Grave Situation (36 page)

The moist breeze chilled the sweat
on his face. Quickly, he turned away. He lifted the shovel and
duffel bag over his head with one hand and picked his way through a
tangle of deciduous shrubs with the other. Branches tore at his
coveralls. Under his feet the ground felt spongy, as if covered
with moss.

He reached the stone wall and
dropped to a crouch. He looked out to the road and saw nothing. In
the distance loomed a dark shape—his pickup.

Herb stood up and heaved the shovel
and duffel bag over the wall. Seconds later, he heard the muffled
impacts as they landed on the other side.

He stuffed the flashlight in his
back pocket. Then, grabbing the top of the wall, he dug his foot
into a notch and pulled himself up. He swung his other leg over and
dropped to the other side, falling onto his hands and
knees.

He withdrew the flashlight again,
turned it on. In a widening arc, he swept the surroundings with the
beam. Eerie shadows moved among the gravestones, shifting from
light to darkness again. Around him the cemetery felt vast,
peaceful. Herb stood very still. Only his eyes moved back and
forth. Out of the darkness materialized headstones, a marble dove,
a statue of a kneeling lady. At the edge of his consciousness, he
could hear the spring peepers, fainter now.

Five feet in front of him, he saw
the shovel and duffel bag. He wiped his forehead and picked them
up. Then he headed off into a sprint up the first low hill. At the
flashlight’s outer reaches, he saw the front of the caretaker’s
shed. Moving quickly, he followed a path that circled the shed,
down the other side of the slope and around the bottom. Here the
night seemed even darker.

In the distance came an angry roll
of thunder. Herb lifted his gaze and saw a flash of lightning
ignite the horizon in stark relief. The black clouds were getting
closer.

Have to get this over
with.

He moved through an area of newer
graves, playing the light in every direction. Then he found it, the
headstone with the angel holding a large heart.

With hesitant steps he walked
toward the gravesite. Stopping at the foot of it, he drew a breath,
unnerved and troubled. Briefly, he shut his eyes.

“It’s sick, man. Not to mention
immoral.”

“I know this seems shocking, but
after a couple of jobs, it’ll be like clockwork.”

Herb opened his eyes again and
glanced up at the last clear section of sky. Amid the stars, he
could see the flashing light of an airplane. As he looked back to
the headstone, he winced.

What’d I get myself into? I’m too
deep to get out now.

He put the duffel bag by his feet
and removed two sheets of tarp from it. Carefully, he laid out one
on either side of the grave. After he retrieved his gloves and
slipped his hands into them, he positioned the flashlight on the
bag so the conical beam spread across the ground in front of the
headstone.

He set to work by digging his
fingers under the edges of the sod and pulling up on the corners.
Freshly laid, the sod came up without any problems. Herb set each
piece, grass down, on the tarp to the left of the grave. When he
finished, he picked up the shovel and began digging.

 
The loose
soil came away with ease. Herb tossed a shovelful onto the tarp to
the right of the grave and then went back at it again, working
himself into a rhythm. Within minutes sweat beaded his forehead.
Slowly, the mound of dirt beside him began to grow. The hole he dug
began to deepen.

By the time he was thigh deep, the
beam from the flashlight did little good. It lit up the top walls
of the grave, but failed to reach the bottom. Herb moved the light
to the edge of the hole in front of the headstone and angled the
beam downwards.

Wearily, he continued
digging.

Thirty minutes passed.

Forty.

Soaked with sweat, Herb became
frustrated. Belly deep in the hole now, and still no sign of the
casket. He fished a handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his face
and neck.

Dirt trickled from the walls of the
grave, sputtering on his boots. All around him, he could feel the
coldness leaching from the earth, the rich smell filling his
nostrils.

He should’ve come across something
by now. He wondered if the grave was dug deeper than usual to allow
for a second or third interment. Hoped that wasn’t the
case.

He picked up the flashlight and
shone the light around his feet. Nothing but broken soil and
rocks.

He labored on.

Minutes later, a thump. The tip of
the shovel stuck in something. Working it free, he put the shovel
aside. Then he got down on all fours and began clearing away the
dirt by the handful. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. After
a few moments, he leaned back on his heels and lit up the area
before him. Patches of glossy wood showed through the soil. As he
brushed away more dirt, he realized the casket was double-lidded,
opening at the top and bottom.

Pulse racing, he dug around the
edges of the casket until he’d removed the soil just below the top
lid. He crawled out of the grave and retrieved a pry bar from the
duffel bag.

Carefully, he went down again,
pushed the wedge of the bar under the lid and gave a powerful
downward thrust on the lever end. With two loud snaps, the clips
holding the lid tight gave way.

A chill rippled Herb’s skin as he
hoisted the lid and shone his light inside to reveal the body of an
elderly man, dressed in a conservative taupe suit, white shirt and
a tie striped tan and orange. There was a smear of makeup on his
collar. Someone had tucked a leather bound bible into his
hands.

His stillness made the hairs
prickle on the back of Herb’s neck. To him, the man looked more
like a wax sculpture than real.

Herb stood up and inhaled a shaky
breath. When he climbed out of the hole, he noticed the sky was
blanketed with a murky cloud cover. A breeze had sprung up out of
nowhere. Suddenly, an explosion of light flared above the mountain
ridge. The sharp crack of thunder that followed seemed to vibrate
the ground.

The rain was close, perhaps only
minutes away.

I need to finish this
now.

Herb reached into the duffel bag
and took out the hacksaw that was fitted with a new tungsten
carbide blade. Carefully, he went back down into the grave and
knelt by the open end of the casket.

He positioned the flashlight so he
could see what he was doing. Then he placed the hacksaw across the
throat of the corpse. His hand tightened on the handle, the muscles
in his arms flexed.

“Cutting through the front of the
neck is easy if you have a good blade,” Slick had told him. “The
spinal column will give you a little trouble.”

Herb licked his lips,
hesitant.

Ten seconds, his jaw
clenching.

Twenty seconds, his palm becoming
wet.

Thirty seconds, his hand beginning
to shake.

Herb gazed at the bible clutched in
the dead man’s hands, feeling paralyzed by guilt and shame. He
bowed his head and shut his eyes.

I can’t do this.

All at once, he sat back and looked
at the dead man.

“I’m sorry, Mister Walsh,” he
whispered.

He closed the lid and then crawled
out of the grave. He kicked off his boots, slipped out of his
coveralls and wadded them into a ball. Inside the duffel bag was a
change of clothes. Herb took them out, dressing quickly in black
sweats and running shoes. He stuffed his dirty coveralls, boots,
gloves, and hacksaw inside the bag.

The shovel in hand, he worked as
fast as he could, dumping spadeful after spadeful of soil back into
the hole.

The electric sky sent off another
bolt of lightning and for a split second, the entire cemetery lit
up around him. Then everything went black again. Right above him
came a clap of thunder, loud and percussive.

Frantically, he shoveled the last
of the dirt into the hole. He knew he didn’t have time to put
everything back to normal before the rain got there.

He leveled off the soil as best he
could and then he began putting the sod down. When he finished, he
folded up the tarps and stuffed them into the duffel
bag.

Breathing hard, he took one last
look around with the light. The grave was a mess; the sod had lumps
under it. They would know someone was here.

Another boom of thunder sounded and
the first drop of rain smacked his head. Around him, more drops
began to fall in an incessant patter.

Herb slung the duffel bag over his
right shoulder. With the shovel in one hand and flashlight in the
other, he moved off into a brisk hike, puffing his way back over
the hills.

Lightning lit up the area again.
Sixty feet away, he saw the stone wall. He lengthened his stride, a
sprinter making his last dash to the finish line.

Chest heaving, he reached the wall
and tossed the shovel over it. He pulled himself up and jumped to
the other side. After locating the shovel with the flashlight, he
grabbed it, pushed through the shrubs and clambered up the ditch to
the road. He glanced down both sides for any cars. All
clear.

Just short of his truck, the sky
opened up and a heavy rain fell down on him. By the time Herb put
the shovel in back and climbed inside the cab, he was
soaked.

For a moment, he settled behind the
wheel, hands folded across his stomach, eyes closed. The rainwater
dripping from his hair felt cold on his face. He listened to a
mélange of sounds—the pounding of his heart, his own ragged breath,
the big drops beating a steady cadence on the roof.

He switched on the ignition and
then the headlights. In their twin beams, the rain became darts of
silver. The time was 1:17 am.

He shifted gears, made a U-turn,
and drove off. The road ahead was a blur, the downpour like a
curtain. Eyes narrowed, Herb leaned forward, straining to see
through clear patches the wipers managed to slap away.

I’m done with
this
, he told himself.
No more.
No more.

39

Acresville, May 21

9:30 a.m.

“Imagine someone who has no
conscience, no feelings of guilt or empathy. Someone who is
emotionally shallow and lies excessively. Now instead of putting
the face of a monster on that person, put your own on it. And you
get a picture of what a psychopath looks like. He or she could be
anyone.”

They sat across from each other in
Chief Brantford’s office—Allan, David and Doctor Terry Armstrong.
The forensic psychiatrist was a tall man with a long face and
hollow cheeks. His sharp blue eyes seldom changed expression and
his thatch of gray hair seemed to accentuate his deep tan.
Armstrong was an avid snowbird who enjoyed wintering in Florida
with his wife. His voice and manner were relaxed and professional.
He wore a white shirt and black slacks.

A tape recorder, set up on the
desk, captured his session.

“In nineteen forty-six,” Armstrong
continued, “long before the FBI ever coined the term serial killer,
there was a notorious case involving what the media dubbed, ‘The
Lipstick Killer’. Written on the wall at the crime scene of Francis
Brown was a cryptic message, ‘for heaven’s sake catch me before I
kill more. I cannot control myself.’

“Seventeen year old William
Heirens was charged not only in Francis Brown’s murder, but two
others as well—Josephine Ross and the murder and dismemberment of
six year old Suzanne Degnan.

“Whether or not Heirens was the
person who actually committed the murders is in serious question.
He could’ve simply been the victim of overzealous cops and
prosecutors.” Armstrong shrugged. “At any rate, the lipstick
message best describes most serial killers. ‘I cannot control
myself.’ And they can’t.

“They say a man’s crime can be
considered an expression of his mental condition and the situation
in which he lives.

“The serial killer is different
from any other type of murderer. As you know, many homicides are
due to acts of sudden impulses. Most of those take place after
heated arguments and afterwards the murderer is sorry for what they
did.

“Guilt and remorse, on the other
hand, are things the serial killer only feels for himself. His
murders aren’t spontaneous; they’re planned. The force that drives
him is a burning hatred of his life and the world around
him.

“This hatred usually stems from
childhood where he witnessed many of the horrors that he unleashes
later in life. These killers grow up emotionally dead.

“In order to see what makes your
man tick, gentlemen, you would need to look at his past.
Practically all serial killers come from dysfunctional
families.

“Many of them have daydreamed
about murder for years and many times the murders they commit when
they get older are re-enactments of those daydreams. In
adolescence, where instead of forming social contacts like normal
kids, they keep to themselves, retreating into a world of fantasy.
Their fantasies stray far from the normal ones that you or I might
have. They usually start as sexual in content, but eventually
become intertwined with violence.”