Final Grave

by Nadja Bernitt

  He’d relished books in which physical anthropologists deciphered life stories from bones: where the person lived, their work, illnesses, history, race and of course, sex. He was no expert. But he knew the skeletal frame, animal from human, how to set bones, how to break them and how to clean them. The barmaid’s bones, though, were still clothed in flesh. And he had no interest in stripping them. Time and insects would do that.

  She’d bled out in the laboratory, taken hours. While waiting, he’d watched CNN’s market rap, thinking this administration had ruined his portfolio. To ordinary people that might sound callous. But he lived in compartments. The barmaid in one. Business and everyday life in the other. Anyway, the foolish woman had served her purpose. He had sobered her up, cut her tethers. He’d locked the doors and stalked her, a practice drill to test his reaction time. He’d passed the test. Once dead, she was nothing to him but stinking fodder.

  Shovel in, heft… he panted like a dog. His heart labored from the exertion, the wind cold on his sweaty face. He stopped, wiped his brow and eyeballed the depth of the hole at four feet.

  A canvas duffel bag, about the size of a 30-gallon garbage bag, lay on the ground beside him. It was lumpy and packed three-quarters full of her.

  He climbed out of the hole, untied the knot in the drawstring and started to pick it up. But the cumbersome duffel weighed like a sack of cannon balls. He’d been fresh when he carted it here, but that was before digging had exhausted his biceps. Not one to give up easily, he lay down on his back and used his feet, kicking and prodding till the bag’s open end fell over the graves edge. The dissected body parts plopped into the hole. The putrid, sweet stench of death wafted up.

  He got to his feet and studied the mess. The ends of the long bones, the femur, radius, and ulna, extruded from the flesh, glaringly white against the dark earth, cut flat where he’d hacked at the joints. Her bare head was as round as a bowling ball, her eyes cloudy as a four-day-old dead fish. He reached down for a handful of dirt, threw it over the eyes.

  The sight triggered memories of skinning his first kill, a two point buck. “You’re a man,” his father had boasted. One of the few things he had ever done to please him. Kill. And he’d done it so well.

  He tossed the duffel bag aside after he’d emptied it and wiped the bitch’s blood from his hands. Then he sprinkled the mess with lye, and took up the shovel. Spade in, heft… .

  It took only forty-five minutes to fill the hole. When he finished, he stood back and caught his breath. But he didn’t stop there. The forest of pine trees was thick around him and scrub brush everywhere. He gathered a fingerling pine, planted it on the mounded earth and sprinkled pine needles about until the ground appeared undisturbed.

  Still, there was more to do. He scooped out a shallow pit a few feet away from the grave for the duffel bag, removed his over-clothes and added those too. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sprinkled the nasty evidence with gasoline and lit a match to it.

  The flames shot up four feet high, burning orange and issuing smoke as black as tar. It stunk of burned flesh, but that didn’t bother him. He’d always enjoyed a fire. Tired as he was, he sat on his haunches and warmed his hands over the flames when they’d died down. To prolong the fire, he threw a few branches on top. Blood, death, decay meant nothing to a hunter. A moving target, the rush of adrenaline and the kill mattered. Why he’d almost forgotten till Meri Ann had rekindled the urge in him.

  The setting sun peeked through the pine boughs and civilization seemed light years away. Yet Bogus Basin lay a mere fifteen miles northeast and Idaho City, ten to the west. Even Boise was only thirty-two miles away. He knew the terrain as well as he knew the flora and fauna; prided himself on having addressed every detail. With his sense of timing, logistics and method as well as his talent for precision, his mother always said, he’d make a great engineer.

  A twig snapped behind him. He swiveled around, eyes wide. The tangle of trees, thick scrub and the waning light made it hard to see. He waited, listened. Slowly he moved to his truck and the safety of his 12-gauge. He sat in the cab with his door open and the loaded shotgun on his lap.

  He saw the doe twenty yards to his left. Her brown eyes bulged as she nibbled the lichen on a fallen log. The shot was his if he wanted it. He lifted the shotgun, aimed. Then he lowered it. If someone were out there, they’d hear the shot.

  He crooked the gun over his arm and returned to the fire. He squatted in front of it, warming his hands. The surge of excitement still tingled in his muscles, heightened his awareness. And there was so much to think about. His brain scrolled through a detailed punch list with computer speed.

  He’d be back in time to scrub every crevice in the truck, the shovel, his boots. Finally he would soak his weary body in the bathtub. The expectation, the planning—somehow it reminded him of throwing a party. Tomorrow he’d shop for the various and sundry restraints. He would pick up the 120 size film for his Hasselblad square camera.

  Everything must be perfect for her.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The scent of fireplace smoke accompanied the chill afternoon wind. Meri Ann wrapped the camel hair coat tight around her shoulders and strode ahead of Mendiola across the oil-stained driveway of Tony’s garage.

  Soulful western music blared from a tinny sounding radio in his open bay. “Hey, Tony,” Mendiola called over the noise.

  His nephew stepped from around the open hood of a mint condition early-model, metallic-blue Mustang. He held a wrench. His slender face tilted to the side suspiciously. “What? My first payment’s not due for a month, is it?”

  Mendiola’s boot found a stone and kicked it. She knew he was upset with himself, his aunt, Tony and her.

  “I’m not here about money” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Tony licked his lips, glanced briefly at her, then fixed his gaze on Mendiola. “Something wrong?”

  “Nothing that affects you, exactly.” Mendiola released a heavy sigh and under his breath said, “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Go on in the office.” Tony motioned with the wrench.

  She and Mendiola entered a grimy room to the side of the open bay. It smelled like the oily dirt outside only more so. Even the two upholstered club chairs, and indeed everything else were layered in a film of Pennzoil or Quaker State or whatever Tony used in his restored dream machines.

  Mendiola caught her disapproval. “You probably don’t want to sit.”

  “It’s not my coat,” she said, “but even if it was… No thanks.”

  “The guy works on cars.” Mendiola brushed off one of the seat cushions with his hand. He fell into the chair like a heavy sack, then stretched out his legs. He leaned back, locking his fingers behind his neck like someone ready for a night of television.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Fehr.” He rubbed a shadow of afternoon stubble on his cheek. “It’s been a long time and I don’t know what you think you’re gonna find out, but trust me, ain’t no gold at the end of this rainbow. The trail is cold.”

  She shot a fast angry look at her partner. Partner. That was a laugh. “Thank you, Mendiola.”

  “Seriously, what’s Tony going to remember from fifteen years ago.”

  “Whatever got under his skin, like I remember what got under mine. The night Mom disappeared, I waited outside Boise High’s gym. I wore a pair of three-month old Nike court shoes, white with navy trim, gray sweats and my dad’s windbreaker. I remember my coach asking me if I wanted a ride home and how I felt when she got in her car and drove away. She only had one brake light. A strange thing to remember. But the details stuck. A lot of details stayed with me.”

  Mendiola unclasped his hands from behind his head and slapped them on the wide arms of the chair. “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your mom disappeared that night.”

&n
bsp; “Trauma locked it in my brain, sure. I rehashed every minute detail over and over. And maybe Tony did too. He was scared and he had to answer questions. He and his buddy probably fine-tuned their story before you got to them. And I’m hoping that somewhere in Tony’s gray cells, the original version survived.”

  The Mustang’s hood slammed shut and the radio clicked off.

  Meri Ann turned around.

  Tony stood in the doorway, wringing a dingy pink oil rag. “How about that beauty, huh, Jack? She’s a sixty-five, original everything, 306 under the hood. I’m doing her points and plugs. The guy wants it yesterday; that’s why I’m still here.” Tony’s small pale eyes avoided hers.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He continued to face Mendiola. “About what? Jack, come on. I told you, I’m busy.”

  She recalled a curious expression on Tony’s face the first time they’d met. “Tell me about the last time I was here, Tony. You thought you knew me, didn’t you? Mendiola thought you were hitting on me, but I don’t think so. What was going on with you?”

  He shook his head and eased into the room, moving to the chair behind his desk.

  “Did I remind you of someone?”

  He looked at Mendiola, as if for approval and lowered himself into his chair. The color had drained from his face.

  “Answer her, Tony. She knows about the incident with you and Mark and the Dunlap woman.”

  “We fucking had a deal, Jack. You told me not to worry, that everything was—”

  “Shut up and answer her.” Mendiola turned to face Meri Ann. “For the record, we never had a deal.”

  Tony scooted to the edge of his chair and turned his reluctant gaze to Meri Ann. “Yeah,” he said. “You looked familiar. Not so much like I remember the lady, um, from that day in the parking lot, but more from the newspaper photos. They ran her picture weeks after and then a year later on the anniversary. I… I cut one out. Don’t ask me why, but… .” He kept twisting the oil rag, momentarily lost for words, then asked. “So who are you, her kid or something?”

  With great effort, Meri Ann controlled her temper. “Joanna Dunlap was my mother, and you were probably the next to the last person to see her alive, unless you killed her.”

  “I don’t need this shit.” He started to rise.

  Mendiola kicked the desk. “Sit down.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody. All Mark and me did was cruise a few parking lots, raise a little hell. Talk about rotten luck, an old lady calls the cops and another one croaks—I mean dies.”

  Meri Ann eyes and lips narrowed. “You dumb punk. What’d you do, hassle every lone woman you came across that day? I read the incident report. The complainant was sixty years old and you and your buddy terrorized her. That what you did to my mother?”

  Tony folded his arms, his face as void of emotion as the box of fan belts on the side of his desk.

  “Think of it, Tony, my mother’s dead and the last thing she saw before her killer was your sorry face. What did you say to her?”

  Mendiola watched Tony.

  Meri Ann watched Tony.

  Tony watched the clock on the wall.

  No one spoke. Meri Ann waited. It felt like forever, and the silence finally spooked Tony.

  She heard him swallow.

  “I’m sorry, all right, sorry.” His words burst out like bullets. “I was loaded, looking to get laid, the frigging day turned to shit.” He slumped back in the chair, his small frame growing smaller, his hard facade broken. “What do you want from me?”

  Anger sat in her stomach, a hard ball the size of her fist. “I want you to reach down into your memory way back to that afternoon.”

  “Twenty years ago? In the eighties?” He made it sound as if there were covered wagons back then.

  “I’m not leaving here until you give me something. I want to hear what happened, every detail no matter how small.”

  Tony smoothed the lock of hair combed over his thinning scalp. He looked sick, like he might toss his lunch. He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes up in thought.

  “Mark and me started drinking at noon.” He’d dropped the rag and wrung his hands as he spoke. “We smoked some weed. About six we were coming down from it. No action and the weather cold as a witch’s tit. We bought a six-pack in Albertson’s. That’s where we saw the old bat. Then we saw your ma. She looked hot.”

  Meri Ann moved closer to the desk but didn’t speak.

  Tony licked his lips, again, swallowed. “We cruised up beside her, close enough to reach out and touch her. But she played it cool, you know?”

  “Cool?” Meri Ann wanted to shake him until his puny head flew off.

  “Yeah, she was all alone near the end of the parking lot. But she didn’t break a sweat. Just kept walking, head in the air like we weren’t even there. But we… we cut her off.” He shook his head. “I feel bad about what I did. I mean I didn’t touch her, but the way you said, I was almost the last person to say anything to her. I never thought about that. It sucks, you—”

  “Just stick to the story,” Mendiola broke in.

  Tears welled in Tony’s eyes, and he wiped them with his fist. “Nothing happened. I told you, Jack. We heard a car horn and backed off.”

  “What kind of car?” Meri Ann asked.

  “Neither one of them saw the car,” Mendiola said.

  “If you don’t mind, let Tony tell me,” she snapped.

  “I saw a red Jeep.” Tony shook his head. “I think it was a Jeep. Jack said that was her car. Anyway, we were headed the other way. Chrissake, we didn’t want trouble.”

  More like they didn’t want to pick on someone their own size. Meri Ann put the palms of her hands on the desk and leaned closer to Tony’s face. “Sylvie, is she your aunt?”

  “My great aunt,” he said.

  “She said, according to you, Tony that my mom didn’t look happy to see whoever honked that horn.”

  “Yeah, I guess she was glad to get rid of us. But no she didn’t look upbeat. I mean, I can’t remember now the exact expression, just what I told Aunt Sylvie.”

  Meri Ann inched close enough to see pinhead beads of perspiration on Tony’s upper lip. She said, “Think carefully. Did you hear my mom say anything?”

  He chewed on his thumb for a while, worrying the thought. “I never told anyone but Mark. And he laughed at me, like, get your ears examined. Really, it sounded pretty stupid. Didn’t make sense.”

  “Try me, Tony.”

  “It sounded like she called him, Birdie.”

  “Birdie, as in birds?” Mendiola appeared shocked. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  Tony didn’t answer, just shook his head.

  Meri Ann’s mouth went dry. A vision of Harold Graber and his raptors flashed before her. She spun around to face Mendiola. “Got enough gas in your truck to get us to Idaho City?”

  For the second time in less than two hours, Mendiola appeared contrite. “The tank’s three-quarters full, plenty to get us there and back.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Mendiola’s foot held heavy on the gas pedal as he headed out of town on highway 44, the route to Harold Graber’s. He didn’t let up until he reached the tighter curves, half way up the mountain. Even then he pushed the envelope, as if getting there ten minutes quicker might solve the case or ease his shame of having been a party to missing that small, possibly critical piece of evidence.

  Fehr sat to his right with her face turned to the window. She was pissed about the Tony incident and rightly so. He knew procedure even back then. So why hadn’t he asked the question she’d asked Tony? Why hadn’t he just done his job?

  The Blazer’s automatic transmission shifted down, whining as it climbed. One hand gripped the wheel; the other held the gearshift. H
e did it out of habit, recalling his Stingray with the standard transmission and the ultimate feel of control.

  Right now he was out of control. Another foul-up with Dillon, and he’d be demoted or out on the street looking for a job. And if she caught wind of this omission… whoa. The thought of not being a cop made his hands sweat. He wiped them one at a time on his Levi’s.

  He leaned into a curve. “I want to make this right.”

  “And I want you to.” She didn’t look over when she said it, just hugged the door, as if she couldn’t get far enough away from him.

  The problem was Graber, a crazy old coot who kept to himself, answered to no one, and didn’t give a shit. The guy’s gumption reminded Mendiola of his dad when he was strong and healthy. Maybe that was part of his reluctance to drill Graber harder.

  “You’ve got to believe me, Tony never said a thing about birds, or we’d have followed up. I wish to hell he had.”

  “Let’s move on, Mendiola. What’s done is done. At this point I’m just grateful for the lead.”

  That ought to have made him feel better, but something in the way she said it ticked him off. “I don’t want to pop your balloon,” he shot back. “But don’t be so damned determined to shy away from Wheatley. Robin Wheatley, FYI. Ever think about Robin as in the bird category?”

  She chewed on that for a moment which meant she hadn’t considered it. “It’s a stretch compared to The Birdman Graber,” she said. But since Graber’s gone off the deep end, it seems lightweight to me. You’ll understand when we see him.”

  He caught her determined chin out of the corner of his eye, the strained cords in her neck. Made him wonder just what had happened between her and Graber.

  “He’s saved every newspaper article ever written about my mom. At least it looks that way. You should see the size of the file. Yes. He keeps a file.”

  He shook his head, not wanting to argue, not with his ass already in a sling. He slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Where’s the motive? Look, I remember talking to a lonely guy who’d built one helluva fine facility. He picked up injured birds as far north as Lewiston. Spent a small fortune on public service announcements to publicize the rescue number. I’m telling you he turned gray when we told him she was missing. Went ballistic, offered to organize a search team.”