Dead Investigation

by Charlie Price

  “How would I?”

  “I’ve never asked. I thought there might be a difference between people who were killed and hidden, versus people who officially died and got buried.”

  “Officially died? Murr, you never fail to surprise me.”

  If a person could hear a smile, Murray did. “You know what I mean, right?”

  “Like I told you before, I only know what my life was and what you tell me. I don’t get any news.”

  “What do you think about?” Once the question was out, Murray realized it might be very rude. Very personal.

  When Dearly finally spoke she was quieter.

  “I’m … I don’t really remember. Unless you’re here.”

  “Oh, sure. You’re … Sorry, I didn’t mean to— Sorry.” Murray knew he’d hurt her feelings. Stupid! “Could I ask you something else? Why would a person bury bodies on a steep hill?”

  There was a minute or so of silence while Dearly considered the question. “Only reason, ’cause that would be a lot of work, only thing I can think of is so nobody would stumble on them.”

  “Yeah, nobody’d climb that hill. Nothing up there. A fence, cemetery on the other side, and it’s simpler to get to that by walking around.”

  “Kids wouldn’t go up there to drink?”

  “Probably wouldn’t think of it,” Murray said. Starting to get a little sleepy, he rested his head on Dearly’s stone, eyes level with the writing.

  DEARLY BELOVED

  BORN 1944 DIED 1969

  IN BEAUTY REPOSE

  “Why would somebody move the bodies he’d buried up there?”

  “That’s easy,” Dearly said. “Found an even better place.”

  “Like where?”

  “Deep lake, empty well, furnace … guess you have to ask the mafia.”

  That sounded right. There were lots of lakes and probably hundreds of abandoned mines or wells close to Riverton. Murray didn’t want to picture a furnace. “Why would you leave one body behind?”

  “That’s a tough one.”

  Murray pictured Dearly scratching her head.

  “Forgot?” She was thinking aloud. “No. Hard to imagine after he’d gone to all that trouble … Huh. Give me a day. Let me think about it.”

  Murray said good night, returned to the cottage, fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow.

  * * *

  Pearl padding to the bathroom and closing the door roused him. Two or three hours. Better than no sleep at all. He had to look as normal as possible for school. Nobody could get a whiff that he was back on the murder trail.

  He folded his blanket and put it on top of his pillow, put both on the arm of the couch nearest the wall, began searching the living room for his homework. Pearl came out of the bathroom dressed with a towel rolled around her head like a turban. Murray didn’t mean to, but he laughed. Pearl reddened and tore the towel off as she wheeled back to her room. That went well.

  Murray found his school things and was standing in the cooking nook, trying to decide if he should make toast for everybody, when he heard Pearl yelling to her father about her softball mitt.

  Janochek opened the door to his bedroom and headed toward the front door, flannel pajamas, leather moccasins, and hair like a haystack. He banged out without a word and came back a minute later holding a baseball glove under his arm. Noticed Murray in the kitchen. “Toaster only works if you put the bread in it,” he said, and tossed the mitt on the dining table before going into the bathroom. Immediately stuck his head back out. “Word to the wise. Tomorrow afternoon at three? Sierra’s conference schedule begins. Pearl’s first actual league game. Sierra Field. A smart man would be there. Cheering. Loud.” He closed the door and in a couple of seconds the shower was running.

  Murray stuck in four slices of bread and found peach preserves in the cupboard. Found the butter in the fridge. Noticed that the programmed coffeemaker had already brewed a pot and wondered if a cup would energize him. He and Pearl had missed school yesterday. He couldn’t afford to miss again today and fall behind. He was still going to be the first Kiefer ever to graduate from high school!

  It didn’t motivate him, but the bitter brew did make him feel a little crisper, and he tried not to think about missing bodies while he buttered the first round of toast and set the pieces on small plates around the dining table. Did Pearl want milk? Probably. He filled her glass, then one for himself, and set a coffee cup by Janochek’s plate. Was this what it was like to have a family? If it was, it felt great. Doing something for people you … loved? Could he use that word?

  Pearl broke his reverie. “Hey,” she said, spreading jam on her toast and sorting through the fridge before coming out with a hunk of cheddar. “What you doing after school tomorrow?”

  Thanks to Janochek, Murray had the right answer. “I’ll be there,” he said, and wondered if he would.

  MIND’S EYE

  Gates called him out of trig. Knocked on the classroom door, poked his head in, and then stood in the hall waiting. You could see him right through the dang window. This was not the low profile Murray had been trying to cultivate. Before he even stood, his classmates were buzzing. Murray caught the words “dead” and “creepy,” and he couldn’t get out of class fast enough. Wouldn’t the teacher shut them up? Old man Fender was probably lost in a quadratic equation and hadn’t heard Gates in the first place.

  * * *

  “I’d appreciate a little more help and I have someone I want you to meet.” Gates, hat in hand in the hallway.

  Great. Not How are you or I’m not here to scare you or I’m sorry I reminded everybody in your class that you’re delusional. Murray kept his eyes on the floor and waited for this to pass. Maybe the man would just go away.

  “I asked at the office. Your principal said I could borrow you for the rest of the afternoon.”

  Murray glanced at his wrist. Years ago one of his mother’s guys had given him a plastic watch. He’d only had it for a few weeks before it froze up, so how did he form this stupid habit? He put his left arm behind him.

  “You don’t have to talk for a while,” Gates said, leaning a little closer as if to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “I have some things to tell you and I want to get out of here to do it. Do you like donuts?”

  That brought Murray’s head up. What the hell was the matter with this guy? Murray never thought about donuts.

  “I mean we could get a snack or we could just drive over to Mary Lake and sit at one of those picnic tables. It’s actually kind of sunny. Anyway, I’ll talk for a bit and then I want you to meet someone. Do you need anything before you leave?”

  Murray nodded. Went back into class for his books and papers, no eye contact, humming to himself to keep from hearing comments. Stopped down the hall at his locker for his history and English notebook. Looked up at Gates. The man nodded and led the way out the front door to the cruiser.

  * * *

  Mary Lake was always a surprise—sometimes an algae-covered pit that looked solid enough you could drive a truck across it. Other times clean, green, and mysterious with glimpses of wispy ferns swaying along the bottom, small fish moving among them. Murray sat at a concrete one-piece picnic table. Within a minute the thick cement bench had numbed his butt and threatened to vacuum away every degree of warmth he possessed. To distract himself from the chill, he scanned for turtles basking on mostly submerged limbs close to the shore.

  Gates stood beside the table, facing the lake, tracking small, fast-moving birds darting from bush to deadfall to bush again. He shaded his eyes to better see a blue heron poised in shallow water by the reeds. “I’m never sure,” Gates said, “are there kingfisher here, too?”

  Murray knew he wasn’t asking, just talking.

  “That’s a cormorant.” Gates pointed across the lake to a large black bird perched on a stump, studying the surface. “Great fisherman.” The man half turned away from the water to watch a family of quail scurry out of the brush, run along the paved
path for a few feet, and dart back in.

  “You’ve had bad experiences with people like me.”

  Murray knew the talking had started even though Gates was still standing beside the table not even looking at him. “I visited your home along with a county social worker a few years ago to see if we needed to remove you.”

  Murray winced. He didn’t remember Gates, but he remembered that visit. Remembered being terrified. Not that he’d have to leave his mom but that they might put him in a crazy hospital. For a long time he’d felt strange and different and didn’t know what might happen if doctors got ahold of him.

  “Last winter, I accused you of killing the Parker girl. Not because I knew you or thought you could do it, but because you seemed to know a lot about her and that made me suspicious. You wouldn’t tell me what was really going on and that also made me suspicious. And you were right. I didn’t believe it, but I finally used what you told me to arrest the killer.”

  Gates sat now, and continued to watch the lake as he talked. “And just yesterday I couldn’t believe you knew something about the case I was currently working on. Too big a coincidence. You had to have heard it from somebody and decided to get a little more press. But you hadn’t. It was a different coincidence—somebody buried those people close enough to your cemetery that you could hear their voices. The killer’s going to kick himself for that.” Gates zipped his jacket higher.

  “So our … rocky relationship is mostly my fault,” he said, glancing at Murray. “I couldn’t believe that you actually hated publicity. That you weren’t proud of your … ability. I thought you were shucking and I was wrong. This isn’t fun for you. Just the opposite. Right?”

  Murray didn’t respond.

  “Your ability is worrisome and strange and kids at school tease you about it and you don’t exactly understand it yourself, right? That’s my guess. Well, more than a guess—I’ve been trying to pay better attention.”

  Gates shifted his weight as if the bench were cold for him, too.

  “If I were you, I’d be very wary. I’d think this cop is just trying to manipulate me.” He took a deep breath. “And that would be true. I’m trying to work together because I need your talents.” Now he caught Murray’s eye.

  “Several times when I’m on a case…” He trailed off and shifted his gaze back out to the shoreline. Absentmindedly rubbed above his ear.

  Murray felt the man’s discomfort and wondered what he was trying to say.

  “I’m embarrassed to admit,” Gates continued, “I’ve been wishing for your, uh, expertise. Wishing I could get you to ask a dead person a couple of questions that would help me solve some…” He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m out of line. Forget about it.”

  Murray raised a hand as if he could push Gates’s words away. The man who’d once called him a liar and a killer had somehow come to believe in his talking with the dead? Didn’t seem possible. More, it was a scary idea. And yet … what if he could actually help catch other murderers?

  Gates broke into his thoughts. “Anyway, you don’t have to make a decision right now, about me or working with me. You have every right to examine my words, my actions, as closely as I examined you. Decide if you’ll trust me. I’m hoping I can gradually earn that from you and the girl.”

  “Pearl,” Murray said.

  “She’s a pistol, huh?”

  If you only knew!

  “We’re done for now,” Gates said, looking like he was ready to get up. “Anything you want to ask?”

  If I tell you something impossible, will you believe me or will you start accusing? Murray decided to wait and see.

  Gates stood. “Let’s get a couple of burgers and go meet a woman named Duheen. She might teach us something.”

  * * *

  Murray thought Duheen pretty. Taller than he was, shiny brown hair, nice smile. She walked down the steps of the sprawling building, opened the back door of the cruiser, and introduced herself. Murray said his name and they were off.

  “In a few minutes we’re going to do some memory work,” Duheen said. “It’s an exercise you may not have tried before but it’s pretty common. Artists do it, writers do it. I often use it with people to help them think about things they enjoy. When we get to the…”

  “Rodeo grounds,” Gates supplied.

  “We’ll do this together. I’ll ask some questions and you’ll see if there’s anything you remember. There’s no right or wrong answers. It’s all good either way.”

  Murray felt his chest ease, glad this wasn’t going to be a test.

  * * *

  The three of them stood in front of the cruiser, facing the hill maybe thirty feet away. Duheen began. “Take a couple of deep breaths, see if you can get your stomach to pooch out when you inhale so you get a lot of air. That helps some people relax, and then you’ll close your eyes and tell me some things about being here before. Okay?”

  Murray nodded, and when he started it was nothing special.

  “Can you picture the hill in front of you?”

  Nod.

  “What’s a couple of things you see?”

  “Bushes and trees.”

  “Higher up?”

  “More trees. There was a rope tied to a tall one near the top.”

  “What else?”

  “A couple of times the ground was all messed up like somebody’d raked it.”

  “Anything more?”

  “There’s a hedge way up at the top.”

  “More?”

  He shook his head.

  “Okay move back down, and in your mind’s eye, what do you see to your right?” Duheen’s voice was so soft and smooth.

  “The stable … the wall, actually, and the posts that keep the front roof up.” Murray was surprised how easy it was to see with his eyes closed.

  “Anything else?”

  “A few cars and trucks … parked.”

  “Anything more?”

  “Some buildings … sheds way farther down.”

  “Anything in them?”

  “I don’t know. I never went close.”

  “Okay, in your mind’s eye, what’s behind you?”

  “This blacktop and white parking stripes … a big lawn in front of the center … the center driveway, uh, street, by the front doors.”

  “Can you see a truck in that portico?” This from Gates.

  Murray was jarred by the different voice but kept his eyes closed.

  “For the rest of the time I’ll be the only one that speaks,” Duheen said.

  Murray heard an edge in her voice and imagined her frowning at Gates.

  “It may be shady under the portico … can you see anything in there?”

  “A truck … one time … I think somebody watching.”

  “What do you notice about it?”

  “A … I don’t … whitish. A van shape.” Though his eyes were closed, Murray squinted. “Maybe blue license plates. I’m not sure.”

  “Can you see what’s on the plate?”

  Murray shook his head.

  “Okay, anything else?”

  Murray turned his head to the right, radar. “No people. Other cars, way over on the far road along the river.”

  “All right, look to your left. What do you see?”

  “A bit of the freeway, the rink, the start of the trees where Pearl hid, the blue Dumpster—” Murray forgot what he was doing and opened his eyes. “Right there by those barrels,” but even as he said it he could see the waste container was no longer there. “It was locked. I couldn’t understand. How’s anybody supposed to—” Oh. He knew where the bodies had been when he heard them at the bottom of the hill while he was talking to the cop. And he knew why he didn’t hear them later. The Dumpster was gone.

  “I forgot,” he said, looking at the barrel area. “I think…” but Gates was on his cell phone and Duheen had passed behind him heading for a faded dirt outline beside the barrels.

  * * *

  Gates stopped for drive-thro
ugh donuts on his way to drop Duheen back at the hospital. Three glazed old-fashioned. Murray took his gingerly, remembering he’d had donuts before but never one that looked like this. He watched Duheen eat hers and half of the one Gates held. Got busy eating his own.

  When she left for her own car, Gates turned to Murray. “That was really good work.”

  Murray colored. “I should have remembered before.”

  “Nobody remembers everything. Thanks for being willing to try this.”

  * * *

  At the department Gates immediately checked Faraday’s notes. No mention of CarterGuard’s or Trask’s waste disposal contracts. No reason there should have been. Now there was. He couldn’t reach anyone at Trask after five. Got a CarterGuard dispatcher. The security company shredded unnecessary documents and emptied their green city container once a week.

  STORY TIME

  The following morning at eight Gates was on his cell with the operations manager at the engineering company.

  “Since we have such big projects, it’s been cheaper for us to obtain our own waste disposal permit on land adjacent to the industrial park,” the woman told him. “We rent Decker’s Dumpsters for the same reason. Cost-effective. They place and pick up wherever we’re building.”

  Gates thanked her and called Decker.

  A secretary answered the phone and then his question. “Color? Blue. That sets us apart from the green city containers.”

  Next call, Roth Trask’s office. The CEO’s secretary said he’d been called out of town and wouldn’t be available until the following week.

  Gates didn’t know whether Trask and Barker were involved in the homeless crimes separately or together, or for that matter, at all. All his evidence was circumstantial. Not nearly enough for a home search warrant.

  He got Trask’s residential address, Harvard Heights subdivision. Drove across town and up Quartz Hill Road to a five-thousand-square-foot McMansion. No one answered the front bell, and the attached garage had no windows. Gates checked the street, the surrounding neighborhood. Didn’t see anyone. Put on a glove and forced the roll-up door. One car, a racing green Corvette with convertible top. No light gray van.