D. Gilles - Colder Than Death

Her voice trailed off. “When she was alive I used to wish that Aunt Brandy was my mother. When she was gone, I wished that she was my friend. I miss her. I mean one day she was here and the next day… ” She snapped her fingers. “Gone. Nothing. Six years old and I knew somebody killed her. For the last nine years I’ve been waiting for her body to be discovered — here or ten thousand miles away. I hoped they’d find her in another town so somebody competent would be in charge of solving the case instead of an A-hole like Perry Cobb.”

I liked the fact that she disliked Perry, but I wondered why. I also felt a strange compulsion to defend him, if for no other reason than to give Quilla some hope.

“Why so negative about Perry Cobb?” I asked.

“Because he hates me.”

“How can he hate you ? How does he even know you?”

“I had some problems last year,” she said sheepishly. “With drinking. And drugs. A couple of friends and I stole a car. We got caught DWI. It was stupid. Cobb kept us in jail overnight. Since then, he gives us grief at every turn.”

I hated defending Perry, but in this instance I had to. “Do you blame him? You could’ve hurt somebody. Maybe killed somebody. Maybe yourself.”

“I know. But he was mean to us. Made it seem like we were less than human. The only cop I ever met who was worth anything is Greg.”

“You know Greg Hoxey?”

“He’s my friend. He’s different from the other cops.”

“What’s different about Greg?” I was curious as to how she happened to be on a first name basis with Greg.

“He used to be like us in high school. Into heavy metal, hair down to his ass and liked to get wasted. Greg is cool.”

Greg Hoxey cool? I said to myself. I was beginning to question her powers of observation.

“He’s like this really excellent older brother who gives you money and won’t tell your parents that you’re sneaking out. I wish he was in charge of the investigation. Greg would try. Cobb’s not gonna do squat.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he hates people like me and my Aunt was like me and I’m like her and in Cobb’s eyes we’re nothing but sluts who hang with crazed druggies.”

“How do you know he thinks that?”

“Are you really that naive?” she sneered. “Maybe you’ve been around so many dead bodies you’re out of touch.”

“With what?”

“The real world.”

She might be right , I said to myself.

“I’ll be honest with you, Quilla. There’s no love lost between Perry Cobb and me, so you won’t see me defending him. But I think you’re wrong about him not caring about finding the killer.”

“Why?” she sneered.

“Because he never had a murder case before and solving it will be a tremendous ego trip for him. He’ll be doing everything in his power, pulling out all the stops because he’s insecure enough to know that people will be watching him. As Chief of Police he has to be elected. No one has ever run against him because it’s a nowhere job in a nowhere town that pays next to nothing. But it’s all he’s got. And if there’s someone crazy enough to want to be Police Chief, maybe even Greg Hoxey, if Perry doesn’t find your Aunt’s killer, it might be just the thing that prompts somebody to take Perry on.”

“Just because he wants to solve the case doesn’t mean he has the brains to do it.”

“The police here have all the latest technology at their disposal.”

“We’ll see,” she said sheepishly, then took a long, deep breath. “Are we almost there? I’m getting nervous about this. I’ve only been in a cemetery twice. When my grandparents died.”

“Ten minutes.”

She leaned her head against the window and stared out. She yawned. She seemed so alone in her grief. It was a feeling I’d known well.

It was bad enough when my father died, but I felt an even deeper sense of anguish when I was eighteen and Alyssa went away. I felt as if she had died. Because we’d broken up three weeks before she left Dankworth I’d been pining for her, unable to sleep, driving past her parents’ house hoping to get a glimpse of her. I didn’t even know she’d gone until Chester Cobb phoned me to ask if I’d seen her. Her mother had filed a missing person report and mentioned that I’d been dating her.

But then three days after she was reported missing a note from Alyssa had come in the mail with a New York City postmark to her parents. She apologized for leaving without saying good-bye, said that she needed to be alone and that she would be in touch. A note, also postmarked New York City, came to me too.

Dear Del,

I had to get away. Take care of yourself.

Maybe some day you’ll see me again.

Alyssa

The most confusing thing about the note was that I got it. I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. Six months later I received a postcard from her postmarked in Chicago with another brief message. While I think of Alyssa often, I seldom think of the note and postcard. Though I kept them, and even valued them, as if they were love letters, I never look at them because an overwhelming feeling of confusion overtakes me. I still don’t know why she sent them to me. In my more romantic notions, I pretend that she really did love me back. In my practical moods I convince myself that she sent them to me out of pity.

As Quilla gazed out the window in a numbed silence, I spent the remainder of the drive pondering something she had said. Specifically, would Perry be taking this murder seriously? I hadn’t spoken to him about it since the day the body was found. Despite my guess that whoever was the killer knew something about cemeteries, I felt Perry would probably have nothing to go on until the victim’s identity was discovered. But now that he knew, I wasn’t sure what steps he would take to start an investigation.

As I approached the main entrance to Elm Grove cemetery I decided that I would transfer the empathy I was feeling for Quilla into something constructive. First chance I had, which would probably be later in the day, I would approach Perry and ask him what, if anything, was being done about the Brandy Parker murder.

As I drove through the cemetery gates, I focused my attention on the business at hand: finding the place of burial for Brandy Parker.

The first stop would be the Administration Office where I would have Mel or George punch up Suzanne Worthington’s parents’ names on the computer. Division, Section and Plot numbers would be instantly forthcoming. As to whether or not Brandy could be laid to rest near her parents, that would be a different matter. It depended on where they were buried.

Officially there are two Divisions in Elm Cross cemetery: the Modern Division and the Original, but unofficially there are three, the third being located in a small, barely discernable area of the Original. This was the first Elm Grove cemetery, roughly half the size of a football field, adjacent to a Methodist church, long since torn down, and where the first residents of Dankworth, most of whom were born in the middle of the eighteenth century, were laid to rest.

Even the most fanatical cemetery buff didn’t know about this part of the grounds. It was hidden by a blending of shrubbery, rocks and long-dead oak trees. There was an entrance of sorts, but only someone who knew where to find it could gain access to this old bone yard.

Not that anyone would want to. Here there were no weathered, granite mausoleums or above ground crypts. Most of what was left of the tombstones and grave markers were completely devoid of information as to the identity of the people buried there. There was little, if any, symmetry to the positions of the graves. Most seemed too close together. Others were off by themselves, illogically situated without rhyme or reason. Here the grass and weeds, though maintained regularly, didn’t have the manicured look of the rest of the cemetery. It was more like a deserted field that had been by-passed by a superhighway and the broken tombstones were more like rocks scattered about, tilting backwards or sideways or crumbled in heaps on the strawlike grass.