Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

He turns on the radio and flicks through various stations looking for one where people aren’t talking about Joe or the death penalty, then tries to find one where there is music and not ads, then gives up. The damn CD player doesn’t work since his daughter dripped water into it a year ago hoping to, as she said, make the music clearer. He guesses he’s lucky any of it works. Could be that’s the balance the city has struck with him-it drowns him and fires him and takes his CD player away, but he can have all the AM and FM he could want.

Kent sent them the GPS location of the body. It was accurate enough to get him and Jones to the farm earlier this morning. They had shared a car ride out there just before nine. Schroder had driven. He didn’t like the idea of Jonas being in control of the car in case he was suddenly struck down by a vision of Elvis. The problem is Jones decided to be in control of the conversation instead. It takes a brave man to say the things Jones was saying, and on the drive Schroder started to wonder where the line was between being committed for speaking to the dead and going on TV to help the public for a fee. What is insanity for some is showmanship for others, he guesses.

So Jonas Jones had rambled on for the twenty minutes they’d been together in the car. They had both worn thick jackets and hiking boots and the conversation dried up when they made the trek from the car to the grave. It wasn’t difficult to find where Calhoun was buried. Turned-over dirt was one big clue, footsteps leading all the way from the road another. So he and Jonas spent thirty minutes doing what Schroder thought was a pretty good job of hiding the fact anybody had been there within the last twenty-four hours. It had been an eerie feeling out there, and one that was spent mostly in silence. Jonas had been happy. Schroder had been sad. He was at the grave of a former cop, a man who had fought the same war; they had been brothers in arms and now Calhoun was the prop in some cheap parlor trick and Schroder had made that happen. The sun had come through the trees, none of which had any leaves, and hit the ground, burning off some of the moisture so it looked like rising steam. It was a good location for a TV shoot. The cameras were going to love it. He knew that’s what Jonas Jones, Psychic had been thinking. Whereas Schroder had been thinking about physics. About leverage and exertion and the effect an event can have on another. He was thinking about how hard it would be to dig Calhoun up and replace him with Jones. He was thinking about how that would make him happy, but Jonas sad. He was thinking about driving Calhoun to the morgue where he would be treated right. The dead man deserved more from both of them.

Of course he hadn’t done that. Instead they had finished up, using branches to break up the footprints on their way out. Back at the car they threw their jackets into the backseat and used cold, soapy water and rags to wash down their hiking shoes because they needed them to be clean for the shoot. Then they had left. They hadn’t spoken on the way back to the TV station. Jonas had been busy writing down notes in his journal. His mind had been racing. He’d been putting together his script.

Now they are heading out there again. They have to pull over a few times on the way for Jonas to clutch his head and tell the camera he was being drawn toward Calhoun. It was like he was dialing in the dead policeman on a receiver.

It’s like I’m being pulled toward him, it’s an actual physical feeling. He had seen Jonas write that line down, and no doubt he’ll be using it now.

When they get to the paddock they park up on the road and get out and into position and then it’s lights, camera, action. The cameraman shoots footage of them pulling hiking boots on, Jonas looking up into the camera at the time and saying, “I believe Detective Calhoun is around here somewhere.”

For the most part, Jones does look somber, and Schroder knows that’s a combination of practice and the fact that coming here has cost him a lot of money. The talent Schroder is most impressed by is how Jonas keeps the excitement out of his features.

The cameraman shoots footage of them dressing in warmer jackets before doing the same thing, then he hoists the camera back up and filming continues. Jonas tilts his head-another Lassie impression-then starts nodding, agreeing with the message Detective Calhoun is sending him.

“It’s this way,” he says.

The first obstacle is the fence, which Jonas climbs with ease. Then he leads them up a path made up of mud and stones and tree roots, the camera taking it all in. To his credit, Jonas doesn’t pick up a forked branch and use it as a divining rod. The psychic moves forward. Goes left, pauses, goes right, carries on. They walk a hundred yards. Two hundred. Then they’re there, the grave ahead of them, the director and camera crew having no idea that both Schroder and Jones were out here this morning, having no idea about the money Jonas paid for the information. To them, this is the real deal. There are a few footprints left from their earlier visit, and from Joe’s visit yesterday, but either nobody notices them or they choose not to mention it. Certainly he and Jones did a better job hiding them around the grave than they did on the path.

“Here,” Jonas says. “I believe Detective Inspector Calhoun is buried here,” he says, “somewhere within a ten-yard diameter. Perhaps. .” he says, then tilts his head a little more, “yes, yes, it’s quite strong now. I can hear him. He wants to be found. Perhaps just over here,” he says, and then he’s standing next to the grave. “A lost soul crying out to be found. He’s very sad, but relieved now,” Jonas says. “We need a shovel. Quickly now,” he says, then more urgently to the camera and to everybody else around, he says, “we must help him.”

“Perhaps we should call the police,” Schroder says, injecting no enthusiasm into the line.

“The police,” Jonas scoffs. “If we just call them they won’t come. They need a reason to. They need a body.”

Schroder has been carrying the shovel. He points it at the ground. “Here?” he asks.

“A few feet to your left,” Jonas says, and when this has gone through editing, when haunting music has been added, this is going to be a powerful moment. Hairs on necks all around the country will be bristling.

“Not too deep,” Jonas says.

Schroder carefully puts the blade of the shovel into the earth. He scoops it away slowly and creates a low mountain of wet earth behind him. A minute later he steps back.

“We have something,” he says, and the crew all move in. “It looks like human remains. Okay, look,” he says, turning toward Jonas and the camera crew and sounding like the policeman he used to be, he says “I know what you just said, but we have to shut this down. There’s enough here now to call the police. This is now officially a crime scene,” he says, and he puts his hand up to cover the lens just like they spoke about. “Don’t go wandering off,” he says, “don’t risk disturbing the area. And stop filming this.”

They stop filming.

“This is incredibly good shit,” the director says. “I gotta say, I had my doubts, but you’re the real deal, man,” she says, looking at Jonas.

Jonas smiles back at her, but Schroder can tell he’s looking a little offended by the fact that the director may have suspected he wasn’t on the level. “I’m just glad I can help,” he says.

Schroder gets his cell phone out and calls Detective Kent.

I wake up with a queasy stomach and I’m a little unsure of where I am. For the first week in prison I woke up like that every morning. Somewhat sick, somewhat forgetful of where I was, only the sickness would hang about all morning and the forgetfulness would last two seconds at the most, maybe three, before the reality would come crashing back in. The second week was easier, and since then it’s only happened a handful of times-certainly never as bad as that first morning. This morning my stomach is clenched tight, and the room is just a dark room and not a cell in solitary confinement until the memories start filling in the gaps left by the seconds ticking by and leaving. I climb off my cot and hover in front of the toilet for a few minutes thinking I’m going to throw up, but it doesn’t happen, and then it almost does again, but still doesn’t. The only moisture coming out of my body is in the form of sweat. It turns out the room isn’t as dark as I first thought. I have no idea what the time is. I know I’m going to be taken out of here soon-I have to be. Still, there is that nagging sense of doubt, that small voice telling me that this is it, that these four walls and the cave-dwelling light are going to make up my future. No trial, no lawyer, no more guards-just this.