The Prophet

Chapter Twenty-Two

Temple had just left that afternoon when Regina Sparks, the Charleston County coroner, dropped by. I hadn’t seen Regina since the first two exhumations the previous spring, but I would have recognized her red hair anywhere. Like me, she wore it pulled back in a ponytail, but curls had popped loose all over her head, and the tiny bronze corkscrews shimmered charmingly in the dappled light.

I had lingered at the gate, perhaps to prove to Temple and to myself that I wasn’t afraid to be alone in Oak Grove. The sun was just sinking below the treetops, but there was still plenty of daylight left. Even so, my heart had tripped when I first spotted someone plowing through the weeds toward me, so it was a relief to recognize the flaming hair, as well as the logo of the coroner’s office emblazoned on her navy shirt.

She gave a pleasant wave as she approached. “A little bird told me you might be out here today. I found myself in the vicinity, so I thought I’d stop in and say hello, see how everything is going.”

I eased the mace back into my pocket. “Who is this little bird? I only found out myself yesterday afternoon that I’d be here.”

She shrugged as she swiped back those wiry curls. As always, she seemed tightly strung, as though it were a struggle to keep her restless energy constrained. “This is Charleston. The one thing you can count on is that everybody knows your business before you do. It’s annoying, but what are you going to do?”

“I’m just surprised that anyone would care enough to talk about it,” I said.

“Are you kidding? After everything that happened here? There was even an article about it in the online edition of the paper this morning.”

“That was fast.”

“It ran with lots of photographs, including one of you, and a link to your blog. You’ll be happy to know they spelled your name right.”

“That is good to know.” Someone on the Committee had obviously pulled strings to get a story planted so quickly. I could hardly blame them for wanting to shift the lurid publicity associated with Oak Grove to something more positive like a restoration, particularly since Emerson was in the midst of its bicentennial celebration.

“I emailed the story to my aunt,” Regina said. “She’s still over the moon about our having worked together last spring. You’re a celebrity in Samara, Georgia, you know. They think that ghost video put them on the map.”

“Even after it’s been so ruthlessly debunked?”

“They don’t care. They believe what they want to believe.”

The video in question had been shot by a news crew that had come to interview me during a restoration, and for months the clip had made the rounds on ghost-hunting sites. Paranormal aficionados were convinced that lights floating over the cemetery behind me were otherworld entities. I’d known better, of course. There were no ghosts in Samara Cemetery, but it had taken a digital imaging analyst to convince the diehards that the lights were, in fact, reflected glare from embedded glass in one of the headstones.

“I thought everyone had pretty much forgotten about that video,” I said.

“Not in Samara. My aunt was so excited when I mentioned your name, she and her Bunko cronies actually talked about catching a bus to Charleston just so they could meet you. No worries, I put the kibosh on that little scheme. Bless their hearts, they mean well, but I can only take Aunty Bitty in small doses and Loretta is a dipper. The whole crew reeks of Bengay and Youth-Dew. Need I say more?”

“I get the picture.”

“Anyway, I don’t mean to keep you. Looks like you’re heading out.”

“You aren’t keeping me. I still need to lock up.”

She stepped up to the gates and peered through the rungs. “I don’t mind saying, I’m happy to have seen the last of this place.”

“I can imagine.”

“Helluva way to spend a summer,” she muttered.

“At least it’s over now.”

“Is it?” I saw a shudder go through her. “I don’t know what it is about Oak Grove. This place still gives me chills.”

“There’s a rural cemetery in Kansas known as one of the seven gateways to hell. I’ve been there. The atmosphere in and around that graveyard feels a lot like Oak Grove.”

“Remind me never to go there,” she said. “A gateway to hell is just asking for trouble.”

We were both silent as we gazed out over the cemetery. The sun hovered just at the horizon, and the shadow of one of the angels fell sharply across our faces. The breeze died away, and there was no movement in the trees or among the graves. No darting silhouettes or gathering mist, but somehow the absolute stillness unnerved me far more than a manifestation.

The days, weeks, months of working in that cemetery alone unfolded before me, and I experienced a moment of intense panic before I quickly squelched it. I wouldn’t let myself dwell on the nightmarish claustrophobia of Oak Grove or the dark haven of the surrounding woods. I had other things with which to occupy my mind, Devlin foremost among them. But I was also fixated on Shani’s visitations and, of course, the Fremont murder investigation.

As we stood there peering through the wrought-iron bars at that shadowy necropolis, it occurred to me that Regina might be able to help me. Even though the murder had happened in Beaufort County, I felt certain she would have access to the autopsy files. How I could convince her to allow me access, I had no idea, but the longer I stood there thinking about it, the more convinced I became that something important could be gleaned from those records.

“It’s a coincidence that you stopped by today,” I began tentatively. Not that I believed in coincidences these days. Everything happened for a reason, even a seemingly random visit by the Charleston County coroner.

“How’s that?” she asked.

“I’m hoping you can help me with a problem I’ve run across on one of my other jobs.”

“Don’t know much about cemetery restoration, but shoot.”

“It’s a small graveyard down in Beaufort County. Some of the headstones were stolen, and now there’s a dispute over the gravesites. Everyone I’ve talked to seems to have differing opinions as to who is buried where, not to mention disagreements over birth and death dates. And so far, I haven’t been able to locate a cemetery registry or site map.”

“What about death certificates?”

“They weren’t even filed in some cases, and others have been amended so extensively as to be useless. It’s a real mess.”

“Sounds like more than a mess,” she said. “I would say someone is going to a lot of trouble to create all that confusion. If official records have been altered or destroyed, you’re dealing with someone who is seriously motivated and probably well-connected. Have you talked to the sheriff down there?”

“The legalities aren’t really my concern. I’m just trying to sort out those graves. It occurred to me that autopsy reports would be indisputable evidence as far as date of death is concerned. I was wondering how someone like me would go about getting copies? Aren’t they a matter of public record?”

“Depends on the state, and within the state, it varies county by county. In Charleston, we tend to operate under the same guidelines that govern the privacy of medical records. But having said that, there are ways to obtain copies. If you’re next of kin, you can submit a request online. If you’re some yahoo looking for gory details, you could always try filing a claim under the Freedom of Information Act, although—a word of warning—we tend to frown on that sort of thing. Since you’re neither, you can always plead your case directly to the coroner. I happen to know Garland Finch pretty well. He’s a good guy but he’s a stickler.”

“You don’t think he’d be willing to help me?”

She shrugged. “You won’t know until you ask him. I’d be willing to give him a call and see if I can soften him up a little for you.”

“You’d do that? It would be a huge help.”

“On one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You have to tell me something.” She turned, her eyes glinting with what I could only interpret as suspicion. “Anyone ever mention what a terrible liar you are?”

“I…don’t know what you mean.”

She cocked her head. “Come on. That story has about as much credibility as the two-headed gator that ate my fifth-grade science project.”

I sighed.

“What’s really going on?” she asked.

“It’s a personal matter.”

“This personal matter wouldn’t involve a lawsuit or infringement on an ongoing investigation, would it?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just trying to help out a friend. It’s been two years since someone close to him died and he still can’t move on. I thought a look at the autopsy records might put some questions to rest. Give him closure.”

“Is there some dispute about cause of death?”

“Not really. But seeing it in black-and-white…” I trailed off. “I realize I’m grasping at straws, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“If this friend is a relative of the deceased, why don’t you file a request online like I suggested?”

“How long do you think it would take to get an answer?”

“Anywhere from weeks to months.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Your friend can’t go to the coroner himself?”

“No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

Her stare was very direct. “And would this friend happen to be anyone I know?”

Since Fremont had been a cop and Regina was the county coroner, I felt it safe to assume they had at least been acquainted. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

“If I stick my neck out, I need your assurance that none of this will come back to bite either of us on the butt.”

“I don’t see how it could.”

She gave me a stern look. “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”

“I appreciate that.”

“It goes against my better judgment.”

“I understand.”

“Here.” She took out a card and scribbled a note on the back. “If Garland gives you a hard time, and he probably will, show this to him. He’ll know what it means.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

She gestured toward the cemetery. “If it hadn’t been for you, that psycho might still be out there. Consider this payback from Charleston County. And everything considered, I’d say we’re getting off pretty damn easy. There is one thing I’d like to know, though.”

“What’s that?”

“How long did it take you to come up with that ridiculous story about stolen headstones and altered death certificates?”

I smiled. “It’s not so ridiculous. It really happened on one of my restorations.”

She looked highly dubious. “Not in Charleston. Not while I’ve been coroner.”

“No. Actually, it was in Samara.”

“Oh, well, that figures.” She shrugged. “That place is more corrupt than a tin-pot dictatorship. I should know, seeing as how my ex is the county sheriff down there.”