(2012) Colder Than Death (2 page)

There were only two Funeral Homes left in Dankworth and we were both hurting for business. More and more people were opting for cremation, which held low profits for Funeral Homes.

The drive to Elm Grove cemetery took twenty minutes. Had I not made the trip so many hundreds of times it might've been pleasant, almost scenic. A nice Sunday drive to watch the leaves change in the Fall or buy fresh fruit and vegetables from roadside stands in the Summer. But after seventeen years it had only a numbing effect on me.

Dankworth isn't quite country or suburb. The town had long promoted itself with a simple motto:

Dankworth

Where The Country Meets The City

Although it sounded like a hokey public relations blurb, in a sense it was true. Roughly thirty-five miles outside of Youngstown, Dankworth was a sprawling mixture of open space, dense forest, farmland and a hodgepodge of Pre- and Post-War housing mixed in with nineteenth century barns, mills and stone houses. The closer you were to the center of town where the Home was located, houses had good-sized frontage and back yards with shade trees. The newer homes were mainly ranch with attached double garages while the older houses were converted barns, Cape Cod bungalows, traditional A-frames and Colonials.

Less than fifteen minutes out of downtown Dankworth there were horse breeders, dairy farms, small working farms, a wildlife preserve and commercial greenhouses. In warm weather farmers sold fruit, vegetables and cider along Aberdeen Road, the tree-lined two-lane highway that ran through Dankworth and connected it to the neighboring towns and villages.

Residents perceived the area as a good place to live, close to nature and far enough from the city to feel safe.

But whatever fantasy of a tranquil existence one might feel could be tarnished upon approaching the twelve foot high wrought iron gates of Elm Cross cemetery. Any momentary yearning to live around this bucolic setting was replaced with thoughts of the dead. And to most people, living
too
close to a cemetery, especially a cemetery where a loved one is buried, was too much to handle.

******

From the cemetery entrance it took another minute or so to drive through the winding lanes into Section Nine, which was located in the oldest part of Elm Grove.

Section Nine is especially gloomy, not so much because of the imposing mausoleums, above ground crypts and ornate statues of apogees of angels or soulful-looking religious figures, but because of the gnarled, twisted oaks that looked like creepy versions of the heads on Easter Island. Weeping willows loom overhead like giant witches shrouded in green, their drooping branches and brittle leaves creating an overbearing sadness as they cast eerie shadows over everything on the ground.

As I approached the crime scene I saw three police cruisers parked, one in front of the other, which meant that the entire three-man police force of Dankworth was here.

One of them I got along with just fine: Wendell Eckert. He was in his late Thirties, easy going, professional and far more capable and qualified to be Chief of Police than Perry. Perry got the job because his father had been Chief. Wendell been a cop in Cincinnati for eleven years and had been wounded in a car chase. His wife threatened to divorce him if he didn't leave big city law enforcement. The compromise was to live in a small town where Wendell could still be a police officer, but without the stress and danger of high-risk crime.

The remaining Dankworth cop, the one I had trouble with, was Greg Hoxey. He was standing by what I assumed was the mausoleum in which the body was found. Wendell I didn't see yet. Perry was leaning against a five-foot high obelisk talking with Mel Abernathy, Manager of the cemetery, Alton Held, Head Groundskeeper and Vaughn Larkin.

None of them even noticed my arrival except Vaughn, who winked at me. I nodded back to him and arched my eyebrows. He rolled his eyes and smirked. The gestures were a silent line of communication indicative of nearly seventeen years of friendship. He was eighty-seven and had started working at the cemetery as a gravedigger as a teenager. By the time he was thirty he was Head Groundskeeper, a post he maintained until he had to take mandatory retirement at seventy-five. Mel Abernathy kept him on as night watchman, primarily because Vaughn had come to view the cemetery as his own property and genuinely cared about its upkeep.

Vaughn was my friend, father figure and mentor since I came to Dankworth. Our initial bond was built around death. I had lost a father; he had lost a son in Vietnam. He never got a last look at his boy because his remains were never found. Vaughn still smarted over the irony that the son of a gravedigger didn't get a grave. It was another link. Although my father had a grave, I never got to see him after his death. He died in a plane crash. The coffin was closed. His remains cremated. Vaughn and I filled voids in each other's lives. We considered each other family.

As I approached Mel, Alton, Perry and Vaughn, I picked up on part of what was being discussed.

“I don't want this getting out in the wrong way,” Mel bantered as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, his slight lisp creeping in-between his words making him sound like Elmer Fudd. “I can't have people thinking they're going to be dug up if they're buried in my cemetery.”

“Calm yourself down now, Mel,” said Alton, his backwoods Louisiana accent making him sound like a Cajun crawfish trapper. He was fifty-two and had appeared out of nowhere to apply for a grave-digging job twenty-five years before. The position had been open for six weeks and, as always, was difficult to fill. Cemetery work was at the bottom end of the manual labor food chain, historically attracting drifters, drinkers and the chronically unemployable. Over the years Vaughn had learned to read an applicant quickly, making his decisions on gut instinct and the person’s eyes.

Vaughn hired Alton on the spot.

“How the hell is it not gonna get out, Mel?” Perry said. “A body was found in one of your mausoleums. What are we supposed to do, pretend it didn't happen?”

“Can't you play it down?” Mel asked.

“How do I play down a murder?”

“Y'all got to look at it from our point of view,” said Alton. “This here's sacred ground. Y'all can't have the folks believin' it's anything less. Right, Vaughn?”

Vaughn nodded a solemn yes.

“If it’s profits you guys are worried about,” said Perry. “This is the only cemetery within a thirty mile radius. You're not ever gonna run out of customers.”

“That's not the point,” Mel stammered. “It's bad enough that I have grave robbers running loose, but to have a body found in someone else's grave is such a... violation!”

“Mel's right,” said Vaughn, his crisp voice belying his age. “People are sensitive about their dead.”

“I know that, Vaughn,” said Perry respectfully. Vaughn and Perry's father were friends. Around Vaughn, Perry always behaved like an altar boy talking with an Archbishop.

“That's why this has to be handled with the utmost of discretion,” said Mel.

“Alright,” Perry said. “Fine! But let's get the body out of here,
then
we'll figure out how to break the news.”

“Thank you,” Mel said, then, as if he noticed me for the first time, said, “Hello, Del.”

I nodded to Mel. Alton pointed at me with his right index finger and thumb as if he were shooting a gun, which was his customary greeting. Then, with great pomposity, Perry stated, “I want to get this over with quick.” He rudely turned away from the others and came towards me. “The only thing I hate more than a dead body is being in a graveyard.”

Chapter 3

Before I had a chance to respond, Perry noticed the white Dunkin' Donuts bag in my left hand. “That for me?”

I nodded and handed him the bag.

He flipped the plastic lid off the container and noisily took his first sip. His eyes peered at me over the rim of the paper cup, then he bit into the donut. Crumbs dribbled out of both sides of his mouth. “Greg's at the mausoleum with the body. He'll help you load it into the hearse.”

Before I had a chance to acknowledge his instructions he walked away from me and turned his attention back to Mel Abernathy who was huddling with Vaughn and Alton.

Greg was sucking on a string of green dental floss. When he saw me approaching he stared, expressionless, his mouth hanging open, his watery brown eyes looking empty, lost. He spit the floss onto the grass.

Greg looked more like a drug addict than a policeman. He was balding and the top of his head was scaly, his brown hair stringy. His face covered with pockmarks and pimples. His beard didn't help to improve things much either. There was hair on his face, but only in random splotches connected by wisps of unhealthy-looking follicles.

He came off as a fifteen-year-old boy trying to look older so he wouldn’t get carded in a bar. Ironically, the only part of his face that was perfect and pleasant to look at was his teeth. They were as close to pearly white as I'd ever seen.

Greg didn't like me because I knew that his mother had committed suicide. Greg had found the body and with Perry Cobb's blessing had by-passed the mandatory autopsy which would have determined the cause of death. Mrs. Hoxey had been an active member of Dankworth's Catholic community. Greg felt that public knowledge of a suicide would have tainted the positive image his mother had maintained, so the cause of death was presented as a heart attack.

We dispensed with hellos. I said, “All set?” and his response was a curt “Yeah,” then we each grabbed an end of the body bag, lifted it and headed to the hearse.

“Where's Wendell?” I asked.

“Perry's got him scouring the other mausoleums that were broken into. Bastard sticks me with the shit work.” He looked over my shoulder. “Here he comes.”

I turned and saw Wendell about twenty yards away coming towards Greg and me. He quickened his pace and was standing next to us within ten seconds.

“Almost missed you,” said Wendell, a warm smile gracing his handsome face. He had blonde hair and looked like a young Harrison Ford.

I was about to speak, but Greg blurted, “Find anything?”

“No,” said Wendell.

“I knew it'd be a waste of time. I hate it when Perry plays cop.”

“Perry plays cop every day,” said Wendell more to me than to Greg.

Greg smirked. He hated working for Perry. It was a thankless job, more like Barney Fife to Andy Taylor, the difference being that Perry Cobb wasn't a kindly, laid back sort and Greg wasn't a lovable nerd. Perry treated Wendell with a measured respect, because of his experience on the Cincinnati police force, while with Greg he pulled rank at every turn.

“Looks like a big city case, eh, Wendell,” I said.

He nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Brings back the good old days in Cincinnati.”

“I’d like to get my teeth in this one,” said Greg. “But it’ll never happen. It'll be Perry’s chance to be the big cheese. Just once
I'd
like to have a shot. You had your chance in Cincinnati to prove yourself. I've never had my day in the sun. Probably never will as long as Perry's around.”

Suddenly Perry's voice boomed, “What the hell's the delay up there?”

We turned. Perry was staring at us as if we were five-year-olds.

“Let's get moving,” said Greg, then we hoisted up the body bag and headed for the hearse. Wendell walked alongside.

“You don't want this case, Greg,” said Wendell. “It'll never be solved. Too much time has passed.”

“Never by
Perry
,” said Greg.

“I saw the remains,” said Wendell. “That body's been in that mausoleum for years. Talk about a cold case. Perry doesn't have the skills to solve a murder that happened this morning with three eyewitnesses and a fingerprint.”

As we approached the hearse I noticed that Perry was still holding a small chunk of the donut I'd brought him. Wendell opened the vehicle's rear door, enabling us to slide the body bag inside.

To Wendell, Perry said, “Find anything?” and Wendell said “No.”

Perry paused for a few seconds, as if he were thinking something deep, then said, “Greg? Wendell? Let's talk.” He glanced at me. “Be right with you.”

As the three of them huddled, I noticed that Mel and Alton were in deep conversation and that Vaughn was off by himself. I went over to him.

“How'd you manage to find the open mausoleum?” I asked. “It's so remote back here.”

“Only thing left of me that's not falling apart is my hearing. Heard a scream. Had a hunch it came from around that direction. My guess is that it was the knucklehead who stumbled onto the corpse. Actually, it was more of a shriek. By the time I got here the punks were gone.”

“It was more than one?”

“People who sneak into cemeteries at night tend not to be alone.” He shot me a terse look and raised his thick eyebrows. “Well, not everybody.” I looked at him sheepishly. Years ago, on the night I met Vaughn,
I
had broken into Elm Grove cemetery, alone. I was about to respond to Vaughn's remark when Perry called out.

“Del? Let's go.”

I waved to Vaughn and headed towards Perry who stood with Greg and Wendell on either side.

“I'll be riding with you,” Perry said.

I knew someone would be coming along because of a regulation that required an appropriate law enforcement representative to accompany the remains while in transit to the morgue. If it was Wendell the trip was mostly BSing and telling jokes. If it was Greg, there was attitude and long silences. If it was Perry, it would be him pontificating on the problems of the world.

Perry instructed Wendell to put up some yellow crime scene tape around the mausoleum. then he told Greg to meet him at the Coroner's.

“What for?” Greg asked.

“To drive me back,” said Perry.

“Why can't Del drive you back?” he whined like a ten-year-old.

I would’ve asked the same question. In the past, I drove whoever came with me back to Dankworth.

“I’ll need to spend some time talking to the Coroner,” said Perry curtly. “That could take awhile. I don't want to hold up Del.” I was surprised by his consideration. “Ask Alton to drive my car back to the station house. Wendell, you bring Alton back out here.”