"If they did get the casket open," he said, "they were careful, extremely careful, and they knew exactly what they were doing when they sealed it back. I say that because there are no crowbar marks on the casket that I could see. No marks where they tried to sledgehammer the thing open. Inside, nothing was disturbed. Nothing obvious, anyway. Wouldn't you expect vandals to do something like that? Bring a crowbar or an ax, I'm saying. If they really wanted to get inside."
I said, "You can't just lift the lid open?"
Caldwell's smile told me that I knew absolutely nothing about his industry. "Not exactly, Mr. Ford. I'll give you an example. Let's say that the deceased was in one of our top-of-the-line units. A Batesville, let's say. What you're dealing with is a unit made of eighteen-gauge steel. Heavy rubber gasket sealers inside and a cathodic bar on the bottom to stop electrolysis. A casket like that"-his smile broadened slightly-"you'd better bring a lot more than a crowbar to get it open. The only way to get it open is with a hex-key, specially designed, just like the lug nuts on a car tire sometimes require a special key."
"That's the kind of casket that Dorothy Copeland is in?"
"No, but the vandals couldn't have known that. Ms. Copeland is in a hardwood casket. Cherry wood, I think. Clients who… well, who are of limited means, often make that choice. It's a Marcellus, one of the best in the business, but it locks down with a pin and a heavy clasp."
"Is it possible to get it open?"
"Yes. If you know how it works, it's not difficult. But again, they couldn't have known."
"But if they did, is it possible that they could have opened it, then resealed it?"
"I suppose. But I think they'd have done the obvious thing and tired to pry it open."
I said, "If they were vandals, sure, a random act. But as Detective Parrish knows, Ms. Copeland has been the target of a series of burglaries over die last few months. It's possible someone knows exactly what they were after and they'll go to remarkable lengths to get it. Exhuming a grave in a city cemetery? That's risky behavior, wouldn't you agree?"
The plainclothes cop said, "So is murder, bank robbery, assault, the whole long list. You said you live on Sanibel? Lots of money up there, a nice safe little island. Marco, one of the safest communities in the state. Usually. Get away from the money places, though, there are way too many freaks. Understand what I'm saying? I deal with them every working day of my life. There ain't nothing risky to a crackhead. They'd bulldoze a church if they thought it would buy them some rock."
"Oh, I don't doubt there are bad people in the world," I said agreeably. "The kind of people you read about in the newspapers."
"Exacdy," Parrish said, an expression of patience in the way he set his jaw. "The kind of criminals good citizens like you find folded on the doorstep every morning.
"Know what probably happened?" he added. "A rumor got started the little girl was buried with treasure. People love them stories about buried treasure. Probably got talked around the streets and some drunks or dopers noticed the backhoe and thought, What the hell, let's see what's in there."
Parrish's tone told me that he was taking me into his confidence, sharing some secrets.
"Could be," I said.
"Trust me. They come staggering by and go, 'Shit, let's get rich.'" He looked around for a moment. "That reminds me. Where'd your drunk hippie friend disappear to? The one in them weird robes."
"He's practicing his eulogy. He's kind of a perfectionist." Then I said, "You could be wrong, you know. Maybe it didn't happen that way at all."
The detective allowed me a pointed look of assessment. "Oh, really."
I chose my approach carefully. Proper attitude of respect; sufficient deference. I had suggestions to make, but no need to offend the investigating cop.
"It's possible the whole thing was carefully planned."
"All sorts of things are possible, Mr. Ford. I'm telling you the way it probably was."
"I realize that. I also realize that you're a lot more experienced at this sort of thing than I am. But know what might be interesting? Get a quick video of everyone here. Or anyone sitting off by themselves in a car, watching. I read somewhere that the sickos who light fires almost always try and find a private place to watch. That's how they get their kicks. Maybe it's the same with grave robbers. The people who did it? They might be in the area right now."
I received a stony look in return, and a very chilly, "There's an idea. Man, I learn so much on this job."
It's been my experience that most people in the emergency professions are good at what they do. They have to be, because there's so much depending on them. Parrish was behaving like one of the weak links. The type who used his shield as a power lever or an excuse. Or maybe he just no longer cared enough to invest the effort.
I got the same cold reaction when I said, "If I was serious about robbing a grave, know what I'd do? I'd do some research first. I'd check the city records and see what I could learn about how the girl was buried. The cemetery is maintained by the city, isn't it?"
Caldwell said, "But there wouldn't be anything in the files about the type of coffin. Whether it was steel or wood. That's where you're wrong."
"I wouldn't know that. The perpetrators wouldn't either, but it's a logical place to check. Then I'd go to the newspaper, ask to see the archives. I'd read everything I could about what happened here fifteen years ago. I'd try to find the name of the funeral home that handled the burial, maybe even call and ask them questions under some guise. Pretend to be a reporter doing a story. That could work."
Caldwell said, "We handled the funeral. I wasn't here at the time, but it was our shop."
I looked at Parrish. "See? An easy place to start. So then you take the video from here and start to match photos. The municipal building is bound to have a security camera. Maybe the newspaper, too. Even if they don't, you say to clerks, 'You get a visit recendy from anyone you recognize on this video?'"
Parrish said, "Gee, there's another good idea."
It wasn't working, but I wasn't going to give up. "One more thing. These people seem determined to take what Dorothy found. So, I'd speak to an archaeologist and find out exactly where she was digging fifteen years ago. A golden medallion, a wooden totem, beads-they all have monetary value. Chances are, if they're really serious, they've done die research and are digging in the same area. Or have already dug there. Find one golden medallion, there might be more."
Parrish was done listening to it. His nostrils flared slightly as he said, "Very helpful suggestions, Mr. Ford. Really appreciate it, too. All I got to do is drop the twenty or so current cases I'm working on to bust some vandals. Of course, the cases I'm working on are crimes against real live people. Like, for instance, up 'round Golden Gate, we've had a string of sexual assaults on children. Real nasty ones. I've got three different disappearances, too. Three women, none associated with the other, just left home or work one day and never came back. Disappeared in a way that's got the feel of serial killer to them. I'm talkin' about a real freak. Someone doin' for a reason and likes it. Delia Copeland's child, she's been dead, for what? Fifteen years. There's not much anyone can do for her."
I said, "Which means you're not going to do anything."
"I wish that's exacdy what it meant, but it doesn't. What I should be doing is banging on doors right now, reading profiles. Doing serious work. Instead, I'm down here in rich people's land looking for vandals. Know why?" He looked past me to the road. "That there's why. You're lookin' at the reason. A man named Mr. Ivan Bauerstock."