Echoes of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  I wonder what the penalty is in California for grave robbing?

  As Jimmy takes his place beside me, I set the lamp back down and wait.

  One of the vehicles is an unmarked, the type a detective would drive. The other, a Prius, is strictly civilian. No cop, not even an undercover, is going to be caught driving a Prius—at least not on duty. What they do on their own time is up to them. It’s kind of one of those don’t-ask, don’t-tell situations, only for cars.

  I’m assuming the lime-colored Prius belongs to Thomas Postlewait, an official with the Southern Kern Cemetery District. Thomas is here because we came to the cemetery with the best of intentions. Diane had located him shortly after Jimmy’s call, and he was more than happy to meet at the cemetery and answer any questions we might have. Efficient as Diane is, I’m sure she also contacted Bakersfield PD and asked for a detective—again, just in case—and then paired up the two of them.

  Thomas Postlewait is tall and lanky, and though I can only see his silhouette, he reminds me a bit of Abe Lincoln, but in skinny pants and without a beard. I half expect him to retrieve a top hat from the passenger seat and plunk it down on his head. The guy stepping out of the unmarked patrol car is his opposite. He’s about five-five and considerably chunkier than Abe, but not fat—well, not obese.

  The two men confer momentarily on the side of the road and then start toward us. Mr. Short-and-Stout has a flashlight and leads the way. They reach us a minute later, and after an awkward standoff, introductions are made all the way around. Postlewait’s opposite turns out to be Detective Chen Feng of Bakersfield PD. I like him immediately. He seems to have a permanent smile on his face, and I imagine he’s one of those cops with a wicked sense of humor.

  “Call me Ross,” the detective says, extending a hand. “Only my grandfather still calls me Chen.”

  Normally, this is the part where we’d make small talk for a few minutes, get to know our counterparts, and maybe build a little rapport, but Tom Postlewait is immediately agitated when he catches sight of the open grave behind us and storms over for closer inspection. As he walks, his footsteps seem to pound the earth, and his arms fling about, both of which are meant to convey his displeasure at what he sees.

  “What are you doing?” he demands, aghast at the sight of the excavated hole and the stacked dirt. “No one said anything about digging up a grave! Where’s your court order or your authorization from the Health Department?” He ends the statement with a slight wheeze in his voice, as if he forgot to breathe during the diatribe.

  Gulping down a fresh lungful of air, he continues, and this time it’s the practiced bureaucrat that shows through. “I’m sure that you’re aware that once a body has been buried, it’s considered to be in the custody of the law.” He glances from Jimmy to me, then back to Jimmy. “According to California code, no remains of any deceased person shall be removed from any cemetery, except upon written order of the health department having jurisdiction, or of the superior court of the county in which the cemetery is situated.” He recites the statute word for word as if he’d memorized it for just this occasion. “FBI or not, you’re breaking California laws.”

  At that, he folds his arms across his chest and glares at us.

  “You said California law prohibits the removal of a body from a cemetery,” I paraphrase. “We’re not removing anyone; we’re just digging up a grave to see who’s there.”

  Postlewait pauses and you can tell he’s thinking, no doubt reciting the statute in his head, checking to see if I’m right.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jimmy says impatiently. “We have exigent circumstances.”

  In a rapid-fire recitation, he explains about the missing men on the Upper Kern, the discovery of Johansson’s body on the park bench in Bakersfield, and his belief that—alive or dead—Jason Norris lies in Johansson’s coffin.

  “You’re saying the man buried here was found in town?” Tom says, still processing.

  “This morning,” Jimmy repeats with a nod.

  “Then there must be some mistake.” A confused, somewhat amused smile is on the bureaucrat’s face. “Are you sure he was in the casket when they buried him?”

  “We’ve already been through all that.” Jimmy’s voice is now terse. “I’ve already talked to the funeral home and they confirmed seeing him right before they closed the lid and brought him to the cemetery.”

  “This Johansson,” Ross says, “is he a white male in his late sixties, early seventies?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a nod.

  “Bald?”

  “Yeah—how’d you know?”

  Ross shakes his head. “I thought his cheeks were a bit rosy for a dead guy.” He suddenly grins at me, as if he’d made a joke. “I heard dispatch requesting a death investigation at Tell Park this morning. Patrol responded because it looked like it was probably natural causes, but I was in the area doing a follow-up on another case, so I swung by to see if they needed anything.”

  Ross shrugs. “Looked like the guy might have been out for a walk and felt a stroke or heart attack coming on, so he sat down on the bench.”

  “So, you’re saying this is true?” Postlewait exclaims.

  “Yeah, seems to match up.”

  “Then that means…” Postlewait stares at the open grave, horrified.

  “Yeah, that part too,” Ross says. Then, shedding his jacket, he extends a hand. “Give me that shovel.” Without hesitation, he jumps down into the grave and digs hard and fast for ten minutes, until his breathing becomes labored and Jimmy insists that he climb out and take a break.

  Tom Postlewait seems to have collected himself by this point and asks to take a turn. Hopping down into the open grave, he mutters something about digging up coffins in the middle of the night, then goes to work.

  He’s barely started when the blade of his shovel hits something solid.

  8

  Jimmy and I had failed to consider a rather significant point when we first started digging. Not being well versed in funerary details, we just assumed that we’d dig down, wipe the dirt off the lid of the casket, and tip it open for a peek inside.

  When the blade of the shovel resounds with a hollow thud, it’s Postlewait who brings this oversight to our attention. “That’ll be the vault.”

  Jimmy and I look at each other and simultaneously ask, “What vault?”

  It’s not that I’ve never heard of grave vaults, I just thought they were for Knights Templars, kings, and famous explorers, not for William Johansson of Bakersfield, California.

  “It’s not concrete,” Postlewait says as he taps the tip of the shovel repeatedly into the soil and listens to the low thud of impact. “That’s good news, at least. Probably not even a vault; might just be a grave liner. If it was concrete, we’d have a problem. They require special equipment due to the weight of the lid.”

  “So, we have to get past the vault lid before we get to the actual casket?” Jimmy asks.

  “Yes, but once you open the vault—or liner—the casket is right there, in pristine condition. Some vaults are even waterproof.”

  “Good to know,” I mutter under my breath.

  When Postlewait begins to dig again, his fatigue starts to show. I reach down and tap him on the shoulder, motioning for the shovel. He seems relieved and readily takes my hand. With a heave, I haul him out of the hole and then hop down and take his place.

  Meanwhile, Jimmy has the second shovel, and because there’s no longer room in the grave for two diggers, and because he’s incapable of standing around and doing nothing, he starts tidying up the growing pile of dirt. His efforts are mostly in vain, but I’m not going to tell him. It’s a good distraction and keeps him from checking his watch every few minutes.

  No longer able to dig straight down, I begin working horizontally, removing the dirt shovelful by shovelful. A closed-loop hook soon appears at the head of what Postlewait now confirms is a grave liner, a budget model, no less. Upon seeing the hook, Jimmy runs off towa
rd the Mustang to get a rope from his kit. By the time he returns, I’ve brushed the remaining dirt off to the side with my hands.

  The lid of the two-piece liner is polyurethane, as Postlewait suspected, and comes loose on the first pull. After a little maneuvering and repositioning, we lift it free of the grave and set it off to the side.

  Johansson’s casket waits below.

  Its presence is disquieting, made more so because I’m now straddling it, feet wedged into the dirt lip on either side of the liner. As if the moment weren’t surreal enough, a pack of distant coyotes takes up a boisterous dialogue of howls and yips from somewhere in the darkness.

  Then I notice the shine.

  The top surface of the coffin is host to a plethora of shine and not just those of the funeral-home attendants and mourners. There are older traces from the men and women who manufactured the casket, and those who crated, shipped, and uncrated it.

  Among all these, one stands out.

  Like the others, this special shine populates the lid of the casket, adding to the abundant wash of color and texture where hands, bodies, and forearms touched and rested. This one radiates a distinct dark green, like polished malachite, and seems no more important than any of the others but for one difference: it radiates as a footprint on the lid of the casket, right in the spot where I might have stepped if I’d lost my balance.

  It’s the kind of footprint you leave when you’re digging up a coffin.

  No funeral worker, mourner, or manufacturer would step on the lid of a casket. It’s simply unthinkable, sacrilegious even. That kind of disrespectful behavior is reserved for the likes of grave robbers and FBI trackers too stupid to know when they’re in over their head.

  Staring at the glowing green footprint as it shimmers up from the depths of the grave, I give a curt nod—as if acknowledging it. The action fixes something in my mind, sets it there, and locks it in place.

  Polished malachite is our suspect; I’m certain of it.

  * * *

  The casket has a split lid for viewings, and I realize, since I’m the only one in the hole, that everyone is going to expect me to open it. I look around for better footing, not so I can lift the lid, but so I can crawl out of the hole before anyone else comes to the same conclusion. As I shift my weight, however, my left foot slips free of its earthen perch and falls six inches to the casket below. This dislodges my right foot, and I lose my balance completely.

  When I land on the casket, it’s with a disquieting thud and a low groan of pain. For the briefest of moments, I swear I feel something shift inside. It brings to mind scenes from too many horror shows; shows where the actor’s next move is usually to put his ear to the casket and listen for that quiet shuffle within. The mere thought is enough to get me on my feet again.

  “What are you doing?” Jimmy asks disapprovingly like I’m the one who wanted to desecrate a grave tonight.

  “I slipped.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “On me or the coffin?”

  “Both.”

  “We’re fine; thanks for asking.”

  He waits a polite moment, then asks, “So … you going to open it?”

  “No.”

  “Steps!” he hisses softly—like the others can’t hear. Scolding me with his eyes, he says, “Seriously?”

  I grumble some words best not heard, then nod my head in defeat. Kneeling, I shift my weight to the left edge of the coffin because, frankly, the lid doesn’t seem all that solid.

  Shimmying forward, I grasp the edge of the metal viewing lid and whisper, “Please be empty,” as I give a little tug. It begins to lift, and I make a spontaneous deal with myself that I won’t peek until it’s fully open and secure. That way if I die or pass out, the lid won’t land on my head.

  With little effort, it moves freely on its hinges until the upper part of the casket stands open and exposed. Only then do my eyes drift down.

  “Uhhh,” I say, to no one in particular.

  Then the coyotes start up again.

  9

  The only thing worse than digging up a grave in the middle of the night and finding it empty is digging it up and finding that the poor bastard inside was buried alive. As I stand at the edge of the coffin staring down, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, it takes a moment for this fact to register. The shredded fabric, pulverized stuffing, and bloodied fingertips leave no doubt: it’s the stuff of nightmares.

  Blood stains the satin lining in dozens of places, leaving behind the overlapping impressions of fingers and palms from now-still hands. The corpse lies before me, its eyes—the portals to the soul—showing nothing.

  Any spark of the divine has long since departed.

  * * *

  Anyone who has ever paused to contemplate his or her earthly surroundings knows that life is filled with the unseen, the greatest of these being God, love, and oxygen.

  One might be able to live without God or love—at least for a time—but the big O is a different story. The air we breathe contains about 21 percent oxygen, and it doesn’t take much of a drop in this level before impairment begins to show. At 10 percent most lose consciousness, and at 8 percent or below, death can occur. The time it takes one to die at these levels varies, but once oxygen levels drop between 4 and 6 percent, death comes within minutes.

  This is called asphyxia, and it can manifest in dozens of ways. There’s drowning, choking, hanging, chemical exposure, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, smothering, strangulation, and crushing, to name a few. On the stranger end of this scale is autoerotic asphyxiation, a rather embarrassing way to go … but who am I to judge?

  Crushing people under stones was once a common means of eliciting a confession in the Old World, a practice known as peine forte et dure, a fancy French way of saying “forceful and hard punishment.”

  I imagine Giles Corey found it forceful and hard.

  In 1692, he was pressed to death during the Salem witch trials as his accusers placed a board over him and then continued to stack stones on top as he refused to confess his guilt. Though such practice was common in Europe for hundreds of years, Corey’s death is the only known instance of peine forte et dure in American history.

  In the end, it wasn’t his ribs snapping and his spleen rupturing that killed him, but rather his inability to gasp a single life-sustaining breath. The weight of the stones became too great and his compressed lungs simply didn’t have the strength to inflate—even a little.

  * * *

  The dead man in the coffin didn’t die from crushing asphyxia like Giles Corey, but he’s dead just the same. His terrible demise is made worse by the indignity of occupying another man’s coffin—though I suppose the dead don’t care about such things. Still, it’s the type of thing that Stephen King might come up with during breakfast while nibbling on a toasted English muffin.

  The body and its recent tribulations seem to conjure up a macabre sense of gloom. It settles over the cemetery like a fog, bringing silence and fear. When I look up from the dead man to the three darkened silhouettes at the edge of the grave, I can tell they feel it too: something has changed.

  The once-friendly light from the portable lamps seems suddenly eerie and inadequate; a weak, dead light that’s ill-suited to the task of pushing back the darkness. It tries, nonetheless, but at the end of its tethered rays, shadows abound, lurking behind every obstacle as they hide from the light.

  Some cosmic switch has been flipped.

  In an instant, the wayward body has changed our mood and stepped everything up to the next level of creepy—Boris Karloff creepy. Creepy like Nosferatu couldn’t make it home before daybreak, so he crashed at a friend’s pad. I half expect the deceased to suddenly bare his teeth and go for my throat.

  It’s not like I haven’t seen the dead before; I once collected their pictures in a scrapbook to punish myself for failing them. They’re stacked like cordwood in my memory. Yet I still feel the sudden urge to flee the grave, to get as far awa
y from the body as possible.

  Stumbling backward in the grave, I turn and beat a hasty retreat, scrambling up the three-foot wall of dirt at the foot of the coffin before Jimmy or anyone else can offer a hand. Standing, I begin frantically slapping and brushing the dirt and imaginary spiders from my body. It’s a spasmodic, creeped-out, shivery sort of dance that carries on for a good twenty seconds—right up to the point when I notice everyone staring at me.

  “I … had something crawling…,” I start to explain, but then decide it’s not worth the effort and wave their eyes away.

  Ross doesn’t seem as fazed by the body—either that or he’s putting on a good show. Slipping off his jacket, he crouches at the edge of the hole and uses his flashlight to get a better look at the footing. Easing himself down, he works his way to the head of the coffin and goes through the motions of checking for a pulse. Next, he shines the light into the still eyes and sadly declares the obvious: “He’s gone.”

  Yet the beam of his light lingers.

  “The eyes are hazed over,” he says a moment later. “That means he’s been dead at least three hours.” Ross tries to move the forearm, but it’s stiff and locked in place. “Rigor has set.”

  Standing on the edge of the coffin, Ross retrieves his cell phone and speed-dials dispatch, requesting deputies and a coroner. When he finishes the call, Jimmy extends a hand and hoists him from the hole.

  “Do you think that’s Jason Norris?” Ross asks, lifting his chin toward the body.

  “Black male,” Jimmy says, studying the corpse. “Age is right. I don’t remember anything about him being bald, though I suppose that’s a minor point. People change their hair all the time.”

  “What about the suit?”

  “Sky blue with ruffles? That can only be the suit that Riggs described, the one that Johansson’s son insisted on burying him in.” Jimmy shakes his head. “Remind me to update my will and specify my preferred attire for the afterlife.”