; he was making a threat.

  ‘Confident that I would kill anyone who harmed her,’ I said.

  He gestured at the trees sloping down the hill. ‘Nice view, don’t you think? Though I’m afraid the color on the trees is gone. Your color seems to be gone, too, Elstrom.’

  ‘Nah.’

  His face hardened. ‘What the hell were you thinking? That foolish woman deputy, a sergeant
…’

  ‘A good cop,’ I said, ‘incensed at the murder of one of your most loyal campaign workers. And wondering, like me, why you’re not furiously demanding a thorough investigation.’

  ‘That stupid sergeant marched in to dig up my grounds, based on an anonymous tip, the day before the vote? I’ll have her badge and the badges of everyone who came with her, but it won’t be enough. I’d ruin you, too, Elstrom, but you’ve already been ruined.’

  ‘You made sure the press was here.’

  ‘That was my sister’s genius, not mine.’

  ‘I’d like to think you merely wanted to create sympathy for yourself,’ I said. ‘Maybe even boost your vote.’

  ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.’

  ‘But I think that, more importantly, you want to shut down any investigation of what happened twenty years ago.’

  ‘Not a damned thing happened then.’

  ‘Marilyn Paul tried to protect you from John Shea. She got her throat slashed.’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Shea could tell us. Where is he?’

  ‘In fragments, in Laguna Beach.’

  ‘That was Willard Piser.’

  ‘Will Piser? You’re seeing a conspiracy among all my old friends?’

  ‘Don’t forget Red Halvorson. Where has he been, all these years?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘Shea played it clever, and stupid. He put on a red wig to leave a trail to Halvorson before he left Laguna Beach. He never knew Halvorson’s trail went dead twenty years ago.’

  He stood up. ‘It’s time for you to get off my property.’ He was good, but good politicians are good. He hadn’t batted an eye or twitched a carefully shaved cheek.

  I stood up, too. ‘It’s good, us talking like this. I got your message. And I think you got mine.’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  I called Amanda after I got home and went to sit by the river.

  ‘So, how’s your day?’ I asked, watching the sun sparkle on the four empty windshield-washer fluid jugs snagged on the riverbank in front of me. For some reason, someone had tied them loosely together with very thick twine.