Ten Thousand Islands (10 page)

I said, “Uh-huh, no doubt,” as I waved my hand back and forth in front of my nose. His breath smelled of rum and halothane gas and charred cannabis. Awful.

Halothane?
Yes, no doubt. Smelled exactly like industrial insecticide.

“Damn it, Tomlinson, you don’t learn. You’ve made some new little doctor friends down on the Keys. Didn’t you? Medical types, hipster surgeons with canisters.”

He sniffed the air primly. “People on Key Largo aren’t like you, Marion. They know how to enjoy life. They’re eager to share. Fun’s a
good
thing, that’s the way
they
think.”

“You’ve got a funeral service to perform. You can barely walk.”

“Don’t chide me, please. You can see into my eyes but you can’t see out of them. Lighten up. I feel shaky enough as it is.”

“There’s a 7-Eleven across the street. Get going. Wash your face and buy some coffee.”

“I will, I will! In the meantime, though”—he used his chin to indicate the punk rockers—“don’t turn your back on that evil little bastard.”

T
he reason there were so many people was because, the day before, the Marco Island
Eagle
had run a frontpage story about Dorothy and the artifacts she’d found, as well as a reprint of the story about her suicide. They’d used old file photographs. The Miami
Herald
had a shorter piece in its Florida section, too. There was also a reporter from the
National Enquirer
who’d been calling Della, wanting to do a story.

Della had refused.

Detective Gary Parrish told me this, as I stood with him and the funeral rep away from the waiting crowd.

Parrish had a wide, West African face, his head shaved clean; skin a lighter brown than his arms and neck. He had the look of a high school power forward who’d let things go, and the demeanor of someone who’d been at his job too long. It was a mixture of reserve and indifference. Sooner or later, all cops put up shields. Sometimes the shields are for protection, sometimes they are a device.

“Grave robbing in Miami, yeah, it happens a dozen times a year, maybe more,” he said. “It’s almost always the Santeria people, because they need artifacts. The people from down on the islands, all that voodoo shit. Skulls, a piece of bone for their ceremonies. It’s like part of their culture, a religious thing. But on Marco? No one expected this.”

The way they’d gotten into the grave was, they’d stolen a backhoe that had been parked beside the nearby church. The city was replacing a sewer line in the area. The backhoe had been there only a day or two. “It was one of those random deals,” Parrish said. “The idiot workers left the key in the machine. Whoever stole the backhoe probably saw it when they walked by, said to themselves, ‘Hey, lookee what we got here.’ And right next to the cemetery.”

The perpetrators, Parrish said, ran over several stones to get to Dorothy’s grave, dug it open wide enough so they could drop down into the hole. “I don’t think they expected to find the cement vault down there, though. Those vaults, it’s a state law. You look at the cover? First, they use the backhoe to try and crack the thing open, then they got smart and just tilted it up and off.”

I said, “All that noise, all these buildings around, and no one heard anything?”

“That’s exactly why they got away with it. Everybody heard them. People saw their lights. A backhoe in a cemetery, what are you going to think? That they’re digging a grave, getting ready for a funeral. Or maybe the city workers were at it late, trying to get the sewer line done. No one even called the station. When our deputy drove by, he was lucky to notice them. He told me if he’d heard a backhoe, he’d of gone right on by. Same thing: figured they was here working.”

Then I listened as the funeral rep told us why he didn’t think the casket had been opened. Caldwell looked like a construction worker, not an embalmer, yet he had a delicate tone and a soft voice. He used his stubby hands to talk, but in a way that people who take speech classes are taught to use their hands for effect.

“If they did get the casket open,” he said, “they were careful, extremely careful, and they knew exactly what they were doing when they sealed it back. I say that because there are no crowbar marks on the casket that I could see. No marks where they tried to sledgehammer the thing open. Inside, nothing was disturbed. Nothing obvious, anyway. Wouldn’t you expect vandals to do something like that? Bring a crowbar or an ax, I’m saying. If they really wanted to get inside.”

I said, “You can’t just lift the lid open?”

Caldwell’s smile told me that I knew absolutely nothing about his industry. “Not exactly, Mr. Ford. I’ll give you an example. Let’s say that the deceased was in one of our top-of-the-line units. A Batesville, let’s say. What you’re dealing with is a unit made of eighteen-gauge steel. Heavy rubber gasket sealers inside and a cathodic bar on the bottom to stop electrolysis. A casket like that”—his smile broadened slightly—“you’d better bring a lot more than a crowbar to get it open. The only way to get it open is with a hex-key, specially designed, just like the lug nuts on a car tire sometimes require a special key.”

“That’s the kind of casket that Dorothy Copeland is in?”

“No, but the vandals couldn’t have known that. Ms. Copeland is in a hardwood casket. Cherry wood, I think. Clients who … well, who are of limited means, often
make that choice. It’s a Marcellus, one of the best in the business, but it locks down with a pin and a heavy clasp.”

“Is it possible to get it open?”

“Yes. If you know how it works, it’s not difficult. But again, they couldn’t have known.”

“But if they did, is it possible that they could have opened it, then resealed it?”

“I suppose. But I think they’d have done the obvious thing and tired to pry it open.”

I said, “If they were vandals, sure, a random act. But as Detective Parrish knows, Ms. Copeland has been the target of a series of burglaries over the last few months. It’s possible someone knows exactly what they were after and they’ll go to remarkable lengths to get it. Exhuming a grave in a city cemetery? That’s risky behavior, wouldn’t you agree?”

The plainclothes cop said, “So is murder, bank robbery, assault, the whole long list. You said you live on Sanibel? Lots of money up there, a nice safe little island. Marco, one of the safest communities in the state. Usually. Get away from the money places, though, there are way too many freaks. Understand what I’m saying? I deal with them every working day of my life. There ain’t nothing risky to a crackhead. They’d bulldoze a church if they thought it would buy them some rock.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt there are bad people in the world,” I said agreeably. “The kind of people you read about in the newspapers.”

“Exactly,” Parrish said, an expression of patience in the way he set his jaw. “The kind of criminals good citizens like you find folded on the doorstep every morning.

“Know what probably happened?” he added. “A rumor got started the little girl was buried with treasure. People
love them stories about buried treasure. Probably got talked around the streets and some drunks or dopers noticed the backhoe and thought, What the hell, let’s see what’s in there.”

Parrish’s tone told me that he was taking me into his confidence, sharing some secrets.

“Could be,” I said.

“Trust me. They come staggering by and go, ‘Shit, let’s get rich.’” He looked around for a moment. “That reminds me. Where’d your drunk hippie friend disappear to? The one in them weird robes.”

“He’s practicing his eulogy. He’s kind of a perfectionist.” Then I said, “You could be wrong, you know. Maybe it didn’t happen that way at all.”

The detective allowed me a pointed look of assessment. “Oh, really.”

I chose my approach carefully. Proper attitude of respect; sufficient deference. I had suggestions to make, but no need to offend the investigating cop.

“It’s possible the whole thing was carefully planned.”

“All sorts of things are possible, Mr. Ford. I’m telling you the way it probably was.”

“I realize that. I also realize that you’re a lot more experienced at this sort of thing than I am. But know what might be interesting? Get a quick video of everyone here. Or anyone sitting off by themselves in a car, watching. I read somewhere that the sickos who light fires almost always try and find a private place to watch. That’s how they get their kicks. Maybe it’s the same with grave robbers. The people who did it? They might be in the area right now.”

I received a stony look in return, and a very chilly, “There’s an idea. Man, I learn so much on this job.”

It’s been my experience that most people in the emergency professions are good at what they do. They have to be, because there’s so much depending on them. Parrish was behaving like one of the weak links. The type who used his shield as a power lever or an excuse. Or maybe he just no longer cared enough to invest the effort.

I got the same cold reaction when I said, “If I was serious about robbing a grave, know what I’d do? I’d do some research first. I’d check the city records and see what I could learn about how the girl was buried. The cemetery is maintained by the city, isn’t it?”

Caldwell said, “But there wouldn’t be anything in the files about the type of coffin. Whether it was steel or wood. That’s where you’re wrong.”

“I wouldn’t know that. The perpetrators wouldn’t either, but it’s a logical place to check. Then I’d go to the newspaper, ask to see the archives. I’d read everything I could about what happened here fifteen years ago. I’d try to find the name of the funeral home that handled the burial, maybe even call and ask them questions under some guise. Pretend to be a reporter doing a story. That could work.”

Caldwell said, “We handled the funeral. I wasn’t here at the time, but it was our shop.”

I looked at Parrish. “See? An easy place to start. So then you take the video from here and start to match photos. The municipal building is bound to have a security camera. Maybe the newspaper, too. Even if they don’t, you say to clerks, ‘You get a visit recently from anyone you recognize on this video?’”

Parrish said, “Gee, there’s another good idea.”

It wasn’t working, but I wasn’t going to give up. “One more thing. These people seem determined to take what
Dorothy found. So, I’d speak to an archaeologist and find out exactly where she was digging fifteen years ago. A golden medallion, a wooden totem, beads—they all have monetary value. Chances are, if they’re really serious, they’ve done the research and are digging in the same area. Or have already dug there. Find one golden medallion, there might be more.”

Parrish was done listening to it. His nostrils flared slightly as he said, “Very helpful suggestions, Mr. Ford. Really appreciate it, too. All I got to do is drop the twenty or so current cases I’m working on to bust some vandals. Of course, the cases I’m working on are crimes against real live people. Like, for instance, up ’round Golden Gate, we’ve had a string of sexual assaults on children. Real nasty ones. I’ve got three different disappearances, too. Three women, none associated with the other, just left home or work one day and never came back. Disappeared in a way that’s got the feel of serial killer to them. I’m talkin’ about a
real
freak. Someone doin’ for a reason and
likes
it. Della Copeland’s child, she’s been dead, for what? Fifteen years. There’s not much anyone can do for her.”

I said, “Which means you’re not going to do anything.”

“I wish that’s exactly what it meant, but it doesn’t. What I should be doing is banging on doors right now, reading profiles. Doing serious work. Instead, I’m down here in rich people’s land looking for vandals. Know why?” He looked past me to the road. “That there’s why. You’re lookin’ at the reason. A man named Mr. Ivan Bauerstock.”

I turned to see a black Humvee, doors open, men in dark suits ducking out. The oldest of them leaving the driver’s
seat was a very tall, gray-haired man with the bearing of someone used to giving orders and staring over the heads of lesser men while his orders were being carried out.

I watched three younger men wait for him. One of the three had a pumpkin-sized head and the body mass of a competitive weight lifter. I watched them listen to the older man intently, all eyes focused. Then they followed him toward us, into the cemetery.

“Ivan Bauerstock, one of the biggest men in Florida. Bauerstock as in Bauerstock Industries. Bauerstock as in cattle and citrus. Man, he got his own road construction business, condo projects, you name it. Now I hear he’s heavy into computer software and the Internet, all that shit. You never heard of the man?”

I said, “I’ve heard of him. His companies, anyway. What’s he have to do with this?”

“‘Cause he owns half of Marco, one thing. Another, his son and that dead girl used to be friends. Now Mr. Bauerstock wants his growed-up little boy to be a state senator. So they’ve come back to say goodbye. Show how much they care, with the press all around to see. Maybe get his son’s picture in the paper saying how he’s putting pressure on the sheriff’s department to arrest the bad guys.”

I said, “That sounds like more than a guess.”

There was a cautionary edge to Parrish’s voice, the black dialectic emphasized, as he replied, “No, that just a wild guess, man! I got nothin’ better to do than sit around diss’in people can get me fired”—he snapped his fingers in my face—“that quick. Mr. Bauerstock, he the one friends with the President a few years back. Slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, flew Air Force One all the way to China or some damn place. You know how much cash something like that cost? So what the chances him callin’
my boss and telling us exactly what he want done? Him and the sheriff, it just a coincidence they in the same party, man.”

I decided that maybe Parrish wasn’t a weak link after all. “Someone as powerful as Bauerstock would order the sheriff to put his best man on the job.”

Parrish touched a finger to his own chest in mock surprise. “Me? Aw-w-w-w, now I’m embarrassed. Thing is, Mr. Bauerstock’s son, Teddy, he’s actually a pretty good guy. Couple days ago, he shook my hand and listened to what I had to say about some stuff.”