When Graveyards Yawn, G. Wells Taylor [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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Authority is investigating the murder of a New Garden lawyer early Friday morning at the Morocco Hotel in the Downings District.
Witnesses on the scene reported the murder arose from a quarrel between the unnamed lawyer and his mistress.
Authority refuses to speculate on the motive for the killing and will not comment while the crime is under investigation.
I looked at the byline: Mary Redding. Elmo held out another paper to me. He pointed to a local news story dated Monday, March 5th. The headline read: Fire Consumes Landmark. Fires are not uncommon, especially in the Downings, so they don’t get a lot of press. This one read:
Authority continues to investigate the Saturday night blaze that destroyed the historic Morocco Building in Downings District.
The fire started at 11:30 p.m., officials said, and investigators at the scene found no evidence of foul play.
“We are told by our experts that it was likely the old wiring,” Authority Investigator Roger Shipton said.
“We’ve questioned a lot of the people in the neighborhood, and we haven’t turned up anything that warrants further investigation.”
Shipton said that there was no evidence connecting the blaze to the recent murder of a New Garden lawyer at the Morocco Building.
Authority refuses to release the names of those involved.
The Morocco Building played a significant role in the post-Change riots of the 20’s as a headquarters for Resurrectionist Captain Jack Updike and his supporters. Historians mourned this significant loss.
No sign of foul play. I had to stifle a giggle. Those dead arsonists must have left some trace. The gasoline should have been detected. And there had to be something left of their bodies—charred bones at least—and the shotgun. Why would Authority sit on this? They usually went out of their way to discredit Downings District. It helped them justify their restrictions on the dead.
“Elmo, keep looking for related stories. Anything mentioned after the Billings’ murder, and before the Morocco fire. A disappearance, anything.” The Morocco had stood for years and years, and years, probably the scene of a hundred murders; but the caller had been exact in saying the murder happened the same night as Billings’. That was the night I wasn’t doing my job. I hated criticism.
I picked up the phone, dialed the Gazette. I read the byline for the fire story. Same reporter. The phone line buzzed angrily.
“Mary Redding, please,” I asked when the husky, good-morning voice of a switchboard operator answered.
“One moment…” it rasped.
The line continued to snap and pop like Rice Crispies. Five minutes ticked by. I could hear the line transfer, buzz, beep and rattle. A muffled conversation overheard, then…
“Hello.” A clear voice—crisp and sharp. This reporter had purpose. I would have hated to work at the desk beside her on Monday morning. “Mary Redding, how can I help you?”
“Ms. Redding, my name’s Wildclown. I’m a private detective. I understand you covered a couple of stories at the Morocco Building before it burned down in March.”
“Yes,” her voice was distracted. “I did.”
“I know about the Billings’ murder. But I wonder if you could tell me about the other killing.”
A pause, then. “There was no other killing.”
“Well, what was the other story you covered?”
“The fire.” She was becoming hesitant.
“But,” I pointed out, “the fire did not happen ‘before’ the Morocco burned down. I assume you covered that story ‘after’.”
“I thought that’s what you meant.” More hesitation.
“You agreed that you covered two stories before the fire. Did you not?”
“What’s your name again?” She was fast becoming professional on me.
“Wildclown. I worked on the Billings’ case.” I then decided to try a lie. Call it a hunch. “I was hired to investigate the other murder. Since I’m familiar with the scene.”
“Oh,” Redding relaxed, but remained cagey when she said, “I thought that one was being hushed.”
“I understand.” I actually did. “I understand the pressure that Authority can bring to bear on some, shall we say, ‘contentious’ stories.”
“You can say that again,” she laughed. “I’m surprised you know about this one. They really put the pressure on to keep it out of the papers. I don’t think any of us ever would have known about it if my fotog hadn’t stumbled upon the body. We were there on a tip about the Billings’ case. The whole story would have disappeared.”
“I see.” I had to keep my bluff going. “Your fotog…you see I didn’t know about that.”
“Yeah, poor guy—he’d only been hired the week before. Then to have to see the body. Cotton was quite a mess. You know that much.”
“Yes, he certainly was.” I jotted the name on the desk blotter and then took an intuitive leap. “Cotton, well—Ms. Redding, any ideas what happened? Why would anyone treat a body like that?”
“You’ve got me. It was like he’d been put in a blender. One of our homicide reporters saw the pictures—said it looked like a tree shredder had been used on him. I saw the body, and it looked fresh. The blood was still pooling—slowly coagulating in the Dumpster. Christ, there was a bottle of gasoline too, like whoever did him in was going to really finish the job—but got cold feet, or ran out of time.”
“And Cotton was registered at the Morocco.”
“Yeah, under the name W. Irving. There would never have been a real name on him if there hadn’t been that bit of shredded I.D. In fact, I helped Authority put it together. Just the name: Alan Cotton. We had the last three numbers of his social insurance. Of course, Authority warned me to leave the story alone, right then and there. They said it was a drug killing. Said they found liters of Greaseasy in the guy’s sample case—which was conveniently unmolested. Authority said he was a salesman for afterlife cosmetics who was supplementing his income. They wouldn’t tell me what company. Just told me to drop it. I would have checked it out further, but the publisher called me personally, told me to drop it. Then the fire…”
“Well,” I said. “That about checks out with my notes.”
“Who hired you?”
“A friend. I’m not allowed to divulge…”
“What’s your name again?”
“Wildclown.”
“What the hell kind of a name is that?”
“It’s Scottish.”
“Listen, you’re not going to do anything public with the information.” Her tone was speculative. “I mean, I know all about journalistic integrity—I mangle it every week—but, I don’t want to lose my place here, I’ve got job security, but it means squat to Authority. I guess I really started to run off at the mouth.”
“I think you have a tough time with your integrity. I think you’d like to see something done with the story.” I liked her voice.
“Probably right.” She fell silent.
“Do you have a place of origin for Cotton. I mean his home.”
“Down past Vicetown on the coast, but surely you’d have that yourself.”
“Just double-checking everything.” I tried to push my smile through the receiver. “It’s important to be certain of the facts. Listen, thanks for the help. If I can ever be of service—look me up. Just don’t call me Shirley.”
“Yeah, I will,” she said. Then before she could bring her full faculty to bear, I hung up. Alan Cotton died the same night as the lawyer Billings. Unfortunately for Cotton, whoever had killed him had also destroyed his chance at an afterlife by destroying his body. I had heard of the bodies of syndicate snitches and both cooperative and uncooperative witnesses ending up that way. Sliced and diced. But why Cotton? If it was drug related, then it could have been punishment or retaliation from some rival faction. Still, Authority had clamped a lid on it. Maybe Cotton was being made an example of. Whoever did it wanted him silent forever. But Authority had slammed the lid on the case. Why? And the fire too. No sign of foul play. They hushed that as well.
I looked at Elmo. He sat across from me. His long arms were jackknifed like grasshopper legs to launch him out of his chair.
“Elmo, we might have a case here.” My problem was getting somebody to pay me to investigate it. “Let’s take a trip to Vicetown.” I lit a cigarette and leaned back in my chair while Elmo slipped out to bring the car around front.
The two-hour drive down the coast was uneventful. I was not surprised that Elmo had elected to come along. If there was still beauty in the world, you could find it on the drive down the coast. It had been a long time since the roaring waves had seen a sunset and the craggy cliffs a blue sky; but there remained a harsh gothic beauty. Whirling clouds of spray churned over the gray rock face where the sea ground its time-laden bulk against the coast. I had even noticed a flock of seagulls stoically facing another day of rain and storm. They stood along the guardrail like so many Heathcliffes baring their souls to the biting counsel of nature. Part of me wanted to join them out there—but I knew they’d go for my eyes. The highway wound in and around granite outbursts rising onto pedestals only in those areas that were near inhabited stretches. The Landfillers were less prevalent near the coast. A lively seabird population scavenged anything that crawled near.
We got to Vicetown at around six-thirty. I’d spent a good part of the afternoon digging through the remaining newspapers—the Greasetown Gazette had few competitors—but found nothing about any other murders at the Morocco. Vicetown had looked much the same as I remembered it as we drove under its flashing welcome signs. The city held about a million-and-a-half inhabitants, alive and dead. Its buildings were unique in the way they marched away from the highway, precariously close to crumbling cliffs. All told, the city sprawled along ten miles of coast. Inland, I saw the great Ferris wheel flinging its passengers tantalizingly at the sky, before terrifying them with a reckless descent. As I understood it, since the Change, Ferris wheels had become extremely popular. In fact, most entertainment of this nature had—at least among the living. Once dead, an individual had to learn new rules of existence and acceptable risk.
I had looked up the number for Alan Cotton in the latest phonebook, but found nothing. Some deeper research located him in a phonebook a decade old. I called, found his number had changed—was under his wife’s maiden name, tried again, then reached his widow. She would be pleased to talk to me. I had her address, 333 Sea Heights. I told her it would be late in the day. She said that would be fine.
The neon drives you crazy after a while. Vicetown at night is a menace to the light sensitive. A steady drizzle fell. I complimented Elmo on his good sense. He had found time to get the windshield replaced since my engagement in the landfill with Pigface. Mr. Loxley at the Bonny-Vu had made a few dollars from us playing mix and match with the parts and pieces he’d mined from his collection. Water still managed to dampen my right sleeve through holes in the passenger door, but we were fairly seaworthy. The streets of Vicetown, I’m told, are reminiscent of a pre-Change town
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