Tears of Blood, Ch. 1

The summer’s thunderstorm was over, but rain was still dripping from the wings of an angel standing in the cemetery. This particular one, carved in Italy around 1870, was one of the most favorite statues in Charleston, South Carolina. It’s marble eyes seemed to be staring at Lee Sullivan from the grounds of St. Phillip’s Church tonight. Waiting for a pay phone in a drizzle wasn’t his idea of fun, but observing the woman currently using it was. He had no problem discerning the nature of her telephone call: She was a prostitute – an ensemble of silicone in pumps on a ‘business’ call. After two loads of tourists in horse-drawn carriages clomped by on the cobblestones, the vermilion-wigged entrepreneur hung up.

“Sorry I took so long, honey, but it’s almost closing time, and this girl’s tired,” she said, with breath confirming her intimate knowledge of Tanquerray before walking down Dock Street with a slight gin-induced limp. Lee snickered to himself as he slipped the coins into the slot above the receiver and punched the numbered buttons.

“Mt. Pleasant Deli, Joan here,” said the voice on the other end.

“Hey Joan, it’s Lee – Mitch’s brother. Is he busy?”

“No, Lee. He’s right here at the register signing an invoice…here ya go,” she said and passed the phone before he could thank her.

“Hey lil’ brother, what’s up?” Mitch Sullivan replied in a friendly but hurried tone.

“Mitch, I’m down at Granddaddy’s grave. Do you know anything about his headstone? It’s gone.”

“News to me. Did you ask Father Martin if he knew anything about it?”

“Yup. He said you and I were the only people on the church’s record authorized to make any decisions regarding the plot.”

“Well nobody’s called me concerning it. What do you wanna do?”

“Father Martin said we should go ahead and report it stolen. If this is nothing, it won’t hurt. But if it’s stolen, the police will know about it. Mitch, I know it was here yesterday. I have a clear view of it from my office.”

“If the two of ya’ll think we should call the cops, I’m fine with it. Do you want me to call ‘em?”

“No, the King Street station is right around the corner, I’ll just stop in there. Let me let you get back to your shop.”

“Ok, Lee, but call me tonight and let me know what they say, all right?”

“You got it, Bye,” Lee said, before hanging up and looking again to the corner of the cemetery where the grave of his grandfather was missing its marker.

Lee pushed the heavy glass door to the police department open and instantly faced an office behind a glass window. In the center of the wall, at mouth level, was a screened hole to speak through. On the other side of the casement, Lee encountered a very thin black woman with the head the size of a plum, and twenty pounds of hair that was apparently styled by the local power plant. On the glass, separating this living haystack with split ends, and Lee was a decal of the word INFORMATION on the glass.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Father Martin from St. Phillips Church was supposed to have spoken with a Sergeant Aubrey Vaughn, is he here? My name is Lee Sullivan.”

She pointed to her right at the man seated next to her. “Das him.”

The informally introduced officer stood and pressed a button on the desk. “Come on back Mr. Sullivan,” he said, opening the door next to the Sergeant Vaughn’s meaty arm directed Lee to sit in the cubicle just inside the office.

“Thank you.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sullivan. You are here about the missing tombstone, right?”

“Yes, sir. It is my granddaddy’s, and as far as I know nobody has asked the family or St. Phillip’s about moving it for repair or anything.”

“Will you describe this tombstone for me? Father Martin remembered the name on it and said he could look up the rest, but I wanted to speak with you or your brother, I think he said his name is Mitch?”

“Sure. It is black granite with ‘Harley James Sullivan’ carved in it, along with the dates ‘March 08, 1898’ and ‘September 12, 1961’. That’s it, no phrases or anything.”

“Good.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh I don’t mean it is good that it is missing, it’s the on we found.”

“Is it cracked or anything?”

Sergeant Vaughn shook his head in a ‘no’ statement. It’s as fine as the day it was put there. In fact I have it right downstairs here in the station.”

“Great! Should I call the somebody to come and pick it up and replant it, or how is this kinda thing handled?”

“Well, we have a problem there,” the sergeant said, opening a manila folder and removing a photograph. “This is it, you’re sure.”

“Yes. The name, dates, even the style of writing, and the material looks like granite and is black, I don’t think that two identically named men were born and died here on the same dates. What could be the problem?”

“We need to hold it as part of the case.”

“If my brother and I don’t press any charges then there won’t be a case, right? Then we could go ahead and have it put back?”

“The case I’m referring to isn’t just the theft of the tombstone, Mr. Sullivan it is part of a murder investigation, and I was hoping you might be able to help me with some information. It was found this morning west of the Ashley River on Birthright Street. Somebody filled in the drainage ditch between two driveways with dirt and put the headstone on it. Here is a picture of the scene.” Sergeant Vaughn passed the snapshot. “When we hoisted out the dirt blocking the ditch we discovered a body. Do you know this man?” he asked, showing Lee another picture from the folder. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Nope,” he said still trying to tie together why his relative’s headstone was placed above the body of the man in the photo. He didn’t have any friends in this neighborhood nor did his brother, at far as he knew. “Have you spoken with Mitch?”

“ Between the time you left St. Phillips and got over here we barely had time to reach him. He said he could be here about 5:30, and that’s about ten minutes.”

“Can I wait here for him?”

“Sure. There’s some coffee over there if you want some.”

Lee poured a cup and found a magazine about “Touring Mexico On $10 a Day” on a stand by the coffee machine. Just when he doubted the articles would hold his interest he saw Mitch entering the building. Sergeant Vaughn buzzed the door and let him in the office.

“Good evening, Mr. Sullivan, your brother Lee is waiting on you, right this way,” the detective said, and filled him in. Mitch studied the photographs that Lee had also seen, but the images and odd facts of the case were foreign to him as well. Seeing that the brothers were not going to be able to shed any light on the subject, he sent them home with thanks, and would wait for the autopsy results that were due in about an hour.

He poured over every clue and fact he had, looking at all the names involved: Sullivan, St. Phillips, and Birthright Street. He looked at the dates: March 08, September 12, and todays, June 28. “No connection with the names or the dates,” he thought. There were no papers or anything found on or around the body. It was dressed in jeans, plain navy tee shirt, white socks, hiking boots, but no jewelry, tattoos, scars, or other identifying items.

Arranging the information in various anagrams, other languages, letters converted to numbers and vice-versa all rendered useless. Aubrey lost track of time until his fax machine rang, printing out the autopsy report. He studied it for a good twenty before calling a friend to see what he thought.

“Dawson and Lanier Detectives, how may I help you?” a raspy voice answered.

“Detective Ben Dawson, please,” Sergeant Vaughn answered, and was put on hold to listen to Muzak do an awful rendering of Cher’s ‘Believe’.

“Dawson here.”

“Ben! How the hell are ya? Aubrey Vaughn here.”

“Aub! Whatcha know good?”

“Everything’s fine here, personally anyway. How are things with you and Ray?”

“Doin’ great, man…what do you mean by ‘personally’ fine? What’s wrong?”

“Honestly, Ben, it’s this case I’m working on. I value our friendship, and don’t want to impose, but I would really appreciate it if you would take a look at some of the paperwork in this case. Ever since I met you and Ray in Raleigh last year at that murder-suicide in Raleigh last year I knew ya’ll had a knack for special cases.”

“No problem, Aub. Send me the papers and I’ll call you first thing in the morning. Hey, if you need anything, I’m starting vacation in thirty minutes. Two weeks off.”

“Rub it in! Never mind then, I don’t want you to spend a moment of your vacation mixing business with pleasure. I’d feel awful.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I just sold my condo…Ray and I are moving my stuff over to his place. I figure after the past eight months if we haven’t killed each other, we never will. I guess it’ll be two grumpy old men in rockers on the front porch of the shack.”

“Ben, you and Ray are 30 and 35. Ya’ll are nowhere near ‘geezerhood’, and I’ve seen Ray’s ‘shack’ in a picture he sent me in an e-mail: Three stories, and 4, 000 square feet? It’s a Raleigh landmark.”

“Leave me some humility, Aub.”

“Ok, but seriously, don’t waste any of your vacation time on these papers, promise?”

“You got it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Ok, and tell Ray hi for me.”

“Bye.”

“Night Ben.”

Just as Sergeant Vaughn was opening his eyes the next morning he was summoned to his telephone by a persistent ring.

“Hello…Vaughn here,” he uttered with the excitement of someone awaking from a tree-day drunk.

“Mornin’ Aub. I know it’s early, did I wake you?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve been up for a while,” he said, lying flat as roadkill.

“Ray’s downstairs packing the car. We decided to take the first week of our vacation out of town before shifting gears to ‘the move’ to Ray’s house. Besides, when I told him we talked, he thought it would be fun if we all could get together again. We’ve heard a lot about a guesthouse on Folly Beach and thought we would give it a try.”

“Sounds great. When are ya’ll getting here?”

“Check in isn’t till 3:00, but the guy we spoke to said the room should be ready by noon.”

“Well call me when you two get checked in. I’ll be at the office till at least six this evening.”

“How far are you from the beach?”

“My house is about twenty or thirty minutes from Folly Beach, and only four blocks from the King Street station.”

“Sounds good, buddy. I’ll give ya a call when we get settled then. Ray and I want to take you to dinner tonight, and I got a few things I want to talk about concerning the files you faxed over last night.”

“ I figured this case would catch your eye. I’ll talk with you when ya’ll get to town then.”

“All-righty bud, we’ll call you.”

Sergeant Vaughn finished up his morning routine of reading lots of newspapers and drinking lots of coffee before his five-minute walk to the station.

“Mornin’,” fell out of the receptionist’s mouth. Her hair was a little more tame than the style that held Lee Sullivan’s attention in a fixated state the evening before.

“Good morning, Veronda. How you doin’ today?”

This was one of Abrey’s favorite things about his job. Everyday when we got in to work, Veronda Jenkins insured him a laugh or just a narration of her previous evening that got his morning off to a good start. She knew the most interesting people and led a life of odd situations and unbelievable occurrences that most people only read about. She resigned the happenings to everyday life.

“Nuttin’ much. Me and Horace spent the evnin’ at his place. We’s still talkin’ ‘bout getting’ married, but I don’t know. He’s wantin’ five or six kids so I told him dat was fine wit me if was plannin’ on shootin’ ‘em out his ass.”

“You know, with the advances in cloning and the like, that may be in the not too distant future. You know the male sea-horse is the half of the couple that gets pregnant and carries the babies.”

“Yessa, and it is the only animal the does. Bet the rest done killed thayselves.”

“Good theory. By the way, I got some friends coming to town today, so if I am out of the office when they call just patch them through to my pocket phone if ya don’t mind.”

“T’aint no problem”

“Thanks V. I’ll be in my cave,” Aubrey said, and headed into his cubicle.

About thirty miles before they reached the South Carolina state line, Ben and Ray started seeing them. Few at first, then one every mile they were huge and multi colored with day-glow markings. Drivers were warned of what to expect by a Mexican man named Pedro in an equally stereotypical enormous sombrero. These fluorescent billboards had been a familiar sight for more than half a century. The little Hispanic spoke in cartoon balloons with sayings such as, “Pedro sez you must stop at South of the Border!” or “Kidz, keep yelling…they’ll stop at South of the Border!”

‘South of the Border’ was the ultimate traveler’s rest: A Mecca of gas stations, gift shops, and restaurants, even a hotel that had been in a couple movies. It was a redneck Disneyworld. Getting out of the truck, Ben heard a ‘crunch’ underfoot and looked down to see what had been a pistachio in its shell now reduced to a pale green spot of mush. Ray noticed him stare at the smashed nut for a short while, reach in the truck for a Ziplock bag, then put the pistachio in it. When his partner marked the bag with a red asterisk, Ray Lanier knew this look meant the gears were turning in his mind.

“I won’t ask,” Ray said.

“Good thing, I don’t have an answer. Yet”

A few hours later the duo pulled into the small parking lot of the bed and breakfast. It was a small, two story guesthouse consisting of eight suites, a large dining room, and a pool/hot tub area outback that was secluded by trees and a high wooden fence covered with Confederate jasmine. This backyard was the perfect answer to the privacy needs of a clothing optional resort.

“We have you in the Middleton Suite, Mr. Dawson, and it is my favorite: Upstairs corner room facing the ocean,” said the man who introduced himself as Darryl Riley, the owner of Folly on the Beach. “Here’s your key. Just call me if you need anything. Myself or Pete, my partner, are usually here in the lobby or close by during the day, but at night the ‘0’ button on the phone rings to our room.”

“Thank you, Darryl,” Ben said, while Ray was bringing in the luggage. “We’re right up there,” he said, pointing to the Middleton Suite and instructing Ray we’re the baggage went. He picked trough some brochures and other literature on local pastime activities from a coffee table before joining his partner in the room. Charleston, South Carolina had something to offer everyone.