Deb Baker - Ding Dong Dead

“Where are you going?” Nina asked from the sidewalk that led to the house. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“No one lives here.” Gretchen stopped and turned around.

“Really,” Nina said.

“I don’t think so, but I suppose we should make sure.”

Nina had another “incoming message” expression on her face when Gretchen passed her and started up the walkway. “Someone’s inside,” her aunt informed her.

Gretchen was on the porch about to ring the doorbell.

“Don’t!” Nina shouted. “I have a bad feeling!”

What was the matter with Nina? At this rate, they’d be on this block for the rest of the day. Gretchen pressed the button and heard the chime inside the house. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked her aunt.

Before Nina could reply, the door creaked open.

A large woman loomed in the doorway, staring at Gretchen.

“I’m searching for information on a neighborhood family,” Gretchen said.

“Come in,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Collectors are experiencing renewed interest in metal-head dolls. Since it is difficult to find an undamaged metal head, the following instructions are useful for restoration. Remove all the original paint with an oven cleaner. Have your local car accessory dealer mix a flesh-colored spray paint in a satin finish. Apply two coats, allowing time to dry between coats. Use acrylic paints and an airbrush to add cheek blush. Artist’s brushes work well when painting facial features. Finally, lightly apply antiquing patina through an airbrush at a distance to give your metal head an authentic old look.

Metal heads are forgiving. If you make a mistake, simply start over.

– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Terry Vascar and Matt Albright watch the start of the excavation while the noon sun beats down on their unprotected heads. Standing beside them is John Meyer, a forensic anthropologist, and Frances Castillo, medical examiner, professionals considered the best in their respective fields. They are also good friends, having shared more than a few drinks over discussions concerning unusual cases.

Terry swipes at a trickle of sweat running along the side of his face.

He feels adrenaline shooting through his veins and a growing impatience with the time it has taken to arrange the equipment and workers. Matt looks as frustrated as he is.

All worth it.

He fervently hopes.

Ground-penetrating radar, aka GPR, has detected an object under the surface of the Swilling’s family plot. That in itself isn’t notable, considering that this is a cemetery, after all. What makes this discovery unique, though, is that this object is near the foot of a buried coffin. It should be a patch of desert dirt through and through. No record exists inside the cemetery office of anything beneath this piece of ground. In fact, no records are available for this entire section of the cemetery.

Terry and Matt have finished watching the technician radiate high frequency waves into the ground. They have received lessons in electromagnetic energy and geophysics when variations are reflected in the return signal, more technical jargon than either needs or wants.

Their main focus is on the final results from the radar.

The buried object.

A man in grass-stained pants hurries toward them. The caretaker.

“See right here,” he says, pointing, tapping the earth with the toe of his boot. “The ground’s been disturbed. I knew I should report it after what happened the other night. The dead woman and all.”

This red Arizonian dirt is brighter than it would be if it had remained untouched. Sun and air pales exposed earth. Someone dug in this spot recently. And their equipment proves that a metal object is below. Could it be the murder weapon?

“Careful,” Matt warns. “We don’t want it damaged.”

Per Matt’s orders, the team is digging wider and deeper than the GPR expert recommended. Better safe. Whoever placed the object at the base of the grave site wanted to keep it from discovery.

The cemetery is busy with visitors today, a typical Saturday. Those tending the graves are fulfilling their obligations to the deceased. A few curious spectators have stopped to watch them work.

“Got something,” one of the men says, digging his shovel into the mound of earth and bending down.

They all gather closer, anxiously waiting as precautions are taken, police procedures are followed to a T, not a single deviation permissible under the detectives’ watchful eyes.

Terry stares at what the digger has unearthed. It’s a human skull.

John and Frances go to work on it while the diggers continue to seek the metal object.

“Violent death,” John the forensic pathologist mutters, confirming Terry’s suspicions.

“Any guesses?” Matt asks the ME.

“It’s possible,” Frances says. “I won’t know until I get it in and compare it to the other victim, but it could be from the skeleton, and killed by the same murder weapon.” She studies the cranial material. Even Terry can see where the blows have crushed the skull.

John rises from his task. “Skull hasn’t been in this shallow grave for long,” he says.

Terry nods his understanding. Matt glances at him. “We found somebody’s buried treasure,” he says.

“Some treasure,” Terry replies.

Frances had already informed them that the remains in the armoire had been in that location for years. “We can assume that she was killed in the house,” she had said. “And hidden inside the wardrobe.”

“It appears possible,” Frances says now, cautiously, always hesitant to make statements prior to full investigation, “that we’ve got a match.”

“So,” Matt says, “at some point recently the killer moved the head, hid it here.”

A van filled with a television news crew pulls up as close as possible considering the number of visitors’ cars parked in the area.

“Trouble,” Terry says.

“Like bloodhounds,” Matt agrees. “If they make a connection between the two murders, they’ll be screaming serial killer.” He stalks off in their direction. Terry is confident that the team of media clowns won’t get near them.

What kind of person did this? A sociopath, Terry thinks. Superficially, sociopaths are charming, pleasant, easy to like. But covertly they are hostile and cunning. Lies roll easily, smoothly enough to even pass lie detector tests. Terry sifts through the knowledge stored in his brain. Sociopaths harbor deep-seated rage, an inability to feel remorse, a view that other people are nothing but targets.

Terry would rather deal with a rabid dog. At least he’d know what he was facing.

The news crew is setting up near their van. Matt returns to the group, stands with his back to them, concealing as much as possible from the camera lens. Terry does the same.

“There’s more,” a digger says, exposing a white plastic bag.

Gloves, bags, pictures. Minutes elapse before the plastic bag is opened and the contents exposed.

Not a hammer, but oddly, a metal doll’s head. The head is old, with painted yellow hair and blue eyes, chipped and fading.

Before the doll’s head is completely revealed, Terry senses that Matt isn’t next to him any longer. He is some distance away, talking on his phone. Terry approaches, notes that his friend has lost his composure. He is pale, shaky. Terry’s never seen him this way.

“They’re out of town,” Matt says, ending the call, his voice ragged likes he’s just run a five-kilometer race in record time. “They’re safe.”

“Who?”

“Gretchen and her mother. I just talked to Caroline. They’re not in Phoenix.”

Terry’s aware of Matt’s feelings for Gretchen. He knows about some of their personal conflicts, about the Birch connection to this case.