Charlaine Harris: Many Bloody Returns

Normally he stayed nearby while Stella rested, especially when they were away from home, but finding out about Stella’s grave took priority. His first target was Officer Norcomb, the one who’d given permission for Jane Doe to be buried in the Spivey plot. While en route to Allenville, he used his cell phone to call the police station to find out if Officer Norcomb was in. According to the cop who answered the phone, Norcomb was on his lunch break, and he directed Mark to Benny’s Truck Stop near the highway.

Mark had noticed Benny’s the night before, admiring the glamor of the chubby neon chef and his flashing burger. In the daylight, it was less glamorous, but the gas and diesel islands were doing a brisk business. As Mark got out of the car, he tried for a deep breath of fresh country air but instead breathed in a horrible mix of ammonia and general nastiness coming from the buildings a field away. He stepped inside quickly.

As the only police officer in the place, Norcomb was easy to spot. A skinny man, despite the remains of gravy-soaked meat and mashed potatoes left on his plate, and as far as Mark could tell, he didn’t bear the slightest family resemblance to Stella.

Mark approached his booth and, with his friendliest smile, said, “Officer Norcomb?”

Norcomb gave him such a suspicious look that Mark used his tongue to make sure his fangs weren’t out. “You the one who called the station looking for me?” he said.

“That’s me. Can I join you?”

“If this is about a traffic citation, don’t bother. I don’t fix nobody’s tickets.”

“Nothing like that,” Mark assured him. “I’m here about Jane Doe.”

Norcomb sat up straight, and before Mark could put rump to the sticky vinyl of the bench, the cop said, “Do you know who she is?”

“No, I’m afraid not, I just wanted to—”

“Are you a reporter?”

“Why don’t we start over? My name is Mark Anderson.” He offered his hand, and Norcomb reached over his late lunch to take it. As they shook, their eyes met, and Mark exerted the force of will a vampire used to bespell his victims.

A moment later, Norcomb said, “You going to let go of my hand anytime soon?”

“Sorry,” Mark muttered. Stella assured him he’d develop the ability to bespell victims before too much longer, but so far, nothing. Since his compelling gaze hadn’t worked, he’d have to rely on his backup plan. “I believe you and I are related,” he said.

“Is that right?” Norcomb said skeptically. “I don’t recall any Yankees in the family. No offense.”

“None taken. If we are related, it’s only by marriage. You see, my wife’s great-aunt Estelle is from Allenville, and she’s always said she wanted to be buried in the Spivey family cemetery. Since I’m in Raleigh on business, my wife asked me to confirm that it’s still in use.”

“I’d heard there were some Spiveys who moved up North, and I know old folks are big on coming back home to be buried.”

“Exactly. Aunt Estelle is getting quite frail, so I don’t think it will be too much longer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Norcomb said with enough genuine sympathy to make Mark feel guilty.

“At least she’s had a long life,” Mark said, which was true enough. “I found the Spivey cemetery the other day, and while I was checking for recent burials, I noticed Jane Doe’s grave. I was curious, so I did some research on the web, read that you gave permission for Ms. Doe to be buried there, and figured you were the one to talk to. Do we need to fill out any paperwork?”

“Shoot, we don’t get that formal around here. If Aunt Estelle is family, she’s welcome.”

“My wife will be glad to hear that.”

Norcomb seemed to be pulling himself together in preparation for leaving, so Mark hurriedly said, “I know you’ve got to go back on duty, but I did wonder how Jane Doe came to be buried with the Spiveys. Is there reason to suspect she’s a relative?”

“We don’t have any idea of who she is, bless her heart.”

“Really? I realize it might not be proper to talk about an ongoing investigation…” He tried to bespell the man again, and was almost certain he felt something. Or maybe Norcomb just felt like talking.

He said, “The case is still open, but I wouldn’t exactly call it ongoing. That poor girl’s been dead over two years, and we don’t know a bit more than we did a week after we found her. Wasn’t far from where we are now, as a matter of fact. Just on the other side of that chicken barn you can see from the parking lot.”

“So it’s chickens in that building. What a stink!”

“You should smell then in the middle of summer. Anyway, some boys found the girl in a field, partially covered up with leaves and brush. She’d been stripped, and the killer bashed her face in so bad that she was unrecognizable, so we had no clue who she was. Nobody’s ever claimed her.”

“I read online that she was seen in Wal-Mart.”

“That’s right. The manager identified her from her hair, believe it or not. She had it dyed solid black and cut kind of funny. One of those Goths. We don’t get many of those in Allenville, which is why the manager remembered her. Even though she bought some things, she paid cash, so that was no help, and she wasn’t with anybody, either. I went through the store’s security tapes and got some pictures of her to run in the newspaper, but nobody knows who she is.”

“I take it that her purchases weren’t helpful, either.”

“Actually, that was kind of peculiar. She bought herself a whole outfit, and afterward, she went to the store’s bathroom, changed into the clothes she’d just bought, and threw the old stuff into the trash can.”

“That is peculiar.”

“My take is that she was in trouble, maybe drug-related, and wanted to disguise herself. But whoever was looking for her found her anyway, and nobody in town saw anybody suspicious.”

“Isn’t that strange in a small town?” Mark said, tactfully not suggesting that a local could have been involved.

“Not as much as you might think. We get all kinds of people passing through: runaways, transients of every description. Plus Raleigh is a big city, with big city problems, and sometimes that causes us problems, too.”

Having spent time in New York, Boston, and London, Mark didn’t see Raleigh as big or dangerous, but perspective was everything. “I still don’t understand how Ms. Doe came to be buried in the Spivey plot.”

“We kept her in cold storage for a while, hoping something would turn up, but decided it would only be right to bury her. Bob Henry at the funeral home donated a coffin and tombstone and the florist sent flowers, but when nobody had a burial plot they were willing to part with, I offered her a place with my family.”

“That was very decent of you.”

The cop looked abashed. “We had plenty of space—that whole corner of the lot was nearly empty. Besides, I was the first officer on the scene, and I feel bad that we’ve never found out who she was. Not that I’ve given up, mind you. There’s not enough time or money to keep an investigation moving indefinitely, but I’m like a bloodhound—I may not have a scent to go on now, but when I get one, I’ll not give up.” He started to rise again, and said, “Now I do need to get going. You have your wife give us a call, and we’ll pick out a nice place for Aunt Estelle.”

“I’d do that. Thank you very much for your time.”

“Hey, what are families for?”

The two men shook hands, and Norcomb headed for the door. Mark was about to follow him when he noticed his stomach was growling. Stella no longer needed food, other than the occasional dose of dark chocolate she claimed vampires required, but he still ate one or two regular meals a day. So when the waitress came to clear off Norcomb’s table, he ordered lunch.