Except I’d also found out he’d had a vasectomy because the money had messed up his family and he didn’t want to pass the crazy along.But as far as I knew, I was the only person to know that little secret.Other than his expensive lifestyle, Martinez was just a regular guy.His need for justice was what drove him to work alongside the rest of us.
“Please tell me this isn’t going to be another case where we have to interview every person in a five-mile radius,” Martinez said, eyeing the chaos of the kids behind him.“Because I already have a headache.Seeing all these kids is the best birth control there is.”
“Amen to that,” Cole said, having escaped from wrangling children.“Remind me to ask Lily if she’s up to date on her prescription.”
My lips twitched, but I kept my head down.Jack and I hadn’t announced that I was pregnant yet, and I had the worst poker face on the planet.
“I thought you wanted kids,” Jack said, arching a brow.
“I just need some time to recover from this many in one place,” Cole said.“Maybe we’ll just have one kid.One kid can’t possibly get into that much trouble.”
I snorted and pointed to Jack.“You’re looking at the king of being an only child.Why don’t you tell him how much trouble one kid can get in?”
“To be fair,” Jack said, grinning, “I was usually the one trying to keep everyone out of trouble.”
“Because you have that fast brain and cute dimple,” I said.“Not because you weren’t guilty.”
Jack shrugged sheepishly and said to Cole, “You’ll be fine.When the time comes.”
“Maybe I’ll wait another twenty years and then I’ll be dead by the time he’s a teenager,” Cole said.
“Good advice,” Martinez said.“You should write a parenting book.”He rolled his eyes.“Y’all are ruining my breakfast with all this talk of having kids.Can we get back to murder please?”
“Yes, murder,” Cole agreed, the relief obvious in his voice.
The corner of Jack’s mouth twitched, but he complied.“Riley was first on scene and he got a quick statement from the teacher,” Jack said.“Lois Warren is her name.She brings her seventh-grade history class to Olde Towne Cemetery at the end of every school year to see the graves of local prominent historical figures—founding fathers, war heroes—that kind of thing.But a few of the kids wandered off to this side of the cemetery.According to Riley, the kids said it looked, and I quote, ‘spooky.’”
“I guess they were right,” I said.“Naked dead guys that have been crushed by rocks are pretty spooky.”
Cole snorted.“And it’s not even Halloween.It’s always comforting to know psychopaths are crazy year-round.”
I looked around and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.We were standing in what was clearly the forgotten section of King George Cemetery—the part where respectable families didn’t want to be buried.Ancient headstones tilted at drunken angles, their inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of Virginia weather.Gnarled oak trees stretched arthritic branches overhead, creating a canopy so thick that even the bright May sunshine could barely penetrate the gloom.Shadows pooled in the hollows between graves like spilled ink, and the air itself seemed heavier here, weighted with the accumulated sorrow of three hundred years.
This was where they’d buried the unwanted—the criminals, the insane, the accused witches.The section was separated from the respectable part of the cemetery by a low stone wall that had crumbled in places, as if even death couldn’t maintain the social barriers that had existed in life.Moss covered everything with a green velvet shroud, and the only sound was the whisper of wind through dead leaves that rustled despite the fact that it was spring.
The victim lay directly on top of a grave marker so old and weathered that the inscription was barely visible.
“Bridget Ashworth,” I said.“1689–1725.I remember learning about her in school.”
“Executed for witchcraft,” Jack said.“It was a gruesome tale.I was fascinated when I was a kid.”
“We all were,” I said.“Think how many times we crept out here in the middle of the night when we were kids because Jimmy Slokum said her ghost haunted the graves of the men who killed her.”
“The same Jimmy Slokum that got arrested for distributing methamphetamine last month?”Martinez asked.
“The very same,” Jack said.“He was always a good salesman.”
“Hell, the high school kids still try to come out here to get drunk or make out,” Cole said.“Nothing like ambiance, adrenaline, and hormonal teenagers.”
Martinez snorted.“Yeah, those were the good old days.Whoever killed our victim certainly knew how to set a scene.”
The victim’s head, arms, and legs were clearly visible, his naked body pale against the dark earth.But his torso was completely hidden beneath wooden boards and a carefully arranged pile of stones.His graying hair was matted with moisture from the morning dew, and his arms were positioned at his sides, hands turned palm up as if in supplication.His legs were straight, feet together, the whole arrangement giving the impression of someone laid out for burial.
“Pressed to death with stones,” Jack said grimly, studying the deliberate positioning.“If I remember right that’s how Bridget Ashworth was killed.”
“It’s certainly not something you see every day,” Martinez observed, circling the scene with professional interest.
“Yeah, I’ve been getting pretty tired of stabbings and gunshot wounds,” Cole said.“I was hoping for something different to liven things up.”