by Barb Goffman
Soon the backhoe broke the ground, and the diggers grabbed shovels and began work. At first I stood watching, wishing my coveralls had pockets, but after a while I started pacing. I hoped we’d find Kevin’s body. And I hoped we wouldn’t. The optimistic part of me wanted those parents to be right, that their sons were still alive out there somewhere.
I peeked outside the tent. Before the work had begun, my officers had moved the parents, Harlow, and the reporter to the parking lot, where they couldn’t compromise the investigation. Kevin’s parents looked sad. Timmy’s looked hopeful. Harlow simply looked angry. And the reporter appeared frustrated. I didn’t give a damn about her.
After about an hour of digging, the concrete vault containing Judy’s coffin finally emerged. The workers dug by hand around the vault’s edges, making enough room to attach a steel cable to the sides. That cable was fastened to a long boom, which was attached to the hoist in a pickup truck parked on a path just outside the tent. Ron, the cemetery official, pushed aside the tent flap and signaled to the guy in the pickup. He started the engine and slowly began moving down the path, pulling the heavy vault up behind him.
The activity stirred the parking lot crowd. They all swarmed forward, trying to get a better look. My officers held them back.
When the vault cleared the grave, it was set down with a thud on a grassy spot nearby, still inside the tent. One of the diggers grabbed a sledgehammer and started pounding away on the vault’s side.
“There’s no other way to open that thing?” I asked Ron.
“Nope,” he said. “You have to break it open.”
God, I hoped they wouldn’t smash the coffin.
At last enough damage had been done to the vault lid, and the workers used a crowbar to lift it off. My adrenaline surged as the coffin came into sight. Oak. Dirt covered some of its rounded lid. I wanted to rush to it. Pry it open. But the coffin was still in the vault. I had to wait while the diggers threaded straps underneath the coffin and lugged it out.
They probably were working pretty fast, but my patience was shot. I started drumming my hand against my thigh until, finally, they set the coffin on the grass. Jackson and I charged forward. Ron unlocked the lid covering the lower half of the coffin, then the lid covering the upper half. The seconds it took while he raised the halves felt like forever.
I’d known gasses would escape when they opened the coffin—that’s one reason why we had to wear surgical masks—but I hadn’t expected the smell to be so sickening. I stepped back as the stench of rotting eggs hit me. Then, swallowing bile that was rising in my throat, I looked down at Judy. She was pretty-well preserved, except for the bits of mold growing on her face and hands. I’d been to a lot of crime scenes before, including folks who’d come to their end in violent ways, but seeing Judy like that still made me cringe. I’d never forget that image.
She lay on white padding, her head nestled on a white pillow. I nodded at Jackson. He slid his hands under Judy and rolled her stiff body sideways. I held my breath, my hands nearly shaking, as I grabbed the padding and began lifting it. In that moment, I didn’t know what to pray for anymore, finding Kevin, or not finding him.
I pushed the padding all the way back and blinked. “Jesus.”
The coffin was empty.
I dropped the padding and stepped back. That bitch. That lying bitch. I hoped Shirley Byerrum was burning in hell. Greg had warned me not to trust her. Reminded me how often she lied and how she liked to trick people, making you believe she meant one thing when she really meant another.
Jackson rolled Judy back down. “You can’t blame yourself, boss. You said it the other day: We had to check.”
He was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. As Jackson closed the coffin, I stepped forward, angry. So angry. I slammed my fist against the coffin’s lid, and a hollow sound rang out. Jackson and I stared at each other while the medical examiner gasped.
“Did that sound hollow to you?” I asked.
Jackson nodded several times. “Yeah.”
I stepped to the head of the coffin and knocked on it repeatedly, moving toward the foot. Solid wood. Solid wood. Solid wood. And then, when I knocked on the lower half of the lid, there it was again. That hollow sound.
“Does that sound normal?” I asked.
“Nope, boss. It sure doesn’t.”
Could Kevin be hidden in the lid, I wondered. And just as quickly, I knew that he could—if he were in pieces. I smothered the urge to punch something hard as Jackson and I began looking at the lower half of the lid, feeling it all over, trying to find a way to get inside it. Nothing. We lifted both halves of the lid again. Examined the lower half from the underside. Nothing. There had to be a way in. There had to be.
I pulled the lid’s lower half closed again. Wait a second. What was that on the inside edge? The section you could only see if the bottom half of the lid was closed and the top half was open. A rectangular indentation ran most of the edge’s length, and to the left of the indentation, there was a circular groove in the wood. A button.
My heart racing, I reached out and pressed it. A drawer sprang open right beside the button. A folded piece of paper lay on black velvet. I picked it up and silently began reading the shaky, cursive handwriting.
My darling Judy,
I love and miss you more than words can say. For all these years, you’ve been my conscience. You’ve helped me be the person I wanted to be. You knew about my weakness and loved me anyway.
I never meant for you to learn that I slipped up. I’ve had too much free time since retiring. The urges have been overwhelming. I never imagined you’d brave the staircase down to the basement ever again, that you’d find any of them. I’m so sorry.
I’ll live the rest of my life with the utter shame of what I’ve done. Of what I am. Of how I upset you so much that your heart literally stopped beating. Last night I buried the Kinzell boy under the trees out back with the others. I swear on my life I’ll try not to act on my sickness again and to be the man you always thought I could be. I’ll love and miss you until my dying hour, and I’ll pray we’ll meet again someday.
John
Holy shit. I looked up. Everyone was staring at me.
“What’s it say, boss?”
I couldn’t tell him with so many people standing around. “Jackson, we need the coffin fingerprinted, especially the inside of this drawer. And it needs to be checked for hairs, fiber, DNA. The whole gamut. We’ll have to check this letter, too, but first I need to show it to Judge Irwin. Hand me an evidence bag.”
He did, questioning me with his eyes. I slipped the letter inside the bag. “I’m leaving you in charge here. I’ll fill you in later.”
I ran out of the tent, ripping off my coveralls, mask, and gloves as I dashed to my rig. The parents and the reporter started moving my way, calling out questions. I didn’t really have time to stop, but I owed the parents, especially the Kinzells, answers, however brief.
I slowed and turned. “We didn’t find Kevin.”
“I told you so!” Harlow said, while Kevin’s mother burst into tears, and his father said, “I knew it. My son’s alive somewhere.”
It broke my heart to know otherwise. But I couldn’t say anything at that point.
The other parents advanced, shouting questions. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t talk now. Something’s come up. It’s best if you all go on home.”
“What’s come up, Sheriff?” the reporter asked.
“Not now.”
I hurried to my rig, motioning for my officers to follow. When we got away from prying ears, I doled out assignments. One officer would stay in the parking lot, keeping folks out of the tent. One would help Jackson collect the evidence. The rest would drive to Amblyne’s house and wait till I joined them.
“Why?” asked Shep, one of my officers.
“No time to explain. But don’t let John Amblyne go near the trees behind the house. If you see him head out back, stop him and bring him in for questioning.
And if you see him leave, someone follow him, and let me know what’s going on.”
“What about Springer?” Shep asked. “I thought I needed to tail him.”
“That’s not necessary anymore. You all have your assignments. Go!”
I drove as fast as I safely could back to town. During the drive, I called Judge Irwin. Said I had to see him. It was urgent. I couldn’t explain over an open line. When I got to his office, he was waiting for me. He waved me inside and shut the door.
“Did you find the boy?”
“No,” I said, pulling on latex gloves I’d grabbed from my rig. “I found this instead.” I removed the letter from its paper evidence bag, unfolded it, and set it on his desk. “Read it, but don’t touch it. It’s evidence.”
While Irwin read the letter, I tried to remain still. John Amblyne. As a mailman, he could have known all these kids. They would have trusted him. He’d said Kevin used to run to him on Saturdays to get the family’s mail. And he’d offered me cookies when I was at his house. That’s not something you typically offer adults. But children—cookies could easily lure them in, as could a cute dog like Buster.
The judge finished reading. “Son of a bitch.” He knit his eyebrows together so they looked like one. “Any chance Shirley forged this note?”
Any chance? After the lies she’d told about Harlow, I’d put nothing past that old biddy. But I needed a warrant in case the letter was real.
“It rings true, Judge. We just need to search Amblyne’s land to know for sure.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m writing a warrant to search his house, truck, and land.” He looked up at me. “Go find those boys.”
A half-hour later, I zoomed up Amblyne’s driveway. His pickup was gone. Shit.
“Shep,” I called, jumping out of my rig. “Any sign of Amblyne?”
“No, ma’am.” He hurried over. “Haven’t seen anyone since we got here.”
I called my dispatcher. Put out a BOLO for Amblyne. I didn’t want him stopped or approached. I simply wanted to know his location. Then I told my officers what was going on, and we ran up to Amblyne’s door. I pounded on it, announced myself and the warrant. Buster started barking madly, but otherwise things remained quiet. I let Shep kick the door in. He liked doing things like that.
Once inside, my men fanned out. I headed down to the basement, gun in hand, in case Amblyne was hiding down there. As I descended the last steep step, I craned my neck, ready to react. But no one jumped out at me. No missing children. No Amblyne. Slowly I checked out the whole level. It was mostly a large storage area filled with tools, boxes, and old furniture. In the back I found a windowless room with a lock on the open door and a cot inside. Where Amblyne must have kept the boys, though I found no direct evidence of that.
My radio squawked. Amblyne’s pickup had been spotted outside the Methodist church in town. I found Shep, told him to supervise the search of the grounds once the cadaver dog arrived, and I sped off toward town.
Amblyne knew we were digging up Judy this morning. He must have worried we’d find the note. What was he doing at church? Seeking sanctuary? I gripped the steering wheel tight. There was no place he could hide from me.
The winding county roads seemed longer than usual as I sped to the church. Finally I pulled up, right behind Amblyne’s pickup. I reminded myself to keep cool and headed inside. I spotted Amblyne immediately, sitting alone in a pew near the front.
“John.” I stood behind him and put on my best smile.
“Sheriff.” He looked up, wide-eyed. “What happened with Judy?”
I sat down beside him, forcing him to move over a bit. “We didn’t find Kevin.”
He exhaled loudly.
“I’m really disappointed.” I stared at the large cross in front of us. “The Kinzells are religious, you know. Like Judy was. Like you apparently are. I doubt they’ll be able to find peace in this life, or the next one, without answers. Someone out there knows what happened to Kevin and the rest of those boys. I wonder what Judy would say to that person.”
I turned and looked square at Amblyne. He stared at his lap. I waited a full minute, but my guilt trip wasn’t working so I switched to Plan B. “We did find something interesting this morning. A letter. In Judy’s coffin.”
John’s head snapped back up. “You promised you would only look under Judy. You weren’t supposed to open that drawer.”
And just like that, I had the confirmation I needed that he’d written the letter, not Shirley. “How’d you know the letter was in a drawer, John?”
He sputtered as I stood, cuffed him, and read him his rights. My first arrest in a church. I hoped it’d be my last.
While we were driving to the station, my phone rang. Shep.
“Good news?” I asked.
“If you could call it that,” he said. “The dog arrived right after you left, Sheriff. Only took her a few minutes sniffing through those pine trees before she lay down. So we started digging right there and found human bones. Small ones.”
Damn it! They’d found the remains under the trees out back. The trees Amblyne had stared at when I told him I believed Kevin’s body was hidden in his wife’s coffin. The bastard had been staring at the boys’ actual resting place the whole time. “You be careful with all that evidence, Shep. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I disconnected and looked in the rearview mirror. “It’s all over, John. We’ve found ’em.”
That’s when I saw a tear roll down his cheek. “I’m sorry. But I’ve refrained since Judy died. And I tried not to do it before then. I just couldn’t help myself.”
Every pervert I’d ever met had the same sorry excuse. It never washed with me.
“You think saying you’re sorry makes everything all better? You’re going to rot in prison and then, the good Lord willing, in hell. You’ll never see Judy again.”
That last part was harsh, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.
By noon, Amblyne had written a full confession and had been booked. I went to visit each of the boys’ parents that afternoon, filling them in. It was the hardest thing I’d done in my whole life. I cursed Amblyne for it. They did, too.
Before heading home for the day, I stopped back at my office to ensure Amblyne was locked up tight. All I wanted to do next was fall into Greg’s arms and forget. Forget all of this.
Forget…
What had Shirley said? Her last words? I sat at my desk and pulled out a copy of the affidavit I’d drafted just after she’d died, where I’d tried to get down exactly what she’d said: “I would’ve written this secret down in a letter if I had the strength…so I wouldn’t have to talk to you. I hate you…and your whole compartment. Department. You could stand in a forest and never see what’s right below the trees.” Words jumped out at me. Letter. Secret compartment. What’s right below the trees. God damn. Greg had been right. She’d been tricking me. With her final words, Shirley had given me the clues to find the letter and told me where the bodies were buried.
A knock on my office door startled me. I glanced up.
“Judge Irwin. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Mind if I come in?” he asked.
“Please do.”
He shut the door behind him, then sat in my guest chair. “I heard.”
“No surprise there,” I said. “The county grapevine works fast.”
“Well, I’m glad that Harlow’s cleared. I had a hard time believing he could’ve been capable of these atrocities.”
“But you could believe it of Amblyne?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to believe it of anybody.”
“Yeah.” I told him about Shirley, about the hidden meaning behind her last words. “She was pretty crafty. If we hadn’t found the letter, I would’ve been blamed for causing anguish and wasting taxpayer funds. I would’ve looked incompetent. Probably would have lost re-election, which Shirley would have loved. And Harlow would’ve had a black mark on him for the rest of his
life. Everyone would’ve always wondered about him.”
“But you did find the letter.”
“Yeah, which served Shirley’s purposes, too. Turns out she also hated Amblyne ’cause he lost some of her mail at one point.” He’d mentioned it during his interrogation, once he found out Shirley had been my source. I guess he hoped I’d sympathize with him, given my history with Shirley. He’d been wrong.
The judge whistled. “Shirley was a piece of work. No matter what happened, she got what she wanted.”
“Yep. Hard to believe she knew what Amblyne was up to and didn’t tell anyone. She left every boy in this county at risk. What kind of person does that?”
The judge leaned forward. “Ellen, I wouldn’t focus too much on Shirley’s swiss-cheese soul. I’d focus on the fact that she helped you stop a predator and get a lot of people some much-needed closure.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of it that way. In the end, Shirley was awful helpful.” I laughed. “She was buried just yesterday. She must be rolling over in her grave.”
“We could check,” the judge said with a twinkle in his eye. “That’s an exhumation I’ll approve.”
More than a decade ago I visited a funeral home, gathering information for a novel that ultimately died after a dozen chapters. One thing in particular from that visit stuck with me—the secret drawer that some caskets have. As soon as I learned about the drawer, I knew I’d have to use it somehow, someway, in my writing. Well, it certainly took a while, but good things can take time to coalesce. Thank you to the Robert A. Pumphrey Funeral Home in Bethesda, Maryland, for eliciting the spark that ultimately turned into “Suffer the Little Children.” (I wish I could personally thank the man who gave me the tour, but my notes, including his name, were lost in my last move.) And thank you to Gary Downer of Money & King Funeral Home in Vienna, Virginia, for letting me pick his brain about exhumation and all kinds of stuff that many people would probably think is gross, but I thought were way cool.