= Graveyard Shift
  A Jack Brady Mystery
  by Robert W. Tinsley

You have no idea how dark a night can get until you've spent a moonless night stalking the Viet Cong or in a cemetery. Neither situation was particularly attractive to me.

But here I sat in the oldest cemetery in El Paso, dressed in my Sneaky-Suit, black sneakers, socks, pants, gloves, sweater, and watch cap with every exposed square inch of skin covered in black make up. I was ready for a minstrel show or a commando raid, whichever came along first. I had chosen a large granite headstone for my reconnaissance post, and its cold was infiltrating the two square inches of my anatomy in constant contact with it. I speak from experience when I say that headstones are not designed for the comfort of the living.

About midnight I began to wonder what form of temporary mental aberration had caused me to accept this absurd assignment. After fifty-two years on this planet, my tolerance for cold and sleep deprivation had begun to erode. By three A.M. I had decided to have myself committed. At least the State requires the loony bins to be kept warm. March days in El Paso typically run in the upper 70s or low 80s, but the nights can still be damn cold. And I hear they have color TV in the dayrooms now.

This whole fiasco had started about sixteen hours ago when I received a call from Harold Sawyer, president of the El Paso Historical Preservation Society. He said he had some work for me and asked if we could discuss it over lunch. Like a fool, I'd agreed. We'd made a date to meet at Jaxon's on North Mesa at eleven forty-five. Since Jaxon's is a very popular watering hole with the yuppies, I was to arrive early, get a table and leave word at the front for him to be shown in. That would prevent either of us from having to walk around saying, "Excuse me, are you ...."

Actually, I knew what Sawyer looked like. As soon as I hung up the phone, I buzzed Kathleen. "Kathleen, me darlin'", I said in my best Irish brogue, "I'm to have lunch with one Harold Sawyer, president of the Historical Preservation Society and all-round societal pillar. Be a good lass and find me a picture of the man, please."

True to form, I had hardly leaned back in my chair when my office door opened and in marched Kathleen, carrying today's paper. She wore a gray business suit with a maroon blouse. It covered her from head to knee, but it still made me want to sit up and bark. The woman could stop traffic wearing a feed sack.

With a great deal of ceremony, she opened the paper to the first page of the second section and laid it on my desk. Her finger rested on a picture located just above the fold. "If you would read something besides the comics and the movie ads, you'd make my life a whole lot easier."

The picture showed Harold Sawyer receiving yet another civic award. In addition to being president of the Historical Preservation Society, he was an executive with the local office of a national investment firm. He was also a Mason, a Rotarian, a Sunturian, and I don't know what all else on the community level.

"What's up, Boss?" said Kathleen. "Is Sawyer going to give us a job?"

I sighed. "It would appear so."

"Great! Do you think I could do some outside work on this one?" A couple of weeks ago Kathleen had acquired the notion, God knows from where, that she would like to become a licensed private investigator. Ever since then, she has been pestering me to let her do some shadowing, or interviewing, or any of the other myriad things I do outside the office. So far I have been able to duck the issue.

It's not that I don't think she's capable. She can do anything she sets her mind to. I just hate training people!

"We'll see, Kathleen. I have to meet the man first." I forestalled any further discussion on the matter by giving her some notes on a skip-trace to type. I heaved a sigh of relief when the door closed behind her.

* * *

Jaxon's is located in a renovated building on the corner of Mesa and Castellano. The facility was built for a place called Applegate's Landing. It was rough-wood rustic with a turret, tin roof, and a verandah around three sides. It lasted about six months and was followed, after a suitable period of mourning, by another joint that didn't last long enough for me to remember its name. Jaxon's then bought the building and remodeled it, expanding out past the verandah and turret, doing away with the tin roof, and adding a walled-in patio for those folks that like sand in their food.

The interior hadn't changed materially since the Applegate's Landing days. The furnishings consisted of plank tables, uncomfortable chairs, and booths that were too narrow and built up about five inches above the restaurant floor. I've never seen anyone who didn't bang their toes on the platform while trying to get into one of those booths.

Sawyer arrived precisely on time, at least by my watch. I examined him as the greeter led him across the restaurant to my table. I would rather have watched the greeter, a striking and statuesque blonde, but duty first.

Sawyer appeared to be in his late thirties, clean-shaven, dishwater blond about six feet tall. The man photographed well. In person, he looked like a dyspeptic Boston Terrier. He wore a gray pin-stripe suit that fit his trim form like it had been made for him. He walked like an Important Man.

Sawyer sat down, and we exchanged pleasantries until the cocktail waitress had come and taken Sawyer's order for a Bloody Mary. "You've read about the vandalism at Concordia Cemetery?" he asked as I watched the waitress slink her way back to the bar.

"Yeah. It's happened twice this week, hasn't it?" Concordia Cemetery is El Paso's Boot Hill. John Wesley Hardin, the gunfighter, is buried there, as is the man who killed him.

"That's right. The HPS is interested in preserving not only the sanctity of those people's final resting place, but we also want to preserve Concordia for its historical significance."

"Very laudable, but what's that got to do with me?"

Sawyer extracted the celery stalk from his drink and crunched a chunk off the bottom. "After the first incident, I called the police to see what they were doing about it. Captain Emmett told me they would increase patrols in the area, but that was about all they could do since they were suffering a shortage in manpower.

"After this second set of depredations, I called Captain Emmett again and asked him to post someone in the cemetery for a few nights to see if they could catch the vandals. He was uncooperative."

"What's the vandalism consisted of?"

"Oh, the usual thing, swastikas and pentagrams painted on the headstones, black candles lying about, disturbed earth, that sort of thing."

"Didn't something similar happen some time ago?"

"That's right," said Sawyer. "Just a little over a year ago. There was a brief spate of the same sort of vandalism then. The culprits were never caught. Some people have no respect for the dead."

"What do you want from me?

Sawyer leaned forward with his elbows on the table, both hands around his drink, as if he were afraid it might escape. "I want you to stay in the cemetery overnight and catch the vandals."

Sawyer leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look. I didn't know whether to laugh in his face or storm out in a huff. "Of course," he said, "we're willing to pay your regular rates for three nights."

It wasn't like I was swimming in clients at the moment. But I was still uncomfortable. Maybe it was something about Sawyer himself. I never did like Boston Terriers. "Why me?" I asked. "Why not just hire a couple of security guards from Burns or somebody?"

Sawyer gave his head a quick shake. "I don't want to scare these people off. I want to catch them. I want them to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." Sawyer took a breath and munched his celery. "Security guards are, by their very nature, visible deterrents. The criminals would see them and just wait until they weren't there any longer. Then they would return and continue their desecrations.

"I did some rather extensive research on you before I called. Ex-Navy SEAL, three tours in Vietnam, eight years with the Border Patrol, three of those years undercover. You have all the qualifications for the job. I want you to hide in the cemetery and capture the people who are committing these offenses."

"All by myself?" I asked, my eyes wide.

Sawyer waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "The police say that from the evidence at the scene, the vandalism is being committed by one, or, at the most, two people. After what you've done in your life, you're more than capable of handling the situation."

When a guy gives you a build-up like that, how can you tell him no? Besides, it was probably just a couple of high-school kids out for a romp. Sure.

* * *

So, here I was, dressed up in an outfit I hadn't worn since I got back to the World, babysitting about two acres of dead people. If a cop saw me dressed this way, he'd have the cuffs on me before I could open my mouth, so I had taken a few precautions. I had letters in my pocket from both Sawyer and Captain Emmett stating that I was not a rapist, murderer, burglar or other brand of criminal, and that I was in the cemetery with their full knowledge and approval. I had even made sure that the cops that would be patrolling this section of town had been told that I would be skulking about. Captain Emmett had not been overly enthusiastic about this little escapade, but Sawyer had enough clout to get him to agree.

Concordia Cemetery is a barren patch of ground just north of the freeway, about as close to the center of this town as you can get. The cemetery is laid out in the shape of the letter "U", surrounded on all sides by a five-foot high rock wall. Occupying the center of the "U" and standing in total contrast to the starkness of Concordia is the B'Nai Zion Cemetery, small but rich with grass and trees. Concordia is bounded on the south by the access road for the freeway, on the west by a carpet warehouse, on the east by a drainage ditch, and on the north by a dirt road and some vacant lots. If anyone were crazy enough to try to sneak into the cemetery at night, they would probably come in from the north.

I arrived just after eleven o'clock, parked my car at a nearby carpet warehouse, and vaulted over the wall into the cemetery. I found a dark granite headstone about midway along and close to the back wall separating B'Nai Zion from Concordia. This vantage point gave me a good view of the whole northern perimeter of the cemetery, about a hundred feet from where I stood. I set the small daypack I had on the ground next to the headstone and checked through it. I had a five-cell halogen flashlight that could moonlight as a spotlight in a stage production, a small Starlite scope, a bundle of some plastic wire-ties that make dandy impromptu hand-cuffs, a Blackie Collins boot knife, and a bottle of water. I slapped the knife upside down against a Velcro patch sewn to my sweater under my left arm.

I hooded the flashlight and blinked it on the headstone just long enough to see whose final resting place I was using as my temporary one. Jonas Albert Treadwell, Loving Husband; Born April 4, 1836; Died September 23, 1900. Amanda Lee Treadwell, Adoring Wife; Born June 13, 1843; Died January 9, 1905. I offered up a silent apology to the Treadwells and settled in.

About 3:30, I heard a car drive by on the dirt road behind the cemetery, leaving the scent of disturbed dust in its wake. Ten minutes later, another car, or the same one, drove up and stopped on the other side of the rock wall. I heard a door open and close. Then another. I picked up the Starlite scope and scanned the length of wall where it sounded like the car stopped.

About fifty feet to the west of my position, someone tossed a large bundle over the wall. At first I thought it was a mannequin that the vandals were going to use in some gruesome way in their latest set of depredations. But the solid, heavy sound it made when it hit the ground convinced me otherwise.

Almost immediately a man clambered over the wall. He landed on his feet and looked around with quick jerks of his head. He stood about six feet tall and was almost that wide. He had dark hair, worn well over his ears, and an unkempt beard. I couldn't really tell with the windbreaker he was wearing, but the way he'd tossed that bundle over the wall, I doubted that much of his weight was fat.

If I needed any confirmation, I got it when he bent over, picked up the bundle, and tossed it over his left shoulder. A dead weight like that is hard to handle, especially alone, but this guy managed it with deceptive ease.

As soon as I determined the direction the caller was taking, I put the scope down, picked up the flashlight, and set off on an interception course. I moved too quickly to be as quiet as I wanted to be, but Quasimodo over there was making enough noise to cover anything short of a brass band. I picked a large headstone just to the right of his path and crouched down behind it. He was close enough now for me to hear him breathe. It may have looked like he was getting along well, but he was puffing like a steam engine. I waited until he was one step from my hiding place and jumped up in front of him. I put my nose about six inches from his and yelled, "Boo!" His jaw dropped; his eyes grew to the size of silver dollars; he probably would have screamed if I hadn't cut him off in mid-inhale with the butt end of my flashlight. He dropped like a stone with his burden laying half across him. It was a duffle bag, packed full and heavy.

I shoved the duffle to one side and rolled Quasimodo onto his stomach. Within seconds I had him shackled hand and foot with the wire ties. I searched him and came up with a revolver and a Buck Folding Hunter. The revolver was a Smith & Wesson Model 29, .44 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. Quasimodo had been carrying it in a shoulder holster. I bent over to get a better look at him.

"Please place the guns on the ground, Mr. Brady, and straighten up slowly."

The voice came from behind me. After I swallowed my heart back down to where it belonged, I did what the voice said. There, just a long jump away, stood Harold Sawyer, resplendent in an outfit straight out of the L. L. Bean catalog. What caught and held my attention, however, was the pistol he was holding. It appeared to be the twin to the magnum I had taken from Quasimodo.

"Is this where you tell me to put my hands up?" I asked. I was pleased to discover that I didn't sound as shaken as I felt. What the hell was he doing here, and why was he pointing that cannon at me?

"I dislike being melodramatic, Mr. Brady. I expect I can shoot you dead well before you can do anything to seriously threaten me. I'm a very good shot."

That made me feel a lot better.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Mr. Brady. I expected so much more."

"More what?" I asked. As long as he was talking, he wasn't shooting, a common mistake of amateurs and megalomaniacs.

Sawyer looked surprised. "Why, more action, Mr. Brady. With your history, I fully expected you to kill my erstwhile partner here as soon as he pulled a gun on you. But I see you didn't even bother to bring a gun with you. How disappointing."

"Partner?" I asked. "Quasimodo there is your partner?"

"Was, Mr. Brady, was. Quasimodo! That's cute and somewhat appropriate. He is neither the brightest nor handsomest of men, and his strength certainly is comparable. But enough of that. You, Mr. Brady, have certainly thrown a monkey wrench into the works. I hardly expected you to be so imaginative or tolerant."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you."

"Yes, well, I'm sure you will be even sorrier soon. If you had simply killed poor Raphael, you would have never known I was here. The police would have concluded, correctly as it turns out, that Raphael was a member of the Juarez drug cartel and had been using the graveyard as a blind drop. With you here, this was to be his last cash delivery. You would have turned in the cash and Raphael's body, and that would have been the end of it."

"But now you're going to have to kill me," I prompted. I wanted to drag this out. Like I said, as long as he was talking, he wasn't shooting. And the longer he talked, the more chance his attention would wander enough to give me an opening. I still had the boot knife, and, after all, this wasn't the first time I'd had a gun pointed at me. I didn't like it, but it didn't paralyze me either. Amateurs like Sawyer seem to believe that the mere sight of a gun will cause those on the wrong end of it to turn into mindless jelly. "I just don't understand why."

"It's an old story, Mr. Brady. Making mistakes and going for the easy way out. Raphael was -- still is, thanks to you -- my wife's cousin. He is also what I would call a mid-level manager in the Juarez drug cartel. He found a way to skim some cash without his bosses being any the wiser, or so he thought. Knowing the business I was in, he came to me. I was vulnerable. I had just bet the farm on something that didn't pan out, so I took him up on it. That was six months ago. Since then I have been taking the cash he brought me, laundering it, and stashing it in a safe investment.

"But then Raphael got greedy. He wanted to start spending his part of the money. I tried to explain to him that his bosses were going to start wondering where he got his new largesse. But he thought he was smarter than they were. I knew he was going to get caught, and if he got caught, I'd get caught. His people would make a very visible, very messy object lesson of us. If only you had killed him as you were supposed to!"

"It's a funny thing, Harry," I said, "but after you've killed a few people, you find yourself trying real hard not to kill anyone else, unless you're crazy, of course. I don't think you're crazy, Harry. You don't really want to kill Raphael, and you certainly don't want to kill me. Killing someone, especially someone you know, in cold blood is not an easy thing. Otherwise you would have killed old Raphael down there yourself and not gone through all this folderol to get me to do it. So far all you've done is launder a little money. With all this cash and what you and your wife's cousin know about the cartel's operations, the feds will probably overlook your little indiscretions and roll you into the witness protection program. If you kill us, you won't have anywhere to turn when Raphael's cohorts figure out what's going on. And they will, sooner or later."

Sawyer didn't look totally convinced, but he didn't look like he was ready to pull the trigger either. "Witness protection? What would they do? Set me up in a little Mailboxes-R-Us franchise in Armpit, Idaho? My wife would have a fit having to cut off contact with her mother!"

I shrugged -- slowly. "It's better than being dead. And don't think your wife and kids are not in danger. The cartel has been known to erase entire families if they're pissed off enough. When they find out what you've done, I think they'd be pissed off enough."

Sawyer slumped as though someone had let the air out of him. The muzzle of the small cannon he was holding floated slowly down toward the ground at his feet. "They can't find out about this," he said.

I stepped forward and gently took the revolver out of his hand. "Don't worry," I said. "I'll call a friend of mine at the local FBI field office. By the end of the day you and Sleeping Beauty here will be so far underground they'd need a mining engineer to find you."

I took his gun and the one Raphael had been carrying, unloaded them, and stuffed them into the duffel bag on top of the cash. "By the way, Harry," I said, turning and putting all my weight behind my open hand against the side of his head, "I really hate it when people point guns at me!"

A few minutes later I was thinking that I shouldn't have hit him so hard. I had to drag both of them all the way back to the car.

ROBERT W. TINSLEY is a licensed engineer in private practice. He has published two other Jack Brady stories in P.I. Magazine and numerous magazine articles on subjects ranging from blood transfusions to NASA's nuclear propulsion program. He is also a member of the editorial advisory board for "Heating, Piping, and Air Conditioning" magazine.

Copyrights (c) 2002 Robert W. Tinsley

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