I said, “All that noise, all these buildings around, and no one heard anything?”
“That’s exactly why they got away with it. Everybody heard them. People saw their lights. A backhoe in a cemetery, what are you going to think? That they’re digging a grave, getting ready for a funeral. Or maybe the city workers were at it late, trying to get the sewer line done. No one even called the station. When our deputy drove by, he was lucky to notice them. He told me if he’d heard a backhoe, he’d of gone right on by. Same thing: figured they was here working.”
Then I listened as the funeral rep told us why he didn’t think the casket had been opened. Caldwell looked like a construction worker, not an embalmer, yet he had a delicate tone and a soft voice. He used his stubby hands to talk, but in a way that people who take speech classes are taught to use their hands for effect.
“If they did get the casket open,” he said, “they were careful, extremely careful, and they knew exactly what they were doing when they sealed it back. I say that because there are no crowbar marks on the casket that I could see. No marks where they tried to sledgehammer the thing open. Inside, nothing was disturbed. Nothing obvious, anyway. Wouldn’t you expect vandals to do something like that? Bring a crowbar or an ax, I’m saying. If they really wanted to get inside.”
I said, “You can’t just lift the lid open?”
Caldwell’s smile told me that I knew absolutely nothing about his industry. “Not exactly, Mr. Ford. I’ll give you an example. Let’s say that the deceased was in one of our top-of-the-line units. A Batesville, let’s say. What you’re dealing with is a unit made of eighteen-gauge steel. Heavy rubber gasket sealers inside and a cathodic bar on the bottom to stop electrolysis. A casket like that”—his smile broadened slightly—“you’d better bring a lot more than a crowbar to get it open. The only way to get it open is with a hex-key, specially designed, just like the lug nuts on a car tire sometimes require a special key.”
“That’s the kind of casket that Dorothy Copeland is in?”
“No, but the vandals couldn’t have known that. Ms. Copeland is in a hardwood casket. Cherry wood, I think. Clients who … well, who are of limited means, often make that choice. It’s a Marcellus, one of the best in the business, but it locks down with a pin and a heavy clasp.”
“Is it possible to get it open?”
“Yes. If you know how it works, it’s not difficult. But again, they couldn’t have known.”
“But if they did, is it possible that they could have opened it, then resealed it?”
“I suppose. But I think they’d have done the obvious thing and tired to pry it open.”
I said, “If they were vandals, sure, a random act. But as Detective Parrish knows, Ms. Copeland has been the target of a series of burglaries over the last few months. It’s possible someone knows exactly what they were after and they’ll go to remarkable lengths to get it. Exhuming a grave in a city cemetery? That’s risky behavior, wouldn’t you agree?”
The plainclothes cop said, “So is murder, bank robbery, assault, the whole long list. You said you live on Sanibel? Lots of money up there, a nice safe little island. Marco, one of the safest communities in the state. Usually. Get away from the money places, though, there are way too many freaks. Understand what I’m saying? I deal with them every working day of my life. There ain’t nothing risky to a crackhead. They’d bulldoze a church if they thought it would buy them some rock.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt there are bad people in the world,” I said agreeably. “The kind of people you read about in the newspapers.”
“Exactly,” Parrish said, an expression of patience in the way he set his jaw. “The kind of criminals good citizens like you find folded on the doorstep every morning.
“Know what probably happened?” he added. “A rumor got started the little girl was buried with treasure. People love them stories about buried treasure. Probably got talked around the streets and some drunks or dopers noticed the backhoe and thought, What the hell, let’s see what’s in there.”
Parrish’s tone told me that he was taking me into his confidence, sharing some secrets.
“Could be,” I said.
“Trust me. They come staggering by and go, ‘Shit, let’s get rich.’” He looked around for a moment. “That reminds me. Where’d your drunk hippie friend disappear to? The one in them weird robes.”
“He’s practicing his eulogy. He’s kind of a perfectionist.” Then I said, “You could be wrong, you know. Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.”
The detective allowed me a pointed look of assessment. “Oh, really.”
I chose my approach carefully. Proper attitude of respect; sufficient deference. I had suggestions to make, but no need to offend the investigating cop.
“It’s possible the whole thing was carefully planned.”
“All sorts of things are possible, Mr. Ford. I’m telling you the way it probably was.”
“I realize that. I also realize that you’re a lot more experienced at this sort of thing than I am. But know what might be interesting? Get a quick video of everyone here. Or anyone sitting off by themselves in a car, watching. I read somewhere that the sickos who light fires almost always try and find a private place to watch. That’s how they get their kicks. Maybe it’s the same with grave robbers. The people who did it? They might be in the area right now.”
I received a stony look in return, and a very chilly, “There’s an idea. Man, I learn so much on this job.”
It’s been my experience that most people in the emergency professions are good at what they do. They have to be, because there’s so much depending on them. Parrish was behaving like one of the weak links. The type who used his shield as a power lever or an excuse. Or maybe he just no longer cared enough to invest the effort.
I got the same cold reaction when I said, “If I was serious about robbing a grave, know what I’d do? I’d do some research first. I’d check the city records and see what I could learn about how the girl was buried. The cemetery is maintained by the city, isn’t it?”
Caldwell said, “But there wouldn’t be anything in the files about the type of coffin. Whether it was steel or wood. That’s where you’re wrong.”
“I wouldn’t know that. The perpetrators wouldn’t either, but it’s a logical place to check. Then I’d go to the newspaper, ask to see the archives. I’d read everything I could about what happened here fifteen years ago. I’d try to find the name of the funeral home that handled the burial, maybe even call and ask them questions under some guise. Pretend to be a reporter doing a story. That could work.”
Caldwell said, “We handled the funeral. I wasn’t here at the time, but it was our shop.”
I looked at Parrish. “See? An easy place to start. So then you take the video from here and start to match photos. The municipal building is bound to have a security camera. Maybe the newspaper, too. Even if they don’t, you say to clerks, ‘You get a visit recently from anyone you recognize on this video?’”
Parrish said, “Gee, there’s another good idea.”
It wasn’t working, but I wasn’t going to give up. “One more thing. These people seem determined to take what Dorothy found. So, I’d speak to an archaeologist and find out exactly where she was digging fifteen years ago. A golden medallion, a wooden totem, beads—they all have monetary value. Chances are, if they’re really serious, they’ve done the research and are digging in the same area. Or have already dug there. Find one golden medallion, there might be more.”
Parrish was done listening to it. His nostrils flared slightly as he said, “Very helpful suggestions, Mr. Ford. Really appreciate it, too. All I got to do is drop the twenty or so current cases I’m working on to bust some vandals. Of course, the cases I’m working on are crimes against real live people. Like, for instance, up ’round Golden Gate, we’ve had a string of sexual assaults on children. Real nasty ones. I’ve got three different disappearances, too. Three women, none associated with th
e other, just left home or work one day and never came back. Disappeared in a way that’s got the feel of serial killer to them. I’m talkin’ about a real freak. Someone doin’ for a reason and likes it. Della Copeland’s child, she’s been dead, for what? Fifteen years. There’s not much anyone can do for her.”
I said, “Which means you’re not going to do anything.”
“I wish that’s exactly what it meant, but it doesn’t. What I should be doing is banging on doors right now, reading profiles. Doing serious work. Instead, I’m down here in rich people’s land looking for vandals. Know why?” He looked past me to the road. “That there’s why. You’re lookin’ at the reason. A man named Mr. Ivan Bauerstock.”
I turned to see a black Humvee, doors open, men in dark suits ducking out. The oldest of them leaving the driver’s seat was a very tall, gray-haired man with the bearing of someone used to giving orders and staring over the heads of lesser men while his orders were being carried out.
I watched three younger men wait for him. One of the three had a pumpkin-sized head and the body mass of a competitive weight lifter. I watched them listen to the older man intently, all eyes focused. Then they followed him toward us, into the cemetery.
“Ivan Bauerstock, one of the biggest men in Florida. Bauerstock as in Bauerstock Industries. Bauerstock as in cattle and citrus. Man, he got his own road construction business, condo projects, you name it. Now I hear he’s heavy into computer software and the Internet, all that shit. You never heard of the man?”
I said, “I’ve heard of him. His companies, anyway. What’s he have to do with this?”
“‘Cause he owns half of Marco, one thing. Another, his son and that dead girl used to be friends. Now Mr. Bauerstock wants his growed-up little boy to be a state senator. So they’ve come back to say goodbye. Show how much they care, with the press all around to see. Maybe get his son’s picture in the paper saying how he’s putting pressure on the sheriff’s department to arrest the bad guys.”
I said, “That sounds like more than a guess.”
There was a cautionary edge to Parrish’s voice, the black dialectic emphasized, as he replied, “No, that just a wild guess, man! I got nothin’ better to do than sit around diss’in people can get me fired”—he snapped his fingers in my face—“that quick. Mr. Bauerstock, he the one friends with the President a few years back. Slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, flew Air Force One all the way to China or some damn place. You know how much cash something like that cost? So what the chances him callin’ my boss and telling us exactly what he want done? Him and the sheriff, it just a coincidence they in the same party, man.”
I decided that maybe Parrish wasn’t a weak link after all. “Someone as powerful as Bauerstock would order the sheriff to put his best man on the job.”
Parrish touched a finger to his own chest in mock surprise. “Me? Aw-w-w-w, now I’m embarrassed. Thing is, Mr. Bauerstock’s son, Teddy, he’s actually a pretty good guy. Couple days ago, he shook my hand and listened to what I had to say about some stuff.”
“That’s what politicians do. Or so I hear.”
Parrish was nodding. “I know, I know, but I got the feeling this one, he might be different. Seems to care about people, not just the ones with money. See that man with him? That’s B. J. Buster; played linebacker for the Bucs but kept endin’ up in jail, till Bauerstock hired him as his bodyguard.”
“A politician with a heart of gold.”
“Oh man, you wouldn’t believe the people Mr. Bauerstock’s hired to take care of his future President son. Just the way he sees it, too. Teddy, they say he’s got that glow, the one you can’t see till he’s on the television screen. Excuse me, I mean Theodore. That the name they using now. He got the glow.”
I wondered vaguely and bitterly if the linebacker knew the steroid freak who was in Mexico with Kathleen.
“So now Mr. Buster is a model citizen. All thanks to the man running for office.”
Parrish chuckled. “I wouldn’t trust B. J. Buster far as I could throw him. Once a con, always a con. Which Teddy Bauerstock can’t see and why the fool won’t be getting my vote.”
Nope, this was not a weak link. I said, “In that case, I’d like to start fresh. Here’s what we do: first I apologize, then I explain why I’m here. I’m the friend of a friend. The little girl’s mother needs some outside help. Which is why I pissed you off making suggestions.”
Parrish’s voice returned to normal as he said, “I feel bad for the woman, don’t get me wrong. It was a hell of a nasty thing to do, dig her little girl up. But it’s not a top priority. There’s lots more serious crap goin’ on out there. But know what?” He allowed me the slightest of smiles. “A couple of your ideas, they weren’t that bad. You got pretty good instincts.”
I said, “If you want any help, the private citizen type, contact Della. She’ll know how to get in touch.”
Caldwell had been listening, keeping up. “One thing Mr. Ford suggested, I can talk to our receptionist, see if anyone was asking about Miss Copeland.”
“There you go,” said Parrish. He turned to me. “You want to check out the casket, see what’s missing? I don’t think they got in there. I think our man scared ’em off. But you take a look and keep the mamma happy. Then we put that little girl back in the ground again.”
9
I opened the top half of the coffin lid by myself, pressing its weight with both hands, while Tomlinson stood beside me, whispering some kind of rhythmic chant.
I’d removed my sports coat. We were both wearing white gauze masks.
There was an odor, not strong or offensive. It was as if an old trunk had been opened. Caldwell had already told me what to expect, explaining that the child had received a superb job of embalming. The casket was vault-dry, he said, and promised that I would be shocked at how little change there’d been in the body since burial.
“People not in the industry,” he said, “don’t realize how good we are at what we do. We’re the best in the world, the best of all time. I guess the reason people don’t know is obvious.”
Yet, despite the briefing, I was not prepared for how near to life the girl appeared. Time had stopped for her. It was an unexpected and moving realization.
I’m not a demonstrative person. Tomlinson reminds me of that almost daily. I have spent enough time among the dead and dying to view both clinically. Yet, when I lifted the lid and looked down through glittering columns of dust and sunlight, I felt a jolt of emotion that caused my breathing to spasm.
I was looking into the face of a sleeping child. Dorothy Copeland didn’t look like a teenager. Innocence dissipates years. She looked younger, ageless, without fear or flaw.
She wore a yellow dress with a collar of white lace. There was a thread of gold chain around her neck and a locket in the shape of a smiling full moon. Her hair was the color of Kansas wheat. It was fanned out halolike on the crepe pillow beneath her head. She wore white gloves with fingers interlaced, long and delicate as JoAnn had described them. It was as if the girl had dressed for church, but, instead, found a cozy meadow place to doze.
There was something about the delicate facial structure that was heart-wrenching. Our bodies are composed mostly of water. The water was gone from hers. The soft angularity of nose and chin was emphasized beneath skin that was white and fragile as parchment, yet her cheeks were blushed with embalmer’s makeup like some China doll. The color added definition to lashes resting long over eyes that, it seemed, might flutter open in reaction to the offending sunlight. From what I heard, this was a tomboy girl who liked to explore and dig in the dirt. She’d been described as having an “extraordinary gift” for finding things. She’d been described as an old soul.
But this was also a child; a child who’d sometimes worn lace and crinoline. This was a child who, playing dress-up, had been forever frozen, as if caught asleep on a frosted field.
Seeing her produced in me sadness and a sense of loss far out of proportion to what I’
d expected. I had not known this child. I’d never heard her voice. Now, though, I felt as if there were some inexplicable connection. She was here, right in front of me, yet she wasn’t. It touched me in a way that squeezed the heart.
On Dorothy’s right cheek was a splotch of pollen-colored mold. I was tempted to brush it away. Instead, I touched a gloved index finger to the collar of her dress. The lace disintegrated at my touch, revealing the area of skin beneath her chin. The scar there was a band of discoloration, gray on white.
Yes, there had been a rope. It had been knotted tightly enough around her neck to leave the skin forever marked. The scar was the residue of an unthinkable act, violence that was incongruous with the peaceful scene and angelic child before me.
Something horrible had imposed itself on this young life.
Why else would Dorothy Copeland hang herself?
I’d been so intent on visual data that all sound vanished. Now, though, I became aware of a distant sobbing. I stepped back for a moment, listening.
“It’s Della,” Tomlinson said gently. “She’s worried about what they’ve done to her little girl.”
I looked into his face. The paranoid druggie had vanished, purged not by coffee, but out of regard for the circumstances. Here was the man I liked and respected. His expression was one of haunted sadness.
I indicated the necklace. “There’s the locket, just like Della told us. I don’t think they got the coffin open. They probably would’ve taken it.”
“Perhaps. But that’s not what they were after.”
I said, “Then let’s find out.”
I lifted Dorothy’s hands very gently. They had the weight of air. Beneath her white gloves was a flat wooden carving that was as large as both her palms together. There was also a small Bible, white cover, Dorothy’s name imprinted in gold.
Della had told Tomlinson that she’d slipped the Bible and the carving into her daughter’s casket just before they’d buried her. Said she did it privately, when no one was looking, because the Bible and the wooden carving were the only things that had given Dorothy comfort during the nightmares that preceded her suicide.
Ten Thousand Islands Page 8