Mary Jane's Grave (3 page)

“Wait? For what?” Naomi asked, wondering what I had up my sleeve.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m still trying to sort this one out. Meanwhile, we wait for lab reports, final and preliminary. We wait for officer reports and for someone to start talking or bragging. We also wait for any anonymous tips. You know this, Naomi. We’re in a holding zone right now.”

“I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “Has someone run record checks on those teens?”

“Of course,” I said, mildly annoyed. “I had Jerry run them.”

Coop, sensing my mood, started talking about his own high school experiences at Mary Jane’s Grave. They sounded the same as the rest of ours, mildly scary but ultimately uneventful. It was when he spoke of another incident that he got my undivided attention.

“I remember about fifteen years ago that a carload of kids from Madison High School got killed after leaving there.”

“I don’t remember that,” I said, perking up.

“It was a highway patrol case, all over the news. Weren’t you here in town?”

“Just get to the point and tell me what happened,” I snapped.

“Grrrr!” he said with a grin. “I guess someone needs her beauty sleep. Well, supposedly four teenage boys were down at the grave drinking, smokin’ dope, you know, what we all used to do. Anyway, according to the only survivor, they all pissed on the grave. On their way back, they hadn’t gone a mile when they wrapped their car around a telephone pole. The kid who survived claimed that an old woman in white was standing in the middle of the road and the driver swerved to miss her. He claimed he was the only one who hadn’t pissed on the grave.”

“You said that was a highway patrol case?”

“Yup.”

“Well, stories like that have been all over the Internet for years, Coop.”

“Not fifteen years ago, they weren’t.”

I thought about it for a minute and realized he was right. I loved Coop to death, but hated it when he got one over on me.

I decided to look at the file, even though I couldn’t imagine that the highway patrol kept fatal crash cases that far back, given how many there were each year. If all else failed, I could always get the name of the survivor from Coop and go talk to him myself.

After I finished my paperwork, which included the interviews, I saw it was getting late. However, I still had time to take care of something I’d been meaning to do for a long time. For some reason, I felt like doing it today.

Michael had been pressuring me to set a date for our wedding. I thought I would surprise him by getting the marriage license and bringing it home. I only had half an hour or so, since the courthouse closed at five.

I was whistling when I walked up the steps to the courthouse, thinking how good my life was and how happy I was. But these thoughts quickly faded when I told the clerk my name and Social Security number to obtain the license. She looked confused when she pulled my information up on the computer screen.

“Ms. Gallagher,” she said, looking at me with an odd expression on her face, “our computer is showing you’re still married to one Eric Schroeder.”

“That can’t be,” I protested. “We’ve been divorced for six months.” My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to breathe.

She gave me another look before walking away. I saw her go into an office and speak to a woman seated behind a desk, probably a supervisor. Good, I thought. Let’s get this straightened out. Dumb civil servants, couldn’t they keep track of recent records?

The woman behind the desk turned to her computer and typed something in, then spoke to the clerk, who finally came back out to talk to me. By this time, I had chewed my fingernails to the quick and almost lit a cigarette right then and there, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Ms. Gallagher, our records show where the request for the final hearing was entered, but no final divorce decree was ever filed. Did you attend a final hearing?”

“Of course I did!” I cried, my voice rising an octave. “I heard the judge say ‘divorce granted’ loud and clear.” I was now on the verge of panic.

“Ms. Gallagher, that very well may be, but apparently someone dropped the ball. The final divorce decree was never filed with the courts. That was your attorney’s responsibility. Therefore, you are still legally married and can’t apply for a marriage license.”

I was numb, sick and confused, my stomach now in knots, my happiness a distant memory.

“How could this happen?” I shouted. People stopped their chatter and looked at me, but I couldn’t have cared less.

“Ms. Gallagher, I assure you that my supervisor checked to make sure it wasn’t our mistake. I suggest you contact your attorney and inform him what happened. He should take it from there.”

I didn’t even answer. Instead I walked away, dazed. How on earth could I explain this to Michael, let alone tell Eric we were still married? I prayed it was all a mistake and tried to tell myself this wasn’t really happening. Too bad Eric hadn’t stepped up to the plate and married Jordan yet. We could have resolved this much sooner.

Michael and I had been through more rough patches than any two people deserved in a lifetime. It just wasn’t fair!

On my way home I called Bill Warren, my attorney. His secretary began to tell me he was in a meeting, but I cut her off and demanded that she put him on the phone, or else. She could tell by my voice I wasn’t in the mood for games, and a minute later Bill was on the phone.

“Hey, Cee,” he began, but I had no time for idle chitchat. “What the hell happened, Bill? I thought you filed my divorce papers! But I just came from the courthouse, and they never received them!”

He was quiet a minute and then assured me he would find out what happened and call me back, swearing up and down that he’d filed the final decree.

I dragged myself home, dreading what would come next. I found Michael in his study researching information on my bloody
M
. Thankfully, we had the house to ourselves since Selina and Isabelle were with Eric and Jordan for one more day.

Michael looked at my pale face as I stood in the doorway and immediately knew there was trouble.

“Cee, what’s the matter?” he asked, alarmed.

I walked over and sat down next to him. I knew no other way to tell him other than to just blurt it out. I inhaled deeply, and said, “Apparently, Eric and I are still legally married.”

He was so stunned he couldn’t even speak. “Devastated” didn’t even begin to describe the look on his face. You’d have thought I just told him I had a fatal illness. I did my best to comfort him, taking his hand and caressing his face, but all the while my heart was breaking for both of us.

I explained to him what had occurred at the courthouse, and after that, it didn’t take long for his anger to rise.

“Damn! This will take another sixty to ninety days, CeeCee! Jesus Christ, why do I have the feeling that son-of- a-bitch Eric had something to do with this?” He began pacing across the room.

Michael rarely swore, but when he did I usually remained silent and just let him vent. Frankly, I didn’t believe Eric had anything to do with this, but I didn’t say so right then. Eric and Michael had a volatile past and usually blamed each other for their personal disasters when possible. It was the only juvenile aspect of Michael’s personality, so I had learned to live with it.

“Please, sit down,” I finally said, patting the space beside me. “Bill promised me he’d find out what happened. Chances are, some dipshit clerk put the paperwork on her desk and forgot to file it. If that’s the case, he’ll refile the final paperwork and it’ll be done. Let’s not make too much out of it, okay? You could at least be happy that I went to get our license today.” I flashed a brilliant smile at him, hoping that would do the trick.

It did, and I knew the tantrum was over. I couldn’t blame him. I probably felt even worse. We decided to go out and grab a light dinner before turning in early. I was exhausted, and with the impending press release in the paper tomorrow, I expected another busy day. However, there was nothing that could have prepared me for what I was about to learn.

As I predicted, the local newspaper’s front page headlined the murder. And to add a bit of flair to the story, the paper ran a section of excerpts from people who claimed to have had some pretty unusual experiences while they were at the grave.

I read through them and laughed. So many of these “oddities” had rational explanations, such as the sudden loss of cell- phone service while in the area. Hey, I haven’t been able to get cell- phone service in the southern part of this county for five years. That’s because there’s no nearby cell tower.

As I was reading the reports, I realized that the reporter who’d written the story had attributed the excerpts he was quoting to a website. For example, a girl named Tracy wrote that three years ago she and two friends had been down at the grave and stabbed the tree with a knife. She claimed it began bleeding real blood. Evidently, this was not to be confused with the dark sap from the pine tree.

I saw nothing else in the article that grabbed my attention except the last account. Someone named Brian had claimed that when he and some friends were there four years before, they heard a baby crying. I found it interesting that this report matched the story that Nathan O’Malley had told us.

I picked up the phone and called the reporter, Max Cline. The two of us went way back, and I knew he’d give me the information I needed. He answered on the first ring.

“Cline here.”

“Max, it’s CeeCee Gallagher.”

“CeeCee! Hey, glad you called! You got something for me on this murder?”

“Not yet. I actually need something from you. I was just reading your article in the paper on the murder and one of those excerpts jumped out at me—the one from Brian. I want to look at his whole story, Max. Can you tell me where the website is?”

“It’s not a website, CeeCee. It came from a chat room.”

“How’d you get it?” I prodded.

“Interestingly enough, one of the girls who works here took part in a chat room discussion on Mary Jane’s Grave. The website was called Grave Addiction I think, and it was up maybe three years ago. She likes that spooky stuff, so she printed out the chat room transcript that day and hung on to it.”

“So only the people who’d logged on to the chat room that day would’ve heard these stories?”

“I guess, unless the other people saved it, too. But I’d say it’s unlikely. Why? It sounds like you’re onto something. Give me a hint. I need it for a story I’m writing.”

“Not yet, Max, but you’ll be the first to know when the time comes.”

It was highly doubtful that Nathan O’Malley had logged into the chat room three or four years ago. At the time, he would have been only twelve or thirteen years old. But as far as I was concerned, it still didn’t matter.

Stories like that, once heard, are passed around for years. I was sure Nathan had heard the crying- baby story from somebody, but why he felt the need to throw it in after the murder I had yet to figure out. I would definitely have to talk to those kids again.

I spent the next hour on the phone with the highway patrol trying to find out if they still had the fatal accident report Coop had told me about. The guys assured me that if they found it, they’d fax it to me at once.

I knew it would still be some time for the preliminary lab results to come in, so I thought I’d go see the accident survivor in person. Coop had given me his name and I was getting antsy, sitting around feeling useless.

Now thirty-one years old, Gary Fenner was a sales manager at a local car dealership. I didn’t call ahead for fear he’d hang up on me. After all, it was probably one of the worst experiences of his life and one he likely wouldn’t want to talk about.

It didn’t take me long to track him down to the new car lot. According to the salesman who greeted me at the front door, Gary was showing a young couple a sleek new SUV. He pointed to a tall, gangly, borderline homely guy whose nose took up most of his face. I walked over to him and pretended to look at a red Honda Accord. I always did like red cars, even though statistically they cry out, “Give me a ticket!”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Anything special you’re looking for?”

“Are you Gary Fenner?” I asked, even though I figured it had to be him.

“Yes, ma’am. Are you here on a referral?”

“Actually, no. I’m Sergeant Gallagher with the Richland Metro Police Department.” I handed him my card. “I need to ask you a few questions. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He paled, his friendly smile replaced by apprehension. “Can you tell me what this is about, Sergeant? I’m working.” He looked around nervously.

I explained what I wanted to talk about and watched his face go two shades lighter. I felt bad about making him talk about his past experience. It had to be hard for him. But it had to be done.

“I read about the murder today. I don’t know how I can help you.” He looked somber. “I don’t know how my accident could be of any help to you at all.”

My instincts told me he had more information than he was willing to share—information that could be helpful.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that, Gary,” I said soothingly. “Look, I just want to hear your recollection of events from that night.”

He looked around again, as if searching for a way out. He didn’t appear to be the type to take off running, but it was clear that the thought had crossed his mind. He began scratching the red hives that had appeared all over his neck. This guy was a walking ball of nerves. I did my best to try to calm him down.

“Gary, really, there’s no reason for you to be nervous—you’re not in trouble. I’m getting strange stories from these kids about the night of the murder and I just want to see if there’s any basis in fact.” I lowered my voice to what I hoped was an intimate tone. “I was told you had somewhat of a strange experience there, and I need you to tell me about it. Then I promise I’ll get out of your way, okay?”

He sighed, then suggested we go inside to the employee break room. “I’m due for a break anyway,” he said, “but I need to tell my boss I might need a longer one.”

He ushered me into a small room that contained a coffeepot, about a dozen chairs, and some pastries. Forcing myself to ignore the Danish, I gratefully reached for a cup of coffee while Gary went off in search of his boss. He was gone only for a few minutes before he returned and shut the door. I took out my tape recorder and explained that I’d be taping our conversation for his own protection. He slowly nodded.

“Gary, I want you to tell me everything you remember about the night of your accident. I know it was a long time ago, but anything you recall will be helpful.”

He sighed. “You know, I’ve tried everything known to man to forget that night, Sergeant. I never thought I’d have to relive it. Even though it was a long time ago, I remember everything.” He started playing with a pen that he pulled from his shirt pocket.

Gary began his story. He’d been a teenager at the time, and that previous July he and a few of his friends had gotten beer from their parents’ refrigerators and gone drinking on Trease Road, a stone’s throw from Mary Jane’s Grave. Trease Road was a dirt road with little to no traffic on it, a prime drinking spot for local teens. I remember visiting it a couple of times myself in high school. The kids were going to a party later on, but it was his friend Jesse Walters who suggested they go down to the grave.

“Everyone was all for it, except me. I was always chicken when it came to stuff like that. The place gave me the creeps, even in daylight.”

But Gary finally relented, giving in to his friends’ taunts. After standing at the site for only ten minutes, Jesse suggested they all urinate on the grave.

“He said, ‘Did ya hear that if you piss on her grave, you’re cursed for life?’ We were all laughing, still drinking, and Jesse walked right over and pissed on it. Cameron and Stevie did, too.”

“But you didn’t?” I asked. “Why not?”

“It wasn’t about the curse and all that horse shit. It was just that I’d been raised to respect the dead, and I didn’t feel right about pissing on anyone’s grave.”

Gary grabbed a coffee, threw in five packets of sugar and took a sip. He continued, explaining how the four of them had stayed a little longer, drinking and telling ghost stories. It was when they got into Jesse’s car to leave that he got spooked.

“On my way to the car, I passed through an area that was freezing cold—I mean, I could even see my breath, and it was summer! No one else said anything, so I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to sound like an ass.” He started to rub his temples with both hands. “I remember Stevie asking if any of us smelled something burning. None of us did, and at first I thought he was just trying to scare me, but when I saw the look on his face I knew he wasn’t joking. Right then, I just wanted to get the hell out of there.”

Gary suddenly excused himself and dashed to the restroom just outside the door. I had a feeling he was going to lose his coffee. So far, nothing he’d told me was outrageous or unexplainable. Everyone’s perceptions of sight, smell and sound can vary greatly, and being teenagers, one person’s imagination could scare the hell out of the rest of them.

It was a good fifteen minutes before Gary came back into the room. I was beginning to think he’d finally decided to take off, his nerves getting the better of him. I reminded him where he’d left off, and he began to talk about the car.

“Anyway, like I said, I just wanted to leave. I felt better when we were finally in the car. Then Jesse turned the key in the ignition and the damn thing wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. That’s when I got scared. I kept telling Jesse to let me out—I was in the backseat—so I could walk out of there, but he was swearing at his car. It was brand-new. All of a sudden, the car just blared on. Jesse hadn’t even turned the key again.”

“If you were in the backseat, how could you see that Jesse didn’t turn the key in the ignition?” I asked.

“He said he didn’t, that’s all. Stevie was in front and said Jesse didn’t, too.”

“Then what?”

“We left. Jesse drove like a bat out of hell down the road. When we finally came to the stop sign, they were all laughing like crazy. That’s when I decided they were all pulling my chain.” He paused.

“Go on.”

“We had just made the turn when Jesse floored it. He got up to about eighty when I looked up at the dash to see how fast he was going. That’s when I saw the woman.” He stopped, and I saw he was beginning to sweat.

“Tell me about the woman, Gary.”

“She was just standing in the middle of the road, wearing a long white nightgown. She was holding something wrapped in a blanket, and she was smiling.” He bit his lip, the image clearly as vivid as the night he’d seen it. “She had really long red hair, and she was pretty but…”

“But what?”

“She was pretty but scary. I don’t know how else to explain it, but once I saw her I yelled to Jesse, ‘Look out!’ That’s when he jerked the wheel to miss her. That’s the very last thing I remember until I woke up in the hospital and found out that everyone in the car but me was dead.”

I waited a few moments, absorbing everything Gary had told me. Unfortunately, no woman had been found at the scene, and no other witnesses were alive to confirm his story.

“Gary, do you remember how much you drank that night? Were you drunk?”

“I know what I saw, Sergeant,” he said firmly, looking offended.

“I’m not insinuating that you don’t, Gary. I just want to know how much you’d been drinking or if you’d taken any drugs.”

“I had, maybe, five or six beers, and yeah, I was buzzing. But I didn’t do any drugs that night. Never have, never will.”

I had asked Gary this question for several reasons. Alcohol consumption, drugs, and lack of sleep are just a few things that can cause hallucinations. I remember several years ago when I was working night-shift road patrol. I was so tired I thought I saw birds flying at my windshield and people ducking behind bushes. This was right before I fell asleep at the wheel and almost hit a telephone pole.

A sudden flash of light from an oncoming car could’ve caused Gary to think he was seeing a woman in white. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself, since his story was so illogical. He was scared after being at the grave. Mix the fear with alcohol and I was surprised he didn’t see the woman fly right at their car on a broomstick.

“Gary, I’m almost done. How many people have you told this to?”

“My parents and the state trooper who took my statement,” he said matter-of-factly, but I knew he was lying.

Obviously, he had told more people than that. Coop told me about it, saying he’d heard it from his little brother. After Gary claimed he had told me everything, I got up to leave. “Thanks for your help,” I told him briskly, ready to move on to other possibilities. “You can get back to your job. Looks like some folks out there may be in the market for that red Honda I had my eye on.”

Gary murmured something and raced out to the lot, ready to assume the role of Supersalesman once again.

As I drove back to the department, I thought about our conversation. Gary hadn’t told me anything that couldn’t be explained rationally, and now I was more convinced than ever that Kari Sutter’s friends had been connected to her murder. I just didn’t know how yet. But gunning my engine, I swore that I’d find out.