beneath the cross, the morning sunlight dancing off the remains of the beer bottle he had shattered during his game of graveyard baseball. The shards of glass were wet, thanks to the sprinkler system. Most likely, the spray from the aged pipe would have eliminated his fingerprints as thoroughly as any dishwasher.
Still, Steve wished that he had removed the broken glass. Jesus, he had remembered to collect his tools, baseball glove, Royce Lewis’s flashlight, even the beer bottle that had missed the tombstone when the umpire surprised him. Why hadn’t he remembered the broken glass? It could be a real problem. Graveyard baseball wasn’t in vogue anymore, and he had been the main proponent of the game back in high school. There were no official records of that, of course. He had never been caught by night watchmen cops, but there were more than a few people who might remember his passion for a good game under the moon.
Bat Bautista, for one. But Bat Bautista wasn’t a policeman. He couldn’t connect Steve to this scene. He wouldn’t even hear about it, because any details pertaining to the case would be kept out of the newspapers.
Brakes screeched on the twisting drive. Another patrol car. Kellogg hurried toward it, yellow boots squealing over the slick grass. Sergeant Mick Chestney stepped from the patrol car, his lips quivering into a smile at the sight of Kellogg’s yellow boots.
Steve leaned on the broken glass with the heel of his boot, quietly crushing the shards into smaller bits. Pleasant pops and crunches filled the air. He thought of breakfast cereal. Snap, crackle, pop. Yeah. This was the way to get the morning started. Soon the shards were little brown pebbles. Wet pebbles reflecting a brown sky, a brown sun. Wet, sharp pebbles reflecting Steve’s face, chopping his features into weird sections. Steve confronted his smile, dissected there at his feet, as brown as a faded photograph. His twisted lips were trembling, and he imagined that they were a picture of his guts. Ground glass cutting through him, freeing something that had been asleep for a long time, something he couldn’t deal with. Something-
He bit off an uneasy laugh. Hell, there was nothing to worry about. Sergeant Chestney hated baseball. He was a football nut who had come to the department from New England because he was tired of shoveling snow. He had only been in town for a year. He wouldn’t know graveyard baseball from surfing. He didn’t even know that Steve had played high school ball.
But Chestney and Kellogg were heading in his direction, and Steve couldn’t hear what they were saying. He moved away from the glass, keeping his eye on the ground, as if intently searching for clues.
“Is there any way that we can conduct our business in my office?”
Chestney looked at the undertaker as if he were the stupidest creature on earth. “This is a crime scene,” he said simply.
The sergeant took a few moments to get the story from Steve. They talked it over, ignoring Ernest Kellogg as best they could, and then they went into clean-up mode. First Chestney got on the radio and sent another unit to the hospital with instructions to interview Royce Lewis should he regain consciousness. Then he returned to the grave and photographed the crime scene. Meanwhile, Steve popped the trunk of his cruiser and grabbed a fuchsia-colored roll of plastic tape.
The rule of thumb with a crime scene was always go too big. Later you could shrink the scene if necessary, but you couldn’t make it bigger since evidence outside the original line might have been disturbed in the interim. Steve knotted the tape around the base of a tree. He made his way from the tree to a tombstone that had served as first base in last night’s game. He circled the tombstone with tape, blindfolding a couple of marble cherubs.
“Officer Austin?” It was Ernest Kellogg’s voice. “A moment, please? Have you forgotten the service that I mentioned?”
“No. I haven’t forgotten, Mr. Kellogg.”
“Well, in light of this morning’s events…this is difficult situation. Might we forego the tape until…oh, say nine-thirty or so?” Steve graced Kellogg with Chestney’s patented stupidest creature on earth glare. “This is a crime scene,” he said, echoing the sergeant’s words, and he continued on with the tape. Ran it to the marble Christ out in centerfield, did a little mummy-wrap job on the son of God. Snaked it around a simple cross that had been third base, drawing the tape taught. Tied off behind home plate-April’s grave.
Turned and saw Kellogg frozen between first and second-too much of a leadoff for any base runner. An easy pick-off play. It was stupid, daydreaming like that. Steve knew it. He wasn’t Walter Mitty. He had to concentrate. Take care of business.
Be careful.
Chestney called him over. Together they asked Kellogg a few more questions, but the undertaker didn’t have anything to add to his initial statement. “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” was the general tone of his comments.
Chestney walked Steve back to his patrol car. He took a towel from the trunk and tossed it to Steve, and Steve started cleaning the mud from his boots and his uniform. “We’ll get someone out to do some plaster work on the tire tracks,” Chestney said. “That might give us something. The rest of it-well, who the hell knows.”
Steve nodded.
“What do you think?”
“Satanists.” The word popped out of Steve’ mouth like an answer in a word association test.
“Yeah.” Chestney shook his head. “Shit. You’re’ probably right.” He gave Steve a long, cool look which was interrupted when a white hearse turned slowly onto the snaking drive.
A line of cars followed suit. A short beat passed before Ernest Kellogg noticed the hearse. The two cops exchanged smirks as the undertaker ran toward it, yellow boots pumping like muddy pistons in some kid’s toy, black tie flying over his shoulder.
Chestney laughed. “Now that’s something you don’t see everyday.”
The hearse passed by. Steve’s gaze didn’t follow it. He was staring at a stand of eucalyptus trees a hundred yards away. A garden of granite and marble lay between him and the trees.
Something yellow darted from behind a tombstone on the edge of the cemetery and raced into the dark shadows that pooled beneath the eucalyptus trees.
Steve’s heart raced as if he himself were running. Chestney hadn’t noticed a thing. He eased into his car and started the engine. He said, “You mind doing the paper on this one, Steve?”
“No. Not at all.” Steve pointed at the grove of eucalyptus. “Maybe I’ll take a look around, though. Check for signs of satanic worship. See if I can turn up something a little more tangible than a hole in the ground.”
“Sure. We’ll cover your beat. You take your time and do it up right. You know that’s the way I like it.”
“Sure,” Steve said.
Steve climbed behind the wheel of his cruiser. So far, so good. He was still a little shaky, but as far as he was concerned the scene was clean. The tire tracks were a mystery, and they would probably remain as such.
Someone else had visited April’s grave. So what. Maybe just some kids on a joyride. Or maybe Doug Douglas had been there. Steve thought about it. Maybe Doug had seen him at the grave, followed him to the house.
Maybe not.
Steve started the engine and cruised past the funeral. The mourners were clustered around another hole in the green grass, this one lined with Astroturf that hid the naked soil from view. Steve passed a sea of gray faces inclined in grief. One face rode the gray wave, as white as cresting foam. Ernest Kellogg stood among the mourners in his big yellow boots, oblivious to everything but the embarrassment of having the law on his premises.
Steve was tempted to wave at the man. Shoot him the old thumbs up or something. But he didn’t. He eased past the Meditation Garden and the funeral service, and then he made a lazy cut to the left and followed a narrow dirt road to the stand of eucalyptus.
He parked and stepped out of the cruiser. A warm wind ruffled his hair and tumbled dry eucalyptus leaves, and the leaves were a hundred tiny kites rattling against a breeze that promised summer. The breeze came from behind, from the cemetery, and carried with it the harsh smell of incense. Steve didn’t need another look at the funeral to tell that it was a Catholic service. Instead, he glanced at the sun. Warm, and it was still early. It was
