Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  He seemed to read my thoughts. “I always dress when I come to the cemetery,” he said. “I dress for the dead, as well as the living.” He looked down the hillside, at the thousands of white stones that cascaded toward the river. “You and Mrs. Murphy shared a special bond, didn’t you? I have some friends—and family, that I visit when the living overwhelm me.”

  I searched his rough-hewn face, the face of a boxer with its broad, flat nose. I smiled, forgiving him for the intrusion. I appreciated his effort to name what I had no inclination to talk about.

  He clasped his gloved hands together. “Again, I must apologize for coming here. I hope I properly warned you in the beginning that until my work is completed, I will probably be a nuisance.”

  “I don’t think you said it quite that way.You are only doing your job,” I amended. It was impossible to remain annoyed at this man. “How can I help you, Detective?” I asked, as another bitter gust blew up from the river. I could almost taste the river water in the air.

  “Officer Russo and I have completed numerous interviews. We have met with friends and business associates of your husband’s, as well as family and associates of Mr. Parker’s.” He paused, to allow me to interrupt.

  I didn’t believe that they could have discovered anything sinister in Sean’s background. “What brought you to the cemetery, Detective?” I asked.

  The detective sighed. He was not enjoying the moment any more than I was. “Some new information about Mrs. Murphy’s murder?” I encouraged.

  “No. I’m sorry to admit that we don’t have much on that yet.” He removed his derby to scratch his head, working his fingers through his thick hair.

  “I realize that this sounds appalling, but I would like to see your mausoleum. I took the liberty of asking for the key at the Entrance House.” His tone was apologetic. The kindness that I had detected in his voice was now harbored in the softness of his eyes.Their earlier gleam was gone.

  “Why?” I asked, trying to ignore a fresh sense of alarm. “It was completed just over a month ago. What do you expect to see there?”

  He gently touched my elbow, as a signal to me I presumed, to lead him there. “It’s just a bit farther along this path, where the hill drops into a terrace overlooking the river.” I pointed in its general direction. “There’s a row of mausoleums, all recently built, although ours is the latest addition.” I didn’t want to hear his explanation I realized.

  We returned to the path and walked side by side. The hill sloped gently, and the steady breeze was no longer at our backs. I was cold now, but I wasn’t sure if it was due to the gusting wind or to my growing dread of what the detective was going to tell me.The detective suddenly took hold of my arm. It seemed a protective gesture. He then waved to the two gravediggers who were trudging up the hill with their shovels in their hands. A few hundred yards below us, an open grave laid waiting. I closed my eyes to it.

  He began again, as if our conversation had proceeded without interruption. “As I mentioned to you, Mrs. Dugan. I spoke with a number of business associates of your husband’s, some of them very old, and not all of them were on good terms with him I might add,” he explained, as if to mitigate some of the horror of what he was going to say.

  “A few of them had talked about—the accidents—the deaths of your husband’s father and brother. They questioned the accidental circumstances of their deaths.”

  I stopped walking, and without thinking, I grabbed the detective’s arm. “What are you trying to say?” I asked. “That Patrick killed them? That’s impossible!” I never knew his younger brother well, but I did know that Patrick loved his father.

  “I’m sorry. But I have to look into such claims,” he replied soothingly. He appeared surprised at the ferocity of my defense of Patrick. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I dismissed all hearsay as baseless.”

  “Patrick’s enemies will say anything to besmirch his character. Surely you know that.” I no longer felt the cold. My cheeks felt on fire.

  “Mrs. Dugan,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “I don’t know anything for sure, which is why it is my job to question and pursue every bit of information I can glean.” His eyes were soft and paternal. He felt sorry for me, I realized.

  I was silent as we continued down the path. Now I wanted to be home. “There it is,” I said dryly. I felt embarrassed by its pretentious columns and its temple-like aspirations. I also feared seeing my name plainly engraved on the triangular panel above the door. As I stared at it, a horrifying question entered my mind.

  “Why do you have the key?” I asked nervously.

  Now it was Detective Buchanan who slowed our progress as we stood only a few yards away. Mausoleums of roughly the same ostentatious magnificence and design surrounded us. I was surprised when he took me gently by the hand, looking into my eyes to steady me.

  “As I explained when I began this investigation, many of the things I have to do or ask seem quite vile and objectionable, but they must be done.” I nodded solemnly to indicate I understood, although the dread I was feeling seemed to saturate my surroundings. I suddenly wished that we were not alone in the cemetery, that we stood amidst a raucous humanity.

  “Officer Russo and I went to the cemetery where your in-laws were buried. We had requested that the bodies be exhumed—to rule out the allegations made by your husband’s—less friendly associates.”

  “Surely this is madness, Detective.” I could feel the blood pounding at my temples. “I understand your need to investigate, but your intentions are blasphemous! Did you know that Patrick had his family’s remains moved to this mausoleum soon after it was completed?”

  “Yes,” the detective nodded. “We were informed by their church before we took any action.” He looked down at his shoes for a moment.

  “You thought he may have murdered them,” I repeated, this time as a statement rather than a question.

  “We had to rule it out, to be more precise, which would only support your husband’s claim of innocence in Mrs. Murphy’s death.” He stood staring at the mausoleum and said nothing more, giving me time to feel comfortable with what he was proposing.

  “And just when did my husband become a suspect?” I asked, my voice rising with the sudden flicker of panic I felt.

  “In my view, everyone is a suspect until I can rule them out,” he replied, not removing his gaze from my eyes.

  “Am I a suspect then?” I asked faintly.

  “No. And not because you are a woman. Other elements just don’t add up.” He said it almost teasingly.

  I turned to listen to the faraway wail of a steamboat. I fingered the top button of my coat as a cold wind blew against my face. We had reached the mausoleum, and I recoiled at the sight of the marble and stone tomb that boldly boasted DUGAN above its entrance. I closed my eyes to momentarily block it out. I felt the detective’s arm wrap around my waist as if I might stagger.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Dugan?” Detective Buchanan asked, anxiety etched in the numerous lines on his face. “I would be happy to escort you back to the Gate House. I don’t wish to upset you further.” I was suddenly, keenly aware of the detective’s hold. He just as quickly released me.

  “No, that is not necessary,” I answered firmly. I needed to be here to defend Patrick.The detective must be made to see how far from the truth he blundered.

  “Quite charming,” he said curtly, to mask a sudden awkwardness between us. He was looking at the frieze of The Schuylkill Freed engraved into the triangular stone block above the family name.

  “Yes,” I replied, trying to suppress any evidence of annoyance. “Patrick had that done for me. He knows how I treasure the city’s parks and rivers.” Some women receive gloves, others fanciful crypts, I thought darkly and was just as quickly shocked by the treacherous current that was churning through me today. It must be the fault of the detective’s horrid suggestions.

  The detective was surprised at my tone. His eyebrows arched high on his forehead
and almost touched the shock of black hair jutting from beneath his derby.

  “I intend to go in and examine the vaults. Will you wait here?” he asked, his gaze sweeping the landscape to ensure that we were truly alone.

  “No. I want to go in with you,” I replied. This time my voice did not waiver. “But what are you expecting to discover?”

  “Discover is too strong a word. I simply wish to examine the—condition of the remains.”

  I focused my eyes firmly on the detective’s. “He is my husband,” I reminded him.

  “Of course,” Detective Buchanan nodded, removing a large key from his pocket to unlock the ornamental iron gate.The lock clicked easily, and Detective Buchanan swung open the gate, ensuring that I stepped behind him as he did. The glass door opened into the mausoleum.

  As we entered its cold interior, a pigeon, which had been sitting on the ledge of a small, rectangular stained-glass window in the back wall of the mausoleum, flew in a panic over our heads and out the door. I only had time to utter a small cry. Even the detective stiffened in alarm, raising his walking stick in the pigeon’s direction. “It appears that someone has been in here recently,” Buchanan remarked. I realized that the bird looked healthy, as if it had only just been entrapped here.

  I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose in response to the stale, musty odor of trapped air. Detective Buchanan was scrutinizing the metal vaults that lined up, one on top of the other, on both sides of the tomb. None of them yet carried an inscription.

  “Do you mind?” he asked simply, pointing to the set on the right. I was fighting anew the sense of horror, which had gripped me since the detective’s insinuations about the deaths of my in-laws. I pressed my lips firmly together and shook my head.

  The detective stepped up to the marble ledge and quickly pulled out the top vault. There were five vaults in all.

  As it rattled open, I thought I detected a new odor in the air, slightly bitter and aged. The detective made a grunting sound, confirming a suspicion.

  He did not turn to look at me as he warned, “Mrs. Dugan, there are remains in this vault. All you will see are bones and some fragments of clothes. I am telling you this so you won’t feel compelled to look at it yourself.”

  I was sure that the detective could hear my heart filling the empty void of the mausoleum with the same pounding that filled my ears. “No, I want to see it myself,” I answered, believing that I must be shouting at him now, struggling to sound normal above the deafening pulse of my blood.

  There, lying in the vault, in a modest wood coffin, was a skeleton. Remnants of a white shirt and a formal, black morning coat draped in shreds of cloth across the ribs and arms. Sections of black, worsted wool trousers still clung to the leg bones.The skull seemed to be leering at me.

  “Oh my God,” I couldn’t help but gasp. I almost took a step back, and stumbled as I fought to regain my balance, realizing that I was not level with the floor. Detective Buchanan quickly and firmly grasped me by the waist again until he was confident I was steady.

  “Let me share with you how I retain my composure in these situations,” he said quietly, almost with a reverence as he looked down at the body. “I have to approach this like a scientist so that I can find the evidence I need.You see, I tell myself that I am speaking for them, the victims, and therefore I need to be my best.” His voice was full of emotion as he looked at the body, as if he were addressing the bones in the vault.

  Suddenly, I saw the detective in a different light. Here is a man who dresses for the cemetery, who equally respects the living—and the dead. Even in his dealings with the dead, he strives to do them right.

  “Please, go ahead,” I whispered. None of this felt real, yet I was awed by this strange dedication and grateful for any trick that would alleviate the nausea and fear I felt pooling in my stomach.

  “This skeleton belongs to a man, judging by the thickness of the skull and the length of the long bones of the arms and legs. These bones are also a bit thicker to support a man’s greater muscle mass. Judging from the teeth and some wear about the bone joints, this is the skeleton of an older man.” The detective was speaking matter-of-factly, the way I had heard library lecturers address their audience.

  “How do you know so much?” I asked, still struggling to distract my senses.

  “I’ve been trained on some of the basics, but I certainly am not as qualified as a doctor or scientist. But let me share with you what is unusual about this body,” he continued in the same tone. I barely nodded for him to continue.

  “How did your father-in-law die, Mrs. Dugan?”

  “I’m not sure of all the details, Detective,” I answered softly, still not trusting my stomach. “Patrick only told me that his father was pinned beneath a stack of lumber. It happened at their yard.” I struggled to remember Patrick’s words. “Patrick had said that he was conscious for a while, begging for help ...” Here I trailed off.Wait a minute, was it Julius who had told her that Mr. Dugan had never regained consciousness and that he was bleeding from the head? Julius had been at the lumber yard that day with Patrick. When I had questioned Patrick about the discrepancy, he had been too upset to talk about it. “I think it was Julius actually who told me he was unconscious after the accident.” I could say no more.

  “Hmmm,” the detective replied. “It sounds as if he would have suffocated under the weight of the logs.” He turned his attention back to the vault. “However, if you look as this skull, there are a number of fractures in it, one particularly large, as if the person were struck with something sharp and heavy.The broken ribs I would expect, based upon your account.”

  I wanted to grab onto something, to stop my mind from reeling. “Struck with something sharp and heavy.” I heard the phrase echo in my head. “No,” I said softly. “That’s impossible. I’m sure there is an explanation.”

  Detective Buchanan turned, fearing he had gone too far. “I’m sorry. Let me take you outside for some air,” he offered, escorting me down from the marble ledge and out the door into the cold, gray morning. “Does this help?”

  I took a deep breath. The sharp air was revitalizing. I nodded my head, not looking at the detective, but instead concentrated my focus on the dark, turbid Schuylkill River cutting through the valley below. “I feel much better, thank you, although I think I’ll wait here for you, Detective. I assume you want to check all of the vaults?” I asked, concentrating on the cold air filling my lungs.

  “Yes. But I agree. It’s best you wait here.” He paused before reentering the mausoleum. “Mrs. Dugan, I must also point out that there could be a very good explanation for those fractures. They could have occurred as a result of the accident. I don’t have the expertise to judge.”

  “Yes. I am sure that is it,” I replied. “I will ask Patrick again about the circumstances of his father’s death. I probably have gotten all the facts mixed up. I don’t trust myself lately.”

  The detective’s expression changed suddenly. “It’s extremely important that we don’t inform your husband of our visit here.”

  I turned quickly to search the detective’s face. “What do you mean?”

  The detective grasped the sleeve of my coat. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I don’t want you to become the next victim either.” He looked into my eyes with urgency, willing what he was going to say to burn into my memory. “If you had been wearing the cape that day, it might have been you that tumbled to the bottom of the reservoir hill.”

  My jaw dropped. “Detective, that is preposterous! You are wrong and will soon find out the truth.”

  “I hope you are right, Mrs. Dugan. But in the meantime, please listen to me,” he commanded, all patience drained from his voice. “What I have done today—asking you to accompany me—is very unorthodox. But I need you to be aware of the—danger you may be in.” He quickly surveyed the area before he continued. “I don’t know who is responsible for Mrs. Murphy’s death. I have my suspicions, but because they are only suspici
ons, I am in no position to protect anyone.” He suddenly sounded angry. The detective stared into my face. “In this sort of investigation, we always look at the husband. I am not saying that I know he is guilty. But in similar cases, throughout history, the husband was the only suspect with the motivation and inclination to see it through. The statistics don’t always weigh in, but I’m not willing to test that theory with your life, Mrs. Dugan, if you will forgive my impudence.” He lifted his derby to run one large hand through his thick, black hair again.

  I was silent, willing the horror I was feeling to turn to a fueling anger. How could the detective dare make such allegations against Patrick? He didn’t know what type of man Patrick was. But the detective’s argument was persuasive and drove a bitter wedge into the chink in my faith. I couldn’t help but think of the ledger—and of those small, white gloves.

  “I think I can manage that, Detective,” I replied, unsure where to direct my anger. I looked at the mausoleum trumpeting the Dugan name.

  “Very good,” he said, assuaged. “And if the situation should ever change, if you ever feel you are in danger, then you must contact me.”

  We were silent as we followed the path back to the cemetery’s Gate House. I felt cold to the bone. A heavy, black shadow had been flung over my world. Nothing seemed recognizable.The detective was respectful of my gloom.

  When we rounded the bend, I saw the carriage parked alongside the Old Mortality memorial, but Julius was not in any of his customary positions—either in the driver’s seat, waiting patiently for me, or standing with one foot on the side board inspecting the wheels.

  “Julius?” I called, quickly looking around the Gate House circle. I knew he wouldn’t leave the carriage, unless it was to find me.

  “I’ll check with the caretaker, Mrs. Dugan. Perhaps he is in the office,” Detective Buchanan offered. “Why don’t you wait inside the carriage and warm yourself?”

  I allowed the detective to escort me, despite my growing apprehension. “Julius wasn’t feeling well, Detective. I’m concerned.”