Cemetery Club (4 page)

Jail.

Opening his eyes, Todd found he’d guessed correctly. Someone had been kind enough to dump his body right next to the source of the piss odors: a lidless toilet with yellow and brown stains all over it. Apparently moving him another two feet and placing him on the cell’s cot had been too much effort.

Turning his head produced spasms of pain in his neck and back, which in turn brought back the memory of being beaten in front of his house like a derelict on COPS. In front of his own mother for Christ’s sake.

Mother!

Todd looked for his watch but it was gone; either stolen, lying broken in the street or confiscated. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious but he knew his mother would be worried sick, no matter how long it had been. He had to let her know he was all right.

His muscles protested mightily as he pushed himself into a sitting position. The room tilted and his vision doubled for a sickening moment before everything returned to normal. With a groan, he hauled his aching body up to the cot. After several deep breaths and another rest, he was able to stand up.

The short walk to the cell’s bars was an exercise in torture, each step sending jolts of pain up his back, into his head and then down again. He let the cold steel of the bars sooth his bruised forehead while he gathered the strength to speak.

“Hey.” The word came out in a raspy whisper. Todd ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to work up some saliva to swallow. The resulting sting made him hiss as he sucked in air through clenched teeth. He tried again, this time being careful not to rub the bitten part against the roof of his mouth. It took several minutes before he was able to swallow enough moisture to lubricate his throat properly.

“Hey!” This time his shout was louder and it woke up a malicious part of his brain that started hammering the inside of his head. “Hey, I need to make a phone call.”

Down the row of cells, another prisoner answered him. “It’s lunchtime asshole. Ain’t nobody gonna come down here for another hour.”

Lunchtime? Assuming that meant noon, he’d been unconscious for almost four hours. Judging by the crusted blood and dirt on his face and hands, no one had bothered to give him any medical attention during all that time.

What if I’d had a concussion? Or a broken neck? Those fucking cops with their night sticks...

Wait a minute. I still don’t know
why
they arrested me in the first place. If there was a mistake, a mix-up, Ma would have me out by now. That means...they think I did something. And for them to think I did it...

Fear rushed through Todd’s body, momentarily washing away his pain on a wave of adrenaline.

Oh God, no. Don’t tell me it’s happening again.

Todd stumbled backwards until his legs hit the bunk and then he half-sat, half-fell onto the thin, hard mattress.

“What am I going to do?”

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” A series of metallic bangs accompanied the loud voice.

Todd opened his eyes. A scowling guard stood outside the cell.

“I need to make a phone call,” he said to the burly officer.

“Well, la-di-da for you. You’re lucky we don’t throw you in the chair right now you fuckin’ sicko.”

“Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it.” Todd shook his head. “There’s been a mistake.”

The guard glared at him. “Only mistake was ever lettin’ you out in the first place. You shoulda been in Sing Sing or Rikers from day one, ‘stead of takin’ it easy in the nuthouse.”

Todd didn’t argue; he barely had enough strength to hold his head up. “I still have the right to a phone call.”

His eyes narrowed with anger, the guard reluctantly agreed. “Yeah. All you assholes got rights. Turn around and back up to the bars, hands behind you. You ain’t leavin’ that cell without cuffs on.”

Doing his best not to fall, Todd shuffled his way backwards across the cell until he felt the metal bars against his arms. The guard grabbed him by the wrists and snapped the handcuffs on, tightening them until Todd let out an involuntary moan.

“Step forward,” the guard said.

Todd took three steps forward and waited while the guard opened the door.

“Turn around.”

Todd did as he was told and then let the guard march him down the hall and up the stairs to a small interview room, complete with two-way mirror and stained table. The table had two chairs on one side and one on the other, facing the mirror. The only other object in the room was the wireless phone on the table.

Todd sat in the single chair and waited. The guard went to the other side of the table and picked up the phone. “What’s the number?”

“I don’t know. I want to call my lawyer. His number is in my wallet.” Todd said a silent prayer of thanks that he’d kept up-to-date contact information for all the Cemetery Club members on a scrap of paper, in case he ever needed it.

“Oh, for the love of Christ.” The guard took the phone and went to the door. “Don’t even think about moving.” Then he was gone.

Todd heard the sound of the door lock engaging. He didn’t bother to move. Instead, he stared at his reflection in the mirror while he waited.

He’d watched himself grow older over the past twenty years but now, sitting under the flickering fluorescent light, his face swollen from his beating, he saw himself for the first time as a middle aged man.
Thirty-six isn’t old,
he reminded himself, but that didn’t change how he looked. The hair he’d once worn in shoulder-length defiance to an overbearing father was now cut military short and his hairline had receded almost to his ears. The sandy-brown color hid the scattering of gray well enough, but time hadn’t been kind to him and it showed in the bags under his eyes and the lines on his forehead.

I wonder how the others look,
he thought. At that moment the guard returned with Todd’s wallet in hand, interrupting his musings.

“What’s the name?” he asked, after Todd told him where to find the scrap of paper.

“Cory Miles,” Todd said, and then waited while the man dialed.

“Here.” The guard placed the phone on Todd’s shoulder and waited until Todd scrunched his neck, pinning the phone between ear and shoulder. Then he moved away, pretending the gap of four feet provided any privacy.

Someone picked up on the third ring. “Cory Miles, Attorney at Law. Can I help you?”

“Cory?” Todd didn’t recognize the voice. But then who sounded the same at thirty-six as they did at sixteen?

“Yes, this is he. How can I help you?”

“Cory, it’s... Todd Randolph. I need your help. I...think it’s starting again.”

*  *  *

Cory Miles stared at the phone.

It’s starting again.

After a moment of stunned silence he’d taken Todd’s information and promised to be there before six. Rocky Point was a two-hour car ride from Stamford and he’d need to make some phone calls before leaving, put cases on hold or pass them on to other attorneys.

It’s starting again.

Three simple words but enough to assure Cory it was Todd Randolph on the other end, apparently freed from the sanitarium and now in jail for a murder he said he didn’t commit.

Cory didn’t need to be convinced of Todd’s innocence. He was one of three people in the world who knew beyond a doubt that Todd had never killed any of those people that summer. He’d taken the blame out of guilt. A guilt they’d all shared. Cory felt a different kind of guilt now. Todd’s call made him realize it had been almost three years since he’d thought of Rocky Point or the Cemetery Club.

The Cemetery Club. That’s what we called ourselves. Todd, John Boyd, me, and Marisol.

Marisol Flores. Just thinking about her brought an image to life in his mind. Tall, dark-complexioned, with a skinny body just beginning to blossom into adulthood. Hair and eyes as dark as obsidian, courtesy of her half-Puerto Rican, half-West Indian heritage.

Cory wondered where Marisol was now, what she was doing. Did she still live in Rocky Point? He hadn’t seen her since...since the events of their junior year. His family had moved right before senior year started, when his father got transferred to Connecticut. The only time he’d been back since was three years ago, for a golf outing at the Patriot Hills Golf Course, one town over from his old stomping grounds. Afterwards, he’d intended to drive through Rocky Point but at the last minute had changed his mind. He’d told himself he didn’t have time, that there was nothing there he needed to see. But in his heart of hearts, that place where you have no choice but to be honest with yourself, he knew he’d steered away from the exit because just thinking about entering that small, innocuous section of suburbia sent a chill through his veins, a desire to be as far away from the Point’s rocky bluffs and historical parks as possible.

And yet here I am, going back after all these years. To help a man who once was one of my best friends and who I never visited the entire twenty years he was in a mental institution, serving time so we wouldn’t have to.

Cory opened his appointment book. A shiver ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

It’s starting again.

*  *  *

Marisol Flores.

Marisol stared at her signature for a moment before placing the log-in sheet back on the front desk.

Seeing her name - her original name - still felt strange. How long had it been since she’d signed her name like that? Seventeen years, her mind supplied the number. She’d married Jack the year after high school and finalized her divorce less than three weeks ago.

For the seventeen years in between, she’d been Mary Smith. Mary, because that’s what Jack had always called her, as if giving her the nickname could erase the fact that she stood out among his lily-white, Protestant family like...well, like a black rose in a bouquet of lilies. And Smith because she’d married a Smith, a vanilla name for a vanilla family.

Seventeen years of being arm candy, window dressing and a conversation piece for her ex-swim captain, insurance-selling, deputy mayor of a husband. Getting the divorce had been more than just escaping a relationship that alternated between cold detachment and verbal abuse; it was as if she’d found herself again, become whole again, a real person rather than just someone’s possession.

More than going back to school, earning her degree in forensic laboratory sciences and going to work at the ME’s office, getting up the nerve to leave Jack had returned something to her she hadn’t even realized she’d lost: her sense of self.

And no one’s going to take it away again.
It was her personal mantra. Her ultimate goal had been to leave Jack and start her own life, but she’d completed her education and worked for a year first because without Jack, she’d never have been able to afford it.

Does that make me a user?
She thought as she walked down the gleaming white hallway of the County Medical Examiner’s office.
Maybe it does. But Jack sure as hell can’t complain, not after the way he used me for seventeen years.

Although she hadn’t realized it at the time, he’d been using her from the very beginning. First for sex and then for her very color. Marrying an obvious minority had allowed him to court the black and Hispanic votes when he’d run for deputy mayor at the tender age of twenty-five. He’d won that year, the same way he’d won every election since. Of course, there’d been no replacing Mayor Dawes, because he had something even a multi-racial campaign couldn’t beat: ownership of the town’s largest bank, along with nearly a quarter of the commercial properties on Main Street. No, Warner Dawes would remain Mayor until he died, retired or got exposed in a scandal not even the people in his pocket could overlook.

But then it would be Jack Smith’s turn, as Jack had so often said.

He’ll just have to do it without me.

Marisol pushed open the doors that led to the exam room. Frank Adams’ torn-up body lay on Table One, a blood-stained green sheet concealing the corpse. She didn’t need to lift the thin covering to know how bad the damage was. She’d already taken blood, spinal fluid and stomach content samples.

Not that there was any doubt as to what had happened. Even a relative novice could see the multiple traumas to the head and face and the jagged marks where the shovel had cut through his neck.

But the absence of defensive wounds on the hands meant he’d either been caught by surprise or unable to defend himself properly. The presence of drugs, alcohol or poisons in his system would make a big difference in the case the DA was preparing against Todd Randolph, the difference between a drunken fight gone wrong and premeditated murder.

The previously prepared samples were already running in the other room; Marisol had returned to take fingernail scrapings. The hope was to get some DNA evidence linking Randolph to the murder victim. The fact that Pete Webster was still missing meant there was the ever-so-slight chance Pete wasn’t a second victim, as everyone was already assuming, but another suspect in the case.

Marisol finished bagging the scrapings and headed for the exit, eager to be back in her lab. Not that being around dead bodies bothered her all that much, but she preferred working with the mass spectrometer and gas chromatograph to the rancid smell of decaying corpses and the cold feel of dead flesh.

Freddy Alou, Rocky Point’s gregarious town clerk, was passing by as she opened the door. The Coroner’s Office shared a building with the town offices and police department; it wasn’t unusual to find Freddy wandering the halls, as he preferred to deliver and pick up paperwork by hand rather than using interoffice mail.

“Hey
chica.
How’s things in the land of the dead?”

Marisol laughed. Freddy was sixty-four and happily married but it didn’t stop him from flirting shamelessly with every woman in the building. “Quiet, thank God. Frank’s our only case right now, which is good. The big brass is gonna want this one wrapped up double quick.”

“I hear that.” Freddy pursed his lips and shook his head. “Some crazy shit, huh? You think he did it?”