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They finished their tea and then left, Michael narrowly avoiding a commitment to return for supper.
They stopped for an early lunch at a burger place and over their meal, they discussed the case.
“Whoever the killer is, he must have access to the cemetery at night,” Faith said. “Like you pointed out, he would have to have access to heavy equipment to be able to dig that grave in one night.”
“Either that, or he had accomplices,” Michael suggested.
Faith shook her head. “I doubt it. The more people involved the more tracks to cover, and the greater likelihood they would have missed something. The greater likelihood they would have made noise too and been noticed.” She shook her head again. “No, I think we’re dealing with a lone wolf.”
“So an employee,” Michael said.
“Possibly,” Faith replied. “Probably.”
“We should get a list of the employees scheduled at night,” Michael said. “Actually, anyone who could have access.”
“Good idea,” Faith said, “but we should look at the other gravesite first and see if we might find any more info that could narrow things down.”
“Works for me,” Michael said. “You want me to drive?”
CHAPTER SIX
Humble was a rapidly growing suburb about thirty minutes outside of Houston but growing rapidly for the wrong reasons. As Houston attempted to gentrify, lower-income families were pushed out to the surrounding communities faster than affordable housing could be built. The homeless problem here wasn’t as bad as in cities like San Francisco or Los Angeles, but it was heading that way.
The cemetery, like the town, was several steps down from the pristine marble and manicured lawns of Houston. Faith looked at the dirt paths and patchy brown grass of the Humble Memorial Lawn and decided that there was something to be said about the polish and pomp of the Houston graveyard. This place looked less like a cemetery and more like a dump.
The officer who met them there was a dispassionate, bored-looking man with the unlikely name of Artemis Baxter. The name was the most exciting thing about him. He gave them a rundown of the case in a clipped voice like an auctioneer rattling off the bullet points of an item.
It was essentially the same except this time, it was the morning manager who called the police when he noticed the unmarked and freshly dug grave. Everything else was the same as the first case. There was a bell that was far too small to be heard and a listening device that played the same message as the one in Houston.
When they finished questioning Baxter, Faith asked if he would lead them to the grave. Baxter pointed to his right and said, “Left side, eighth row from the back, fifth plot. You can’t miss it. It’s the only one without a headstone.”
“Got a hot date or something?” Michael said cattily.
Baxter met his eyes. “Double homicide. Nineteen-year-old-kid killed his mother and grandmother. Dad caught him and pulled the gun away before he could use it on himself.”
Michael nodded once and averted his eyes. Baxter left without another word and the two special agents exchanged a glance.
“That’s the second detective who had to leave us to our own devices to handle a murder committed by a teenager,” Faith pointed out. “Something in the water here?”
“It happens all the time when there’s massive inequality,” Michael said. “People feel trapped, and they lash out. It’s not always kids, but it usually is. There’s a reason most street gangsters are under twenty-five.”
“Sheesh,” Faith said. “You’d think they’d do something about that.”
Michael shrugged. “If you say so.”
They reached the grave and once more, Faith watched as Turk sniffed around. The bell and recording device were gone, and there was no police tape cordoning off the scene. The only reason the grave remained open and the dirt untouched was that the cemetery’s owners hadn’t bothered to fill it in yet.
The contrast between these scenes was striking but not relevant to the case. In both places, there were no tracks, and while this cemetery was flat and not at all hidden from the road, Faith had no trouble believing that people in a town like this would see someone digging a grave and push it from their minds.
Not their business.
They started to leave, but Faith stopped when she caught a glance at a nearby headstone. She looked closer and saw the name Carly Ames, born 1937, died 2023. Barbara’s mother or grandmother perhaps.
Interesting. She called Missy, and the detective, as promised, answered immediately. “Hey, Missy,” Faith said, “got a minute?”
“For you, sugar, I have all the time in the world.”
Faith had to smile at that. “We’re at the cemetery in Humble, and I noticed something interesting.”
