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***He stood on the edge of the ravine as Jimmy attached a towline to the rear bumper of his car and gently pulled it out. “It don’t look too bad,” he said, giving the engine and frame a once over. “I’ll take it back to the shop to be sure.” “Thanks Jimmy,” Pilate said, scanning the gravel road for signs of the truck that derailed him. “Hey, there’s sheriff,” Jimmy said, gesturing towards Scovill’s now familiar truck, heading for them. It looked a lot like the truck that ran Pilate off the road from that angle. Scovill stopped in front of Jimmy’s truck, climbing out of his own. Zipping up his coat, the butt of his pistol peeking out a slit in the side, Scovill walked over to the pair. “Bad?” he asked. Pilate shrugged. “Anything new on the case?” Scovill regarded him with his squinty eye. “You could say that,” “Oh?” Pilate said. Scovill cut his eyes to Jimmy, who took the hint and went about the business of preparing to tow the car into town. “When you were up at Monticello last night, did you see anything unusual?” Pilate shuddered inside at the sudden change in temperature from the sheriff. “I never made it to the cemetery, sheriff. Remember?” The sheriff looked into Pilate’s face as if his eyes were some kind of lie detector. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Scovill’s demeanor relaxed. He looked over his shoulder at Jimmy. “Why? Is something wrong at the cemetery?” Pilate said. “No,” Scovill said, taking a cinnamon toothpick from his pocket. “Not unless you count grave robbing.” He slipped the cinnamon toothpick into his mouth. # Scovill pulled into the cemetery, inching past the main yard slowly until he parked next to his deputy’s truck. It rested at the mouth of a path too small for most cars. He put the truck in park, pulled the keys and looked at Pilate. “Well come on,” he said. “You can see what happened up here last night.” Pilate slid from the truck’s seat and walked with Scovill down the path. Standing a few hundred yards away next to a series of crypts was Lenny, his deputy. Lenny was a paunchy, bearded man. Pilate had not spoken to him much, but had seen him in town here and there—usually at the grocery store, where Lenny would usually be picking up a suitcase of beer. “Anything new?” Scovill asked Lenny. The deputy shook his head, his beefy frame leaning against the largest of the crypts—his bulk obscured the names of the dead inscribed on the outside. Pilate observed that the old door of the crypt had been ripped almost completely from its hinges and crumpled inward. “Crowbar?” Scovill asked. Lenny pointed at the lock, where telltale signs of a crowbar or pry bar of some sort showed. “Uh huh,” Scovill said, peering closer. “You concur, Mr. Pilate?” Pilate smiled mildly and nodded. “You think it was kids?” “Could be.” Lenny handed Scovill a plastic Ziploc bag. Scovill held it up. In it was a red and white Cross College Cougars spirit ribbon, the kind worn on letter jackets and sweatshirts during pep rallies and basketball games. He handed the bag back to Lenny, then pulled a heavy flashlight from a loop on his belt and switched it on. “Come on, Mr. Pilate. Let’s see if there are any tales in this crypt.” “Um, isn’t this a crime scene?” Pilate sputtered. “I mean, shouldn’t I stay out of there?” Scovill turned his head halfway. “Well, yes, Mr. Pilate you would generally be correct, except when the duly-elected sheriff of the county invites you into the crime scene, then it’s okay.” “Well, why? I mean, thanks for the thought, but I really don’t know why you want me in there.” Lenny poked Pilate’s shoulder; more than a gentle nudge. Pilate held his hands up in a gesture of contrition and followed Scovill into the crypt. “Watch your step,” Scovill said. Pilate followed Scovill down four steps into a room that looked about twenty feet long and about twelve feet wide. The air was stale and still and smelled of the wet moldy burlap sacks his brother pushed him into one summer in his grandparents’ root cellar. Scovill shone his light around until he found a Coleman lantern hanging on a hook beside the door. He lit and hung the hissing lantern from a hook on a rusty chain dangling down in the center of the room. Pilate’s eyes adjusted. “Welcome to Castle Dracula,” Pilate said. Scovill grunted. Lining each side were three large ledges that held the coffins lengthwise; one coffin per ledge. Four of the coffins looked extremely old, at least seventy or eighty years. The two others looked newer, though exactly how new was hard to determine as they had been smashed open. A crumbling body lay on its face, spilling out of the coffin where it had been dragged off the ledge onto the floor. The perpetrators apparently hacked away at the lid until it opened. The dead man’s final suit was split up the back. Pilate read once that morticians often cut the clothing of the deceased to make the job of dressing the corpse easier. The corpse’s skin looked like old parchment, hanging on ribs and backbone in filthy, webby hunks. “Aw Jesus,” Pilate said, startled. “What the fuck?” “Easy,” Scovill said. He pointed his flashlight at the coffin across from the damaged one. It, too, was open, though still on the ledge. The corpse appeared to be that of an old woman. Steel grey hair clung to the skull with a thin layer of skin stretched over it; the eye sockets long ago sunken in. Her decomposition was less advanced than the man’s. “Oh God, it’s an old lady,” Pilate said, gagging. “Yup,” Scovill examined the other coffins, which appeared undisturbed beyond the dust being wiped from the nameplates affixed to the sides. “Looks like somebody was looking for someone in particular.” “What do you mean?” Pilate said, straining to read one of the nameplates. “Well, they apparently wiped the layers of dust off of each coffin, looking for a specific one, see?” He shone his maglite on the nameplates. Pilate cleared his throat; his gag reflex was kicking in. “What for? Did they molest the corpses or something?” Scovill looked at him as if he were an alien. “Well, I mean was it like a corpse desecration—a revenge kind of thing do you think?” “I have no idea, Mr. Pilate.” “Sheriff, you can call me John if you want,” Pilate said. Scovill lowered himself down on his haunches over the corpse of the man. “Lenny?” Lenny leaned in. “You call the county medical examiner?” Lenny nodded. “Grief?” He nodded again. A man of few words. “Good man.” Scovill reached towards the body. “Mr. Pilate, give me a hand. I want to look under the body.” “Oh good Christ. I can’t do that,” Pilate said, taking a step back. “Look, I need help,” he said patiently. “Well, what about Lenny?” Pilate said, his voice almost comically lowered so Lenny would not hear. “I mean all he’s doing out there is fantasizing about rabbits and beans with ketchup out there.” Scovill stood fully erect, facing Pilate, his flashlight shining under his face. “Mr. Pilate, these people are Lenny’s relations.” “Oh shit, is that why he’s staying outside?” “Out of respect, he don’t want to see them this way.” “You’d think people would be smart enough not to mess with a deputy sheriff’s family,” Pilate said. “Well, first off, they have a different last name, and second, they’re probably only third cousins,” Scovill said. “You can’t swing a dead cat in this county without hitting someone related to Lenny, anyway.” “Nice metaphor,” Pilate said. “Huh?” “Nothing. Let’s do it.” Pilate sighed and bent down over the body with Scovill. He gingerly placed his hands on the sides of the corpse’s shoulders, where a living person’s biceps would be. “Okay, gently dammit-- pull the body towards you. I’ll look under it,” Scovill said. To his relief, the corpse didn’t have much of an odor. It felt like a straw scarecrow his grandparents used to haul out every planting season. It was still substantial, but light and not too hard to move. “Uh,” Pilate said. “I’m looking,” Scovill said, his head to the floor with his light shining around underneath the corpse. “Anything?” “Uh uh. Looks like somebody went through the pockets, though. The shirt is untucked,” Scovill whistled. “What?” “Well, the shirt’s been unbuttoned, too. Torn open. Like somebody was searching the body,” he said. “For what?” Pilate was disgusted. “No idea. Okay, put him down.” Pilate eased the body down, rubbing his hands on his pants furiously. “Don’t worry, I don’t think you got any zombie cooties on you,” Scovill said. Both heard a voice from outside the crypt. “Sounds like Grief is here,” Scovill said, walking up the stairs. “He’s not going to take this well.” “Well, at least it’s repeat business,” Pilate said. “Mr. Pilate, I’m sorry if this whole thing spooked you a little, but that kind of remark is really uncalled for.” Scovill’s jaw clenched around every syllable. Before Pilate could reply in apology, a tall, thin silhouette filled the doorway. “Mom? Dad? Oh no. Oh no,” he said, his voice quavering. “Grif, I’m sorry,” Scovill said. # Before Pilate exited the crypt he took in the sorry surreal sight of Grif Nathaniel weeping quietly, gingerly cradling his father’s corpse in his arms. Outside, Pilate looked at Lenny as he walked a few feet away from Pilate, revealing the name NATHANIEL carved in the side of the crypt. Pilate stepped a few feet in the opposite direction and lit a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling the smoke into the cold air. The sun averted its gaze behind some grey clouds. He spied a white marble stone a few feet away, crooked and cracked, the name worn away by the elements. He glanced at his watch. Shit. He still had to go see Dean Trevathan. Scovill appeared in the crypt’s doorway, zipping up his jacket. He put a hand on Lenny’s shoulder, said something in his ear and then walked over to Pilate. His squinty eye gazed past Pilate towards the college, which looked like a toy town from a train set in the valley below. “Thanks for your help in there.” “Sure. I’m, uh, sorry about what happened,” Pilate said. “I hope you don’t think that uh…” Scovill cocked his head and looked at Pilate. “What? That you broke into your new girlfriend’s family crypt? Not fucking likely.” Pilate knew that now was not time to argue the semantics of whether Kate Nathaniel was his girlfriend; especially since he was on a credibility-losing streak and the notion supported his alibi. “That’s good,” Pilate said, turning to look down the valley. “Wait a minute! Wait just a damn minute. Do you think the guy who knocked me off the road did this?” Scovill looked amused in that irritating way of his. “Well done, Sherlock.” “Well, that helps. How many students have trucks?” “Students?” “Well, you found the spirit ribbon,” Pilate said. “I also found Jesus when I quit drinking a few years ago and I’m pretty sure he was in this tomb, too--but that don’t mean nothing,” Scovill said. “Even if we didn’t find anything in there, logic dictates that it was somebody from around here. If that’s the case, they more than likely work at, go to or support the college in one way or another.” Pilate couldn’t fault his logic. It could be a student or employee, or a booster for that matter. Crap. “So where does that leave us?” “It leaves you on your way back to the college, Mr. Pilate,” he turned on his heel and walked back toward the path. “With the thanks of the county for your assistance in our inquiries.” Pilate started to follow Scovill when Grif exited the crypt, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. “Sheriff, I’ll wait with Lenny for the M.E.,” he said. “When he’s done looking over the remains, I’m going to take Mom and Dad over to the home and fix them up before they’re re-interred.” “You bet, Grif. Just wait until Doc Hutton is finished before you move them around, okay?” his tone was gentle. Grif nodded and looked up at Pilate. Pilate nodded, his face somber. “Mr. Pilate was on the road last night when a potential suspect ran his car into the ditch,” Scovill said. “He was giving me his report.” “Oh, I see. Hello Mr. Pilate,” Grif said, the weariness behind his eyes unbearable. “Good to see you again.” “I’m so sorry to see you under these circumstances,” Pilate said. “Me too, though in my line of work I’m used to seeing people at bad times,” he said. “Odd to have the shoe on the other foot.” “Yes, well, if there is anything I can do,” Pilate said. “Thank you,” Grif said. “You could do me a favor, if it’s okay.” “Name it,” Pilate said. “Would you tell Kate what happened for me? I am going to be a little tied up today, and it would be better if she heard details from a friend instead of the grapevine.” “Sure. I’ll tell her when I get back to the office,” Pilate said, shaking Grif’s proffered hand. Pilate again wiped his hand furiously on his pants as soon as he was out of sight down the trail. Buy your copy here. 
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