A Welcome Grave by Michael Koryta

refocused on the pond that had swallowed a piece of his skull. The moonlight reflected on the whiskey bottle that remained where the dead man had sat, and I saw the bottle was resting on a piece of paper, pinning it to the railing. I stepped closer and saw it was that apple-shaped stationery upon which Kara Ross had written my note.
     
    Matt—
    Man from Cleveland here to see you.
Will return tonight.
Family business
.
     

6

    T he sheriff’s department sent the first car, driven by a deputy who looked about fourteen. He shuffled around in the parking lot nervously, talking into his radio, and when I called out to him he jumped like I’d fired a shot into his car.
    “There’s a body down there,” I said, walking up out of the shadows and into the parking lot. “And a lot of blood. You processed any death scenes before?”
    He shook his head and took a hesitant step backward. The damn kid was afraid of me.
    “Is there anybody else on the way?”
    A swallow and a nod, and then, “Yessir. State police.”
    “You want to just wait on them?” I said, my voice gentle.
    “Sure. Why don’t we?” He realized then how this might look to the state cops, him standing up here with me in the parking lot, having not even seen the body, and said, “Well, maybe I should . . . you know, secure the area.”
    I nodded slowly. “Okay. Follow me.”
    We were halfway down the path to the gazebo, the kid stumbling in the dark, when he was saved by the sound of another car pulling into the gravel lot. We both turned, and I saw that it was an unmarked car. A Taurus, just like Joe drove.
    “State police?”
    “Yeah.” The kid sounded relieved. He started back up to the parking lot. A cop in street clothes climbed out of the unmarked car and walked down the slope. He met us at the corner of the orchard barn, in the glow from one of the few outdoor lights.
    “We got a suicide down there,” the sheriff’s deputy said, his chest filling a bit, trying to impress the varsity.
    “Uh-huh,” the plainclothes guy said. “Kinda figured that, you know, when dispatch told me to come take a look at a suicide.”
    The kid’s chest deflated.
    “And who’re you?” the new cop asked me. He was an unremarkable man in every way—average in height and build, not handsome or ugly, just one of a thousand guys you’d pass on the street and hardly spare a glance.
    “Name’s Lincoln Perry. I called it in.”
    “Found the guy?”
    “Saw him do it.”
    “Ah.” He nodded and slipped a small tape recorder out of his pocket. “Lincoln Perry. Good name. I’m Roger Brewer, state police.”
    He turned the recorder on and spoke into it, giving his name and the date and time, then stating our location and what he’d been told by dispatch and by me. That settled, he held the recorder against his leg and nodded at me.
    “Lead the way.”
    They followed me around the side of the barn, and when we got into the darkness, the state cop produced a flashlight. I took them up to the gazebo and then stopped.
    “That’s him. I imagine you want me to hang back.”
    “Uh-huh.” He walked up onto the gazebo without any sign of trepidation, the deputy following nervously. When they got a clear view of the body, Brewer let out a long, low whistle and shook his head.
    “Did a pretty good job of it, didn’t he?”
    I didn’t say anything. The young deputy’s face had blanched, and he stood at the far end of the gazebo, his hand tight on the railing, his eyes averted. The wind was blowing harder now, and cooler, rippling across the pond and sending a chill through me. A few leaves came tumbling down, one of them settling gently onto Matthew Jefferson’s back. Brewer flicked it off with his index finger.
    The woods and the pond lit up with flashing lights as another car pulled in up at the barn, this one a state police cruiser. The two cops who got out were in full uniform, right down to the tall black boots and the full-brimmed hats.
    “Wait there, would