Chapter 8: Here Lies ...
Three police cars came up the drive into the parking lot of the cementary
a little past 8:00 this morning. They were called by the curator of the
grounds, an old gentlemen who for the past 20 years had cared for the
town’s oldest cemetary. He greeted the police officers as they parked
their cars one-by-one, first one car, then a second, and finally a third.
“What’s wrong, George?, one officer asked as he stepped up
from the car, “looks like you had some mischief here last night?”
George nodded in agreement as he pointed to the clothes scattered all
over the place, including some abandoned shoes and the three cars down
at the other end of the parking lot.
“There wasn’t any damage,” he finally said, as a couple
of officers reached down to examine two articles of clothing that blew
just suddenly from a gust of wind from the edge of the cemetary grounds
over across the parking grounds, “I mean, they didn’t tip
over any tombs like some of those damn kids do. They probably has some
orgy or the like, figurine on the way ‘dese clothes were all strung
about. Certainly not my place to have some hanky panky.”
Two of the officers smiled, somewhat embarrassed by the suggestion. George
was never known to keep his thoughts quiet.
One officer piped up, “well, why the sudden 911, George. You seemed
somewhat panic when I talked to you earlier.”
The curator turned to face his questioner, “it’s because what
I found over there” The curator points off in the far direction
of the cementary, over by the abondoned automobiles.
“Go on!,” the officer demanded, motioning him to hurry with
his story.
“Well, when I came up here this morning, I saw the three cars abondoned
over there. I thought to myself, damn kids playing a Halloween trick or
maybe they were in those cars a necking. So I went over there to see what
was going on. Nobody in the cars. Nobody. They were all empty. So I thought,
maybe, they running in the cementary, causing trouble, like they usually
do.”
Two of the officers leave to inspect the cars. The other one stands with
his arms folded, somewhat impatient with the long story.
“So I walked around to that fancy red car over there,” the
currator points to an red sports car where one of the officers was climbing
inside for evidence and continues, “and on the ground, when I came
around, I found this gun, loaded and cocked.”
The curarator pulls from his sack a shining, black handgun, fully loaded,
and cocked. Two of the officers backed up, expecting any moment that the
gun would go off by the misguidance handling of the currator. The officer
closest to the curator grabs the barrel and removes the gun from the curator’s
grasp.
“Where did you find this,” the officer asks, as he releases
the trigger.
“Over there, on the ground, next to that red car. It was just lying
there,” the curator says. “Then when I picked it up, I caught
something in my eye, over there, next to the cementary grounds.”
The officers look in the direction the curator was pointing, but didn’t
notice anything that was unusaual. The curator needed to explain himself
further, and the lead officer prodded him on.
“Go on, George. Let’s get to the issue at hand, here,”
the officer quipped.
“Come follow me,” the curator demanded. “ I will show
you what I mean.
The curator motioned the officers forward as he lead the group to the
other end of the parking lot, down the ridge that separates the lot from
the cementary, and onto the cementary grounds over to a large monument.
All of the officers followed. The curator stops in front of the monument,
places his hands on his hips, and then says triumphantly, as though he
had just solved the mystery at hand, “someone erected this huge
monument sometime yesterday after I left. This wasn’t here yesterday.
I know this cementary better than I do my wife.”
One officer bent down to the ground and picked up something small. “Shots
were fired, “ he remarks, and holds the spent casing up so that
everyone could see. Everyone joined his comrade to get a better look,
except one lone officer who stood motionless in front of the tomb. Another
officer found a second casing. Then a third. Some crime was committed,
and the officers now felt their time here was not in earnest.
Several of the officers began scanning the grounds. One of the officers
who was investigating the red car joined his comrades and handed some
papers to the lead officer. He likewise joined his comrades for further
evidence.
The lead officer examined the papers, then looked at the momument, only
looking back at the papers in his hands. The curator joins the lead officer
standing next to the monument. They both stare silently without a word.
Suddenly, the curator opens up, “do you see what I mean.”
The officer nods. He looks down on the papers he grabbed from the car.
It was the registatioin papers. It read:
Clay Sabastion Davidson
1456 Crawford Lane
Birth Date: July 12, 1981
He looks back up at the monument. He shakes his head as though something
doesn’t make sense. He stares again. It read:
Here lies: Clay Sabastian Davidson
Conceived: Halloween Night 1980
Died: Halloween Night 2000
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