P. Parrish - An Unquiet Grave

Louis guessed not one of them was named Becker.

He heard the grind of a backhoe and he turned to see it rumbling toward him. Spera was propped high on the driver’s seat, wrapped in a red flannel jacket, a wool cap pulled down over his head.

Spera drove the machine up close, then cut the engine. He hopped down off the seat and walked to Louis and Dalum, his gaze lifting to the flakes drifting from the sky.

“We better get this over with,” Spera said.

Louis pulled out his copy of the grave log Spera had given him. Spera did the same.

“I want to make sure there’s no mistake here,” Spera said. “I got him listed in number 6888.”

“Same here,” Louis said.

The three of them walked a few feet toward the back corner of the cemetery. Louis and Dalum had already cleared the dirt and weeds away from Becker’s marker, but it was powdered now with fresh snow and Dalum bent to brush it away. The numbers chiseled in the stone were clear: 6888.

“Okay then,” Spera said.

Louis and Dalum walked away, giving Spera room to work. The backhoe roared to life again and the digging started. Louis led Dalum farther away from the noise and as they walked, he noticed he wasn’t far from Claudia’s grave. And he tried to remember what number she was.

“Your buddy’s here,” Dalum said.

Louis looked up to see Delp coming toward them. He walked like he was drowsy, and his hair was flat on one side like he’d slept on it and hadn’t combed it yet. Louis stepped forward to meet him.

“Did you bring them?” Louis asked.

Delp put a hand inside his jacket and withdrew two items. One was a small manila envelope that Louis suspected held Becker’s dental records. The other was a single piece of white paper.

“What’s the paper?” Louis asked.

“You’re going to want to kiss me for this,” Delp said.

“I doubt it. What is it?”

“Becker’s booking sheet from Mason.”

“And how does that do us any good?”

Delp snapped the paper open. “It lists the distinguishing scars and tattoos, as you know.”

“So?”

“Becker has an eleven-inch scar on his right forearm.

Just below the elbow from a broken arm he got as a teenager. It was a clean break of the ulna, and my guess is it’s still going to be visible on the bones today.”

“Can I see that?” Dalum asked.

Delp handed Dalum the paper, giving the X-ray envelope to Louis, then started to step around him. Louis grabbed his sleeve.

“Give me your camera,” Louis said, putting out his hand.

“C’mon, Kincaid. Quid pro quo. I gave you his dental records and I even threw in his booking sheet and I can’t even take a look?”

“Look all you want, but give me your camera,” Louis said. “And you know the deal. If he’s in there, none of this ever gets written. This morning never happened.”

Delp blew out breath laced with stale beer and slapped his camera into Louis’s hand. Then he wandered over to watch Spera.

Louis pulled the small X-ray out of the envelope and held it up to the weak light. Becker had a full set of small, square teeth. On the lower right, there was a filling and on the upper right, there was a gap between the last two teeth.

The X-ray had a sticker on the corner, with Becker’s name and a date. June 1962-before Becker was arrested. He hoped this was good enough.

“This guy looks like he’s wound a little tight,” Dalum said, handing Louis the booking paper.

The picture of Becker was black and white, shading the jail smock gray and Becker’s razor-cut hair almost black, but Louis saw that both his hair and eyes were listed as brown.

Becker was twenty-two in the photo, and at first glance looked like a college student, with wireless glasses and a studious expression. But there was something about the way his thick brows formed a single line over his eyes, and the half smirk of his bowed lips that hinted at something darker.

Louis folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket, then turned up the collar of his jacket. Dalum had given him some gloves this morning, along with a clean sweatshirt emblazoned with I VISITED HELL MICHIGAN, but he was still cold.

Suddenly, it was quiet.

Louis and Dalum walked back to the open grave. There was still a layer of dirt in it and Louis could not see the concrete vault.

“Normally, I got a crew who does this,” Spera said, coming up behind them and carrying two small shovels and black rubber gloves. “But you wanted to keep this secret, so I need a little help.”

Spera held out the shovels and gloves. “You guys go ahead and shovel off the rest of the dirt, down to the vault lid. I’ll go get the hoist.”

Louis took the shovels and Spera walked away. Louis looked at Dalum, then at Delp, who was standing on the other side of the grave.

“I don’t do manual labor,” Delp said.

Louis and Dalum eased themselves into the grave. “Wait,” Dalum said, reaching into his pocket. He opened a small jar of Vicks VapoRub and spread some under his nostrils. He handed it to Louis, who did the same.

They started digging. The stench was awful, and was getting worse with every heap of dirt they tossed out. After a few minutes, Louis paused, his hand over his nose. He looked up at Delp.

“You might want to back off, Delp,” Louis called.

Delp grinned and whipped a small white painter’s mask from his jacket pocket.

“You’re going to need more than that,” Louis said.

Delp said something, but it was muffled behind the mask. From behind him, Louis heard the hum of another machine and saw Spera bringing the hoist into place.

“I hit concrete,” Dalum said.

Louis helped him finish up; then Spera and his son Andy climbed down again and lowered the chains into the grave. Louis and Dalum hooked them to the iron eyeholes on the sides of the concrete vault and climbed out, pulling off the gloves and walking as far away from the grave as they could. After drawing a full breath, Louis turned and watched as Spera operated the hoist, lifting the vault from the hole.

The vault dripped muddy water as it rose into the air. And suddenly the smell was everywhere. Louis pulled his sweatshirt up over his nose. It wasn’t until Spera had the vault back on the ground and Andy was headed toward it with a crowbar that Louis forced himself to move forward.

It took three good jerks of the crowbar, but the vault finally slid open, the heavy lid dropping to the grass. Louis’s hand came to his nose again.

Aw, Jesus . .

Grave juice. . that’s what cops called it. The wood casket was floating in a fetid brew of rancid, muddy water, dark with decomposed flesh.

Louis heard a groan, and his eyes moved immediately to Delp. Delp had ripped off his mask and was hunched over, already in his second or third spasm of vomiting.

“You want one of these, Louis?” Spera asked, holding out a gas mask.

“Yeah,” Louis said.

Spera gave one to Dalum, too, and then went about helping Andy slip straps under the casket. When he was finished, Louis and Andy took one side and Dalum took the other, and they lifted the casket from the vault. The wood was soft and warped, and the whole casket started to bow as they tried to get it up over the sides of the vault.

“Steady!” Spera called.

The casket gave a groan, and before Louis could do anything, the wood panel on the side split away, and the front end started to dip.

“Hold it! Hold it!” Spera yelled.

But it was too late. Just as they got the casket over the side, part of the bottom gave out, washing their feet and ankles with thick black water.

“Damn it,” Louis hissed.

Then the rest went, the wood ripping like wet newspaper, and the body fell to the ground with a thud.