Some secrets refuse to stay buried.
Police Department, Town of Winton Arizona, 1994
At four minutes after ten, a young man strolled in. He was maybe seventeen, probably younger, and wore a Pink Floyd T-shirt from their Tempe concert in April.
“Hi.” The kid grinned, looking like a ten-year-old who’d just hit a home run. “I want to report a body.”
Carl waited for the punchline. The young man waited for a response.
“Is it in your house?” Carl asked politely.
“The desert.” When Carl continued to stare, the kid added, “Shouldn’t you write this down?”
Carl picked up a pen.
“Her name is Amelia. You know Vulture City?”
Carl slanted him a look. The boy—he really was more a boy than any sort of adult—appeared earnest.
“Go stand beneath the Hanging Tree, face west-ish. Toward the grandfather saguaro in the distance. Walk maybe twenty minutes, to the red ‘Aenas Williams’ jersey tied to a dead cactus rib. She’s buried beneath.”
“And how do you know this?”
“She told me. Spirits talk to me sometimes.” Tapping the desk, he turned to leave. “Oh, and would you bring my jersey back?”
Carl realized there wasn’t gonna be a punchline.
