The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  Frank eased into his chair. “Sneaky dog. I won’t bet if you’re using that thing.”

  Frank dug a quarter from his pocket. “Here, use this one.”

  Rob flipped it. “Call it in the air.”

  “Tails,” Frank said.

  Rob caught the coin and slapped in on the back of his hand. It was tails.

  “Finally,” Frank sighed.

  Terry watched this time-honored tradition with a smirk.

  Frank leaned back into his chair. “I’ll have the usual, and a giant cup of hot green tea.”

  “Got it.” Rob swung toward the door. “Be back before five.”

  Frank assumed his favorite slouch position, propping his feet on the desk, and beamed. “I finally won a flip.”

  Terry shook his head and turned to leave. “No, you didn’t. He stole your quarter.”

  13

  Within the next few minutes, the work area emptied as officers slipped out one by one, offering excuses for leaving early on a Friday afternoon. Terry even left to stop by Missing Persons and talk to the sergeant handling the case up there. As the noise level dropped, Frank found it easier to concentrate on the report update he typed. When he wasn’t in deep thought, he loved the background noise of the squad area. But now, as he did a mental organization of the facts, he just enjoyed the silence.

  Several minutes later, he felt the presence of a malevolent being. He looked up into the weasel eyes of Big Mike.

  “Hey, asshole,” Mike said.

  “What do you want?”

  Mike’s brow furrowed. “I want you to stay away from my business.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.” Mike’s voice rose.

  Frank stood. “Get out of here.”

  Mike grabbed the top of the cubicle between them with his giant paws. “Or you’ll do what?”

  “What’s going on here?” Edna asked, staring from around the corner of her office.

  Both their heads snapped in her direction. Frank had forgotten she was still there.

  “Nothing. We were just discussing a case,” Frank said.

  Her forehead tightened. “Yes, I overheard part of your discussion.” She advanced on Mike like a shark. “So, you have so little work that you have time to traipse down here and threaten my people?”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “No, Lieutenant.”

  Edna closed the distance. “That’s what it sounded like to me. Are you saying that my hearing’s defective?”

  Mike retreated several steps. He looked as if he might wet himself. “No, ma’am.”

  Edna pointed at Mike. “I sent Frank and Rob to your area at the direction of the chief’s office. Perhaps I should give Lieutenant Holmes a call and tell him about all your extra time. Bet he could find work for you. Whatcha think?”

  Mike stumbled while retreating faster. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am.” He spun toward the door and left.

  Edna turned her gaze on Frank. “Any other problems with him—let me know.”

  “Thanks, Edna.”

  She shot him a glance. “That’s Lieutenant Crawford to you.” She stalked toward her office.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant Crawford.”

  She didn’t reply or turn around but held up her thumb and index finger in the okay sign as she passed through her door. Edna would never admit it, but she loved busting the balls of jerks like Big Mike. Frank liked having her on his team.

  Frank pulled his attention back to the report. If Eddie had some worthwhile information, they might have something concrete to start working for a change.

  At five o’clock, Rob wandered into CIU with two plastic bags. He’d gotten Frank a whole quart of hot green tea and spicy shredded pork with lo mein noodles. Rob set out the feast and they dug in. He forked a piece of General Tso’s chicken. “You really think she’s still alive? Been missing a long time,” Rob said.

  Frank shoved a rogue noodle in his mouth with the chopsticks and considered the question. “It’s has been a long time, but that could play both ways.” He looked up. “Yeah, I think she’s alive.”

  They ate in silence until Edna strolled from her office, flipping off the light on the way out. “Well, it just officially hit the news wire—Dallas mayor’s daughter kidnapped. Now the sixth floor’s gearing up to catch hell, and so should we. Oh, that smells good.”

  Frank held up his plate. “Want some? We have plenty.”

  She meandered to his cubicle. With delicate fingers, she lifted a small piece of broccoli from the edge and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, that’s so good. Get that from Bo’s?”

  “Yup,” Frank said.

  She got another piece, comfortable with him, as if they picked food off each other’s plates all the time.

  Frank caught Rob eyeing the two of them. He quickly looked away.

  “I know what I’m having for dinner. I’m calling in an order on my way home.” She headed for the door, but stopped short. “You guys get anything good tonight, shoot me a call. I don’t care how late.”

  She was talking about both of them but looking at Frank.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rob answered.

  With her departure, the place went quiet. They finished eating and Frank swilled the hot tea with pleasure, finishing the whole quart. “You know what?” Frank asked.

  Rob sipped the last of the cola. “What?”

  “You made a good point.”

  In an uncertain tone, Rob said, “I did? About what?”

  Frank dabbed his lips with a paper napkin and said, “When I worked Missing Persons, we didn’t refer to the missing people by anything but their names. We’ve been calling Katrina ‘the girl’ all this time. We should start referring to her as Katrina or at least Trina. What’d you think?”

  Rob nodded. “This one matters more to you somehow, doesn’t it?”

  Frank didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the bottom of his glass.

  “Okay,” Rob finally said. “Let’s call her Trina.”

  “Deal,” Frank agreed. “It’s a quarter to six. Think we should go.”

  “Yup.” Rob stood, pulled out the Copenhagen can, and got a pinch. “Let’s ride.”

  * * *

  Rob parked closer to the overpass than he had earlier and they strolled toward the pillar where the mayor stayed. He wasn’t there. The crowd had doubled from a couple of hours before. Many men, and a few haggard women, had found suitable areas to bed down for the night. All eyes followed Rob and Frank as they wandered through the mob looking for Eddie Jones. He wasn’t there either. Someone had built a small fire in one of the fifty-five-gallon drums and was roasting some meat. Smoke drifted through the compound, and several denizens craned their necks to catch the aroma.

  Frank shoved his hands in his pockets and swiveled his head. “He’s not around. What do you think?”

  Rob checked his watch. “A few minutes after six. Let’s wait at the hole in the fence. He’s got to go through there if he’s coming.”

  Frank followed Rob to the street, and they stood to one side of the fence, checking each person. A small crowd gathered about fifty yards up the street as people who were heading for the entrance stopped and just milled around, whispering.

  “You’re disrupting traffic flow,” a voice said from behind.

  They spun around to find Mayor Pete, still wearing the overcoat and fedora. He motioned toward the crowd. “They’re afraid to come in because of you—think you might hurt them.”

  “Why would they think that?” Rob asked.

  Pete eased closer. “Because you’re different. Homeless don’t like different.” Pete pulled off his hat and waved. “Y’all come on. They ain’t going to hurt y’all.”

  The crowd whispered among themselves a moment and cautiously made their way to the hole in the fence. Pete kept waving his hat, directing them in. Most dropped their heads as they passed, but a few gawked at Frank and Rob as if they were watching a strange species of animal in
a zoo.

  Rob felt self-conscious under all the scrutiny and a flush crept up his face. Frank didn’t seem to like the attention either. He crossed his arms and directed his gaze at the grimy freeway above them.

  Pete motioned toward the underpass. “Come on. We’ll wait for Ed in my office.”

  The pillar where Pete slept was still unoccupied. “Rank has its privileges. Don’t nobody sleep here but me.” Pete dropped down beside the pillar and pulled a soiled white paper bag from his overcoat pocket. He opened it and yanked out a baked chicken leg. Looking up, he said, “I’d offer you some, but it’s all I have.”

  “We’ve eaten,” Frank said.

  Pete tried a bite. “Is this Eddie or Ed guy you looking for a veteran?”

  “Yeah,” Rob replied.

  Pete spit out the corner of his mouth. “Thought so.”

  “Same guy you know?” Frank asked.

  “Probably.” Pete scanned the street and pointed. “Is that him?”

  Rob and Frank swung around. The scrawny stick of a man had just stepped into the shade of the overpass. He wore jeans and a dirty desert camo field jacket, his blue wool stocking cap pulled low on his brow.

  “What do you think?” Rob asked Frank.

  Frank studied the guy a moment. “Kind of looks like the photo.”

  Pete nibbled another bite. “That’s the guy we call Ed. Don’t know if it’s the one you’re looking for.”

  Rob shifted his gaze to Pete. “Thanks.”

  Pete gave them one more suspicious glance. “You sure you ain’t going to arrest him?”

  Frank shook his head. “Only a few questions—promise.”

  They followed Eddie as he stumbled deeper into the shadows of the overpass. The man was unsure on his feet, as if he might take a tumble any second. He found a place far away from the rest and collapsed to the soft dirt, mumbling to himself and then laughing. He didn’t seem to notice Frank and Rob’s approach. He tugged a bottle from his field jacket, twisted off the cap, and finished it in one gulp.

  “Are you Eddie Jones?” Frank asked.

  The emaciated figure, with dirty blond hair spilling from the sides of his wool cap, looked up and smirked. “No, Edward Thomas Jones.”

  “That’ll do,” Rob said. “Okay to talk to you for a minute?”

  The hollow-eyed creature chortled. “I don’t seem to have my daily schedule on me right now, but I could probably spare a minute.” His lips formed into a crooked smile. His teeth were heavily stained, and one in front was missing. The guy had that beaten-down look common in the homeless or drug-addicted.

  Frank produced his identification. “We’re with the Dallas Police. Need to ask you some questions.” Frank’s nose twitched. The guy hadn’t bathed in a while.

  Eddie’s expression never changed. “Okay.” He reached in his jacket pocket and Rob lunged, grabbing his hands.

  “We don’t like people reaching for things while we’re talking to them—makes us nervous,” Rob said, holding the hands in a strong grip and staring into Eddie’s eyes.

  Eddie relaxed and grinned. “Don’t blame you. When we used to bust a door in Iraq and couldn’t see the people’s hands, it made us nervous too.”

  Rob patted him down. “He’s clean.”

  “Okay to get a smoke?” Eddie held up his hands in surrender.

  “Go ahead,” Frank said.

  Eddie fumbled again and produced a bright yellow Zippo lighter and half a cigarette. He lit it and inhaled deeply. “So what you want to ask me?”

  Frank squatted down so that he was at Eddie’s eye level. “Do you have a tattoo?”

  Eddie coughed out a lungful of smoke and laughed so loud people shot him glances in surprise. “You came all the way out here to ask me that?” He slapped his leg and continued laughing. He coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the ground. “And people call me crazy.” The guy surveyed Rob and Frank and must have realized they were serious, because he stopped smiling. His gaze narrowed. “You real cops?”

  “Yup,” Frank said. “You have a tattoo?”

  Eddie wiped his nose with his sleeve and stroked his filthy blond beard. “Yeah, got a couple.” He took another long drag from the cigarette.

  “Where?”

  “Got this one right here.” He pulled up the jacket and shirt sleeve, revealing a Marine eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo on his left forearm.

  “And the other one?”

  He gaped at Frank a second. “On my back,” he whispered.

  “Mind showing us?”

  All humor left Eddie’s countenance. He swallowed and studied them. “I don’t show that to folks.”

  “Why?” Rob asked.

  Eddie pulled his coat tighter. “’Cause, it’s private.”

  “Then tell us how you came to get it.” Rob knelt beside Eddie. “Your mama told us you were a Marine.” Rob pulled up his jacket sleeve and displayed his own tattoo—identical to Eddie’s. “Semper fi, brother.”

  Eddie’s broad smile returned. “You in Iraq?”

  “Yeah, but in 1991, Desert Storm. Fourth Marine Expeditionary Brigade.”

  Eddie pulled another drag from his ragged cigarette. “That’s a good unit, brother.”

  Rob lowered his sleeve. “One of the best.”

  After one final puff, Eddie threw the butt aside. “So what do you need to know about my other tattoo?”

  Rob clasped his fingers together and rocked forward. “Just where and why you got it.”

  Frank remained silent. Rob knew he wouldn’t say a word, because a rapport had been established.

  Tears formed in Eddie’s eyes and he dropped his head. He sniffed. “I’ve screwed up my life.” Eddie wiped his eyes with dirty palms. “Is my mama okay?”

  “She’s fine. Says for you to call her.”

  Eddie looked up at the dark underside of the overpass and shook his head. “When I was in high school, I used to get screwed up on alcohol. When I went into the Marines, I’d get screwed up on drugs. And when I got out, I got screwed up on religion.” He laughed a shallow laugh and wiped his eyes again. He sat straighter and stared at Rob. “No, that’s not fair. The religion was the best thing ever happened to me. I was just too stupid to know it, that’s all.” He dropped his head, and his shoulders shook as he wept.

  Rob had seen this before, in others who had come back from the war. Some men had lost a limb; others had lost something more essential, as Eddie had. But Rob didn’t have time to play counselor. “What about the tattoo?” he asked.

  Eddie drew in a long sniff and spat. “After the Corps, I knew I was in trouble. Went looking for help. The VA didn’t do much, so I turned to God. Found a pastor preaching the True Word and decided to follow him. Moved in with him and the rest of the congregation. Sleeping was tight, but we all worked. Some in the home; others, like me, on the outside. Pooled our money and lived a happy life for a couple of years.

  “Brother John held nightly services, and I felt myself turning around. He didn’t even allow alcohol or drugs in the place. Hell, he wouldn’t even let us have tea or coffee. Only herb tea was allowed.” Eddie chuckled. “Always hated herb tea.” He coughed and drew another deep breath. “But I dried out. I sure as hell did. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Rob exchanged glances with Frank. Rob reached over and laid a gentle hand on Eddie’s knee. “So what happened? Why are you here?”

  Eddie cranked up another bout of crying. After a few seconds, he whispered, “I sinned, and threw it all away. The devil tempted me. Too weak to resist him. Always been too weak.”

  “What happened?” Frank whispered.

  Eddie looked up at Frank. “Brother John trusted me, and I let him down. Said he wanted me to be one of his disciples.” Eddie shifted his stare to Rob. “You see, God came to Brother John in a vision. After that day, he was no longer just Brother John. He was Brother John—the Prophet.”

  Out of the corner of Rob’s eye, he caught Frank’s grimace.

 
Eddie didn’t seem to notice, lost in the story. “God told him to go forth and choose six disciples from earthly sinners. These six would be ordained and marked by Brother John. They would assist him until he was called by the Father to heaven. Then he would return to earth, after the third angel sounded.”

  Rob rested one hand in the other and placed his chin on them. “Not sure I understand.”

  Eddie’s eyes brightened. “Don’t you see? Brother John would be called back to the Father—to God.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” Rob said, “but—”

  Frank spoke, quoting scripture from memory. “‘And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters. And the name of the star is called Wormwood.’”

  Eddie leaned away from Frank and his mouth gaped. “Did Brother John send you guys?”

  “No,” Frank said.

  “But you know about Wormwood. How?”

  “Revelation 8, verses 10 and 11. It’s in the Bible.”

  Eddie lowered his head and whimpered. “I let the devil tempt me away from that great man. I’ll go to hell because of it.” A sob escaped his lips.

  “Were you ordained and marked as a disciple?” Rob asked.

  Eddie sniffed again, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and nodded, but didn’t speak.

  Frank leaned closer. “Was the tattoo on your back the mark?”

  Tears flooded Eddie’s eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Can we see it?” Frank asked.

  Eddie thought for a second and then removed the jacket. He pulled the shirt over his head, spun around, and lay on the clothes, exposing his full back. Rob snatched out his Maglite and shined it on him, feeling a tug of pity at the sight of Eddie’s body, which looked like a skeleton with skin stretched over it. The man didn’t move as Rob scrolled the beam across his back.

  The tattoo could have been a scene out of a sci-fi movie. The artist had created a night sky filled with stars, and a large, red, glowing sphere hung above a settlement with some kind of vapor or gas radiating down. Under the picture, in three-inch letters, was the word “Wormwood.”

  “Good God,” Rob muttered.