CHAPTER 1
The man’s labored grunting kept an eerie cadence with the wind whistling through the tall pines. Occasionally, he paused to catch his breath and gaze up at the hunter’s moon, a puff of chilled air rhythmically escaping his mouth, a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead reflecting the moon’s pale glow. After a minute or so of lost thought, the man shook his head, spraying tiny droplets of sweat onto the small mounds of freshly turned dirt scattered around him, picked up his shovel, and returned to his work.
Twenty minutes or so later, the man’s persistence paid off, as the last swing of his shovel resulted in a solid “thunk” of metal on wood. As if in agreement, the wind seemed to rise up for a moment, as if shrieking in glee, only to subside as the man let out a short harsh bark when he realized that he had reached his goal.
Setting his shovel against a granite stone, the man disappeared back into the pit, and, on his hands and knees, began to feverishly claw at the rest of the dirt covering his prize, his breath coming in faster gasps, as anticipation spurred a surge in his adrenaline.
Rapidly, the dirt was cleared away, showing the outlines of a large, wooden box, approximately 7’ long and about 30 inches wide. It was built from hearty oak and was nailed solidly shut. But the man had prepared for this. With a nimble leap that belied the bulk underneath his heavy coat, he leapt out of the pit, and walked over to his car, a beat-up, late 90s American model, it’s hubcaps missing, and its muffler hanging low to the ground. Reaching in through the driver’s window, he popped the trunk. Walking quickly around to the rear of the car, he rummaged through a burlap bag, eventually producing a chisel, a worn hammer, and an iron crowbar.
Slamming the trunk shut, he strode back to the open pit with his tools, and jumped back in, a hollow, dull echo coming from the wooden box as he landed. Quickly, he took the hammer and chisel to the wood around the nails. When he had enough of a nail showing, he switched to his crowbar, and began prying it loose. One by one, the nails came free, some of them screeching, as if in dying protest. The man’s strident gasps had turned to pants of excited anticipation, as his goal was finally coming into reach.
With a last, powerful tug, the final nail gave up, and with a small cry of triumph, the man tossed the tools out of the pit. Putting his dirt-encrusted fingers under the edge of the lid, he heaved up, and with a mighty toss, threw the box cover onto the wet grass above, then turned, and gazed down at his prize.
There, nestled in the velvety innards of the oak box, was the slightly desiccated corpse of a woman. The skin on her face was drawn tight from dehydration, her hair a dark reddish brown, but brittle and wiry. Her eyes and mouth were both closed, but even with the ravages of time and the funereal makeup, it was readily apparent that in life, this was once a beautiful woman.
The man was now gazing down at her with something akin to rapture, his eyes wide and glowing in reflection of the watchful moon. His mouth was open, grinning wide, his lungs pumping out heaving lungfuls of the cold, chilly air. Straddling the dead woman, with his arms at her sides and his hands slowly opening and closing, with a cold mist coming off of his bald head in wispy trails, the man looked almost otherworldly.
Kneeling down over the woman, he fumbled in his jacket pocket, finally producing a small bottle of Vaseline. With shaking hands, he hastily unscrewed the cap, and with a grimy finger, scooped out a small amount of the gooey product. Raising his finger, he applied the Vaseline to his lips. Just then, a large, dark cloud began to cover the moon, as if to darken the innocent world of what was to come. The man then leaned down over the woman, and with his hand, he gently brushed her hair away from her forehead. Bending lower so that his face was inches from hers, he gazed at her closed, dead eyes, his cold breath caressing her cheeks.
“I finally found you.” He uttered in a hoarse low whisper. Then, bending lower, he gently kissed her forehead, the wet Vaseline becoming a bridge between his life and her death.
CHAPTER 2
Gradually, the world began to come online as my brain slowly registered the repeating humming sound of my cell phone. Muttering a low curse, I rolled over in the dim pre-dawn light and reached out, fumbling around on my nightstand. Finally locating the source of my irritation, I squinted at the bright blue rectangle, and recognizing the backlit name, hit the green button, officially announcing my entrance to the coming day.
“Johns”, I croaked out, my dry vocal cords protesting the rude awakening.
“Harper, it’s Addison”, the voice replied curtly, identifying itself as Addison Barnes III, my newly minted Police Chief. “Sorry to wake you so early, but there’s been an incident relating to one of your open cases. You need to get down here asap”.
Mentally shaking the cobwebs permeating my head, I ran through my four open cases. Propping myself up on an elbow and clearing my throat, I replied “which one, Delacruz?” referring to my most recent case involving a small-time thief who had been identified as the culprit who knocked over two pawn shops and a jewelry store.
“No.” Addison replied. “It’s Newton. Alison Newton”
That name instantly cleared my head. My most confounding case, a vicious murder. One that I honestly had felt would be making its way down to the cold case files in the very near future.
“Newton?” I asked, fully alert now. “What the hell happened?”
“She’s been disinterred. I need you to get over to the cemetery. Now, before the media catches wind of it.” Addison added.
Dug up? Alison Newton? I asked myself. Why? And Who? “On my way.” I replied to Barnes, thumbing my phone and swinging my legs off the bed, ignoring the sudden dizzying head rush that suddenly enveloped me.
Clicking on my bedside lamp, I rose, and strode to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and get ready.
A few minutes later, after clearing soapy water from my tired eyes, I looked into the mirror at the face staring back at me. I was thirty-eight years old, with hazel eyes and dark wavy brown hair that was beginning to beat a steady retreat off of my forehead. The day-old dark stubble on my jaw was peppered with flecks of gray, and a white scar on my cheek that I had received from the wrong end of an assailant’s knife gave my face a toughened, weathered look.
Bringing a hand towel to my face, I scrubbed vigorously, feeling the satisfied sting of stimulated skin cells wakening to the morning. Walking over to my dresser, I reached for my watch, and my glance drifted to my wedding band, mixed in with my keys and loose change in a small ceramic bowl. Grimacing slightly, I strapped on my watch, grabbed my keys, and finished getting dressed.
CHAPTER 3
Five minutes later, backing out of the driveway of my suburban townhouse, I mentally calculated the quickest way to the Great Oaks cemetery that had a Starbucks on the way. Alison Newton? I wondered again, as I pulled out into the early morning traffic. Dug up? What they hell?
As I began the 15-minute drive, I reflected back to the Alison Newton case six months ago:
It was the first week of March, and true to its reputation, March was roaring in like a lion. At the time, I was on the night rotation, and on this particular night, the wind was fiercely whipping snow against the station’s frosted window panes like little flashing white diamonds, tapping lightly to get my attention. Inside, central heating was struggling to keep the old, leaky building warm, as evidenced by the noisy space heaters squatting in the corners of the room.
My partner and I were doing busy work on our computers when the squad phone suddenly rang, jarring us out of our respective dazes. Startled, we looked at each other, then at the phone. My partner reached first and brought the receiver to his ear.
“Kaplan.” He growled. Anders Kaplan, my partner at the time, was one of those types whose voice fit his looks perfectly. A beefy, middle-aged Belgian immigrant in his late forties, Anders always sported a scruffy, graying beard, outlining his fleshy, careworn face, and an untamed head of wiry, full graying hair. If he had ever worn a dress shirt and a tie, I had never seen it in the twelve years that we had worked together. Today, he had on a flannel red and black checkered shirt, rumpled trousers, and black work boots. The only way you could tell he was a detective was the shield strapped to his belt and his sidearm holster fitted over his shoulder.
“Okay.” He said, after listening for a moment. “Where?” More silence. “On our way.” He replied as he hung up, jotting something down on a coffee-stained pad with a chewed-up pencil.
I stared at him. Waiting. The room was dead silent except for the whirring of the space heaters and the ongoing scratching of Anders’ pencil.
“Well?” I finally asked, impatiently. “What’s up?”
Anders looked up, seemingly oblivious to my tone, his pencil hovering. “Gimme a sec”, he muttered, returning to his notepad.
Anders has been a naturalized citizen for almost ten years now, but he still has difficulty writing in English, which I have never quite understood, but have learned to work with. Sort of.
Taking a deep breath, I waited. Anders finished writing and announced, reading from his notes “Homicide off Wilkes, alley behind a strip mall. You ready?” he asked me, heaving his bulk out of the creaky chair.
I stared at him. “It took that long to write down that one sentence?”.
Shrugging on his overcoat, he turned, glared at me, and was about to bite off a retort, but instead muttered something I can only assume was in Dutch, and headed for the door. Sighing, I let it go. Anders was a good detective and friend, and I can tend to get cranky on the long, slow night shifts. Swiping a set of keys off the pegboard by the door, I followed him out into the swirling snow.
We arrived at the scene in our unmarked car, just as the Medical Examiners van pulled up. Stepping out into the biting cold, I glanced over at Anders. True to form, he didn’t bother with a gloves or hat, his red cheeks the only indication that his body was reacting to the cold. He looked back at me, gave a quick frosty exhale, and a short nod. I nodded back. Time to get serious.
Wilkes was located in what we affectionately termed the “scruffy” side of Wolf Hollow. Where the more affluent homes and businesses were closer to the ocean, this lower-income, working class neighborhood was at the base of the hills that eventually turned into an arm of the Blue Ridge mountains. Here was where the residents wore jeans and wool jackets, sported day-old beards, and lived in apartment buildings, duplexes, and 2-bedroom houses with chipped paint and world-weary windows staring enviously down at the neat and tidy shoreline. The businesses here were primarily in strip malls, and the restaurants and watering holes served fried foods, cheap draft beer, and downtrodden service.
The strip mall that fronted the scene of this crime fit in perfectly. Scanning the storefronts as we made our way around to the alley in the back, I noted there was a hair salon, a coin-operated laundry, an insurance agency, and a small local bar called The Wolf’s Den, as well three empty spots with “For Rent” signs and yellowed tape on the windows.
Walking around to the back alley, I nodded briefly to the officer who raised the crime-scene tape as I showed him my badge, and ducked underneath. About twenty feet ahead, next to a dumpster that looked like it served the salon and one of the vacant spots, the ME was already kneeling down, examining what appeared to be a young, deceased female, propped up against a dumpster. Walking towards the scene, I took a quick look around. The alley was bordered on one side by the back of the strip mall, and the other by a six-foot wooden slatted fence, which appeared to have a set of low-rise apartments behind it. Beyond the apartments, the wooded hills gently rose into the snowy dark sky.
Returning my gaze to the alley, I stepped carefully to avoid the evidence cones that marked footprints in the thin layer of snow, and addressed the CSI investigator who was walking the scene with a camera around his neck.
“Make sure you get those prints first,” I told him, indicating the footprints, “with this weather and the swirling wind, those prints could disappear any minute.”
“You got it detective,” the young man replied, shivering,” I started on them as soon as we got here”.
Crouching down, I took a look at the prints. “What do you think, maybe a work boot?”, I asked the CSI.
“That’d be my guess.” He said. “Probably men’s size 11 or 12. I can run the tread when I get back to the lab, see if we can narrow down the manufacturer”.
“Sounds good, thanks”. Mentally filing that away, I returned to observing the scene. The body was sitting, leaning against a scarred, gray-green dumpster, its head slumped to the side. The blood surrounding the body had melted the thin layer of snow, creating a goopy red slush. The ME was gloved up and examining the body, dictating to her assistant that was standing next to her. I could hear some metallic banging around, and looking up, saw the back of an officer, standing in the dumpster, going through the garbage.
Reaching the body, I looked down, and experienced a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid wind swirling around me. The woman looked to be around five foot four and slender underneath an open woolen sailor’s coat. She also had on a knitted black cap that was knocked slightly askew, non-descript pants, and worn sneakers. Underneath the coat, she had on a red turtleneck, that was stained darker by the blood that had coagulated around a very obvious chest wound. Raising my eyes to her face, I saw dark brown eyes, a straight nose, pencil-thin eyelashes, and full red lips, all framed by dark, chestnut-colored curly hair. For a brief, shocking moment, I thought I was staring at the corpse of my ex-wife. Then my eyes traveled down to the exposed side of her neck, where my Angie had a brown circular birthmark. This young lady had no such birthmark, and I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Angie, though it could very easily be her sister.
Shaking myself, I looked behind me at Anders, who was bent over with his hands on his knees, staring at me.
“You okay?” He asked. “She looks just like-“
“I know.” I cut him off. “She’s not, and I’m fine. Doc, what have we got?”
Chief Medical Officer Jan Rojas looked up at me as she finished checking the victim’s core temperature.
And that’s when all hell broke loose.
“White fem-“ she began, as suddenly a loud crack permeated the night, followed quickly by a sharp clang of metal on metal. Rojas, who had been facing me as she was answering my question, dropped her jaw open as her face was suddenly covered in red spray. Simultaneously, I felt what I thought was warm liquid hitting the back of my head.
Instantly recognizing the sound of a gunshot, I shouted “Down!”, and rolled forward, pulling Rojas with me as I frantically reached for my gun. As I turned around toward where I guessed the sound had come from, I saw Anders toppling forward, his face a bloody mess from a very obvious exit wound.
I heard a shout, and above me I could also hear a sudden exclamation from the officer in the dumpster as he took cover, hopefully drawing his weapon as well. Grabbing Rojas by the arm I began pulling her around to the back of the dumpster, yelling at her assistant to go for cover as well.
Reaching the backside of the dumpster, I finally freed my gun, just as Jan’s assistant scrambled around the corner. I silently hoped that the CSI and the perimeter officer had been able to find shelter as well.
“Officer!” I shouted, “Radio that there have been shots fired here, and to send backup immediately! Shots fired!”
I could hear him scrabbling around in the dumpster, and then the panicked voice of the scared officer calling it in.
“Anders!” I shouted. “Take cover! Get out of there!”. But there was no reply, and when I heard no movement, my gut turned ice cold. “Anders!” I shouted again. Nothing.
CHAPTER 4
Shaking myself out of my reverie, I returned my attention to the road.
No more shots were fired that night. Anders had been shot and killed by a high-powered rifle. Ballistics were a total loss, since after the bullet had passed through Anders’ head, and then had ricocheted off the dumpster, damaging it beyond analysis. The shooter’s location had been found, a couple hundred yards up the hill beyond the apartments behind the fence. No shell casings, but a knee print and boot prints that matched the prints found at the Newton crime scene.
The logical conclusion that was drawn then was that this scene was a set-up, an assassination of a police officer, one Anders Kaplan. The young woman who had brought us there was Alison Newton. Someone had deliberately murdered her, someone who knew that Kaplan was on duty, and would be at the scene. Someone who had motive, and created their own twisted, sick opportunity.
Poor Alison Newton, who was just used to draw Anders out. It was found that she was 28 years old, and had taken a single fatal stab wound to the chest, with no signs of a struggle. The time of death was estimated at two to three hours prior. Miss Newton didn’t have much of a history. Outside of living in a low rent but very tidy apartment, she worked part-time as a storage facility monitor, and delivered pizza for the Wolf’s Den in the strip mall at night. Her neighbors said she was quiet and kept to herself. No friends of note and no family could be located. Alison appeared to have met a very unfortunate and tragic end to her short life.
Anders had already been thoroughly vetted prior to his going to the North Carolina police academy, and again upon his subsequent hiring by the Wolf Hollow police department. He had been born and raised in Antwerp, Belgium. His father was an art appraiser for the Rubens House, an art gallery in the heart of Antwerp. His mother, a real estate attorney specializing in corporate acquisitions. They emigrated to the United States when Anders was eight, moving to Raleigh when his mother was offered a job with the district attorney’s office. His father free-lanced for an art insurance company and bartended at a local German restaurant on the side. Then, tragically, when Anders was 20, his parents were hit and killed by a drunk driver. Anders, legally an adult, applied to and was accepted by the police academy, and had been a stand-up cop for the past twenty years.
Despite the department’s best efforts, no leads were uncovered in either murder, and the cases had been dead in the water. Until now.
Turning my unmarked Cutlass off the tree-lined Verona Drive leading up to Oak Hill Cemetery, I slowly drove to the old, grey-stoned structure that dominated the verdant hilltop. The main building served for funeral showings and office work, and below, resided the mortician’s sanctuary of this centuries-old resting place.
Gravel crunching beneath my tires, I circled around back, where the entrance to the actual cemetery was. Laid out before me was a undulating field of green with evenly-spaced rows of headstones resting between gnarled oaks, old hickory trees and vibrant red maples. Directly in front of me sat a low, hand-made stone barrier with two walkway entrances that were just wide enough to let a large vehicle through.
Carefully guiding my car through the north entrance, I entered the burial fields, following the path toward the cluster of vehicles I could see a few hundred yards ahead.
I pulled up next to the CSI van, shut off the engine, and stepped out onto the soft grass, still dewy from the early morning mists. A gentle breeze accompanied by the quiet background music provided by chirping songbirds lent an aura of restful peace, a direct contradiction to the open grave and two police officers with grim faces standing nearby.
Glancing around, I noted a bony man holding a spade sitting on a metal bench nearby. He was probably in his late 50s, deeply tanned, and dressed in overalls with an Atlanta Braves cap perched securely on his head. A mini back-hoe was sitting behind him, waiting patiently. The man glanced up as I circled the front of my car, and his tired eyes reflected a silent resignation of someone who has lived around death all of his adult life. I gave him a curt nod as I walked by and turned towards the crime scene. The CSI tech was still sitting in his van, talking on his phone, and nodded somberly as I passed by.
The officers went silent as I approached, and I noted that one of them was the young officer who had been rooting around in the dumpster the night Alison was murdered. Looking at him, he had a haunted expression on his face, as if he were wishing he was anywhere but here.
Pulling a pen and worn notepad from my breast pocket, I ducked underneath the yellow tape and approached the gravesite. Carefully avoiding a set of footprints that ran from the grave to the walkway, I approached the hole, with a mound of still-fresh turned dirt piled next to it. A few feet farther from the hole, what looked like the top of a coffin lay on the wet ground. Passing Alison’s gravestone, I closed my eyes briefly, and ran my hand gently over the coarse top. Alison Newman. Born August 11, 1984. Died March 4, 2011. No epitaph. No family to provide one.
Reaching the edge of the pit, I crouched down, and gazed into what could only be described as the most gruesome sight I had ever seen. The pit was about eight feet deep, and the coffin cover was off, confirming my earlier observation. Inside, Alison was laid out in the velvety confines of her last resting place, her head facing up, dark hair splayed out, eyes mercifully closed. Her white funereal gown had been ripped open down the center, buttons and frill torn off, completely exposing her pale, naked corpse. Alison’s arms had been raised above her head, her pallid wrists draped over the edge of the coffin. Her legs were parted as far to the sides of the box as could be, with crumbs of dirt, twigs, and leaves scattered about. What appeared to be sharp bladed slices permeated her torso, with no leaking blood to provide color against her pale, lifeless skin. Looking at the body, it was almost as if she had been deliberately laid out spread-eagled, completely defenseless.
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