You've Got The Plot

YOU’VE GOT THE PLOT

I was sitting at my desk, mostly filling out paperwork, but also wondering what I would have for dinner in approximately two hours. In other words, it was an easy, noneventful day in Morris County, Iowa. For someone in law enforcement, such days were hard to come by and much appreciated. Of course, I should have known that it wasn’t going to last.

There was suddenly a quiet knock on the door and Jennifer Sundersten, my Secretary, opened the door slightly.

“Sorry to bother you Sheriff Johnson,” she said, although we both knew that bothering him was one of the main parts of her job. “Harvey Wickerson wants to see you. He says it is urgent.”

Harvey Wickerson didn’t make it to downtown Jason City too often. His family had owned a farm straddling the county line for longer than I could remember and Harvey, being in his late 60s, seemed to be content to sit out there and watch the time pass by. For him to come to town was unusual, for him to want to see the acting sheriff, the position I currently held, about an urgent matter was downright unsettling.

“Send him in,” I sighed.

Five minutes later, Harvey burst through the door and stomped into the middle of the office. Behind his fluttering coat, I could see Jennifer discretely close the door behind him. Harvey Wickerson was about 6 feet tall, heavily built, with grey hair and a nose that could open the door in front of him. Even though he walked with a limp, he still moved around smartly and was sitting in the chair across the desk before the sheriff could stand up.

“Hello Harvey, I understand you have something you need to see me about.”

“Hello Sheriff, I do. They done stole my plot!”

I hesitated for a second, not sure if I had heard Harvey right. Plot, what plot? Was he talking about his land? How could anyone steal his land?

“Harvey, slow down a minute,” I put out my hand, partly waving to a seat, and partly to calm the man. “What plot are you talking about?”

“Why my cemetery plot,” Harvey answered. “Out at Western Groves.”

Western Groves was a private cemetery out in the middle of nowhere, and for Jason City, that was saying something. It overlooked a small creek and some people thought that it was a nice, peaceful looking spot to spend eternity.

“Wait a minute, Harvey. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“Ok,” Harvey paused a minute. “It was about 10 years ago right before I met Marge.” Marge Cirillo was Harvey’s second and current wife.

“I was sitting there thinking one day and I saw that commercial on TV. You know the one about where are you going to spend eternity?”

I nodded, having indeed seen the commercial. “You bought a plot,” I asked?

“How could I not,” Harvey replied? “I realized that I didn’t have any place for my heavenly remains once I was gone. Then, the other day, I was looking through some of my papers and I found the contract. So, I figured that I had better go out there and look at it, now that we were going to need one more so Marge and I could be together in eternity.”

“I take it that you went out there?”

“Sure did Sheriff. I drove out there and went right to the spot. And you know what, there was somebody already buried there. Right in my plot.”

“Maybe you were at the wrong location,” the I said, “cemeteries can be confusing.”

“I thought of that Sheriff, I really did. I went to the office and looked at their map; I even asked the girl at the desk where my plot was. It was the right plot”

“Whose name is on the marker?”

“Somebody named Calder, Jonathon Calder. That’s who it was. And there was a nickname on the gravestone as well. Let me see, what was it? Willie, Wild, something like that.”

I thought for a minute. Calder. Somehow that name sounded familiar. I thought for a minute.

“Jonathan William Calder,” I asked?

Harvey nodded. “You know him, Sheriff?”

“Was the nickname Wild Man,” I replied?

Harvey nodded enthusiastically.

Johnny ‘Wild Man’ Calder, they used to call him. They, being the inmates and guards at the various penal institutions where Calder was housed for robbery, assault, and all-around bad behavior. As a career policeman in the area, I had my first experience with Calder when I was on a team arrested him after a robbery had gone bad. That offense led to 7 years in prison. The next offense, a fight outside of a bar, resulted in a parole violation and an additional 3 years inside. After being released from prison 15 years ago, Calder had left the area. Now his name, if in fact it was the same man, came at me out of the blue. Wild Man Calder dead and in another man’s grave.

“Maybe it was just a mistake. Did you ask anyone about the error?”

Harvey nodded.

“What did they say about it?”

“They said that my paperwork was not correct. They didn’t have any record of me having purchased a plot.”

It sounded like there might have been just a simple mistake that could probably be worked out. That is, if it wasn’t for Wild Man Calder. What were the odds of a well-known criminal being buried in the same grave? If he was buried there?

“Could I see the paperwork,” I asked, and then glanced over the document? It looked legitimate.

“I will give them a call, but I am not sure that there is anything that I can do. You may just need to work it out with the people who run the cemetery.”

“I tell you Sheriff, someone stole that plot from me, and I want it back.” With that, Harvey stormed out of the office.

I picked up the phone and placed call to Western Groves. “Hello,” I said in an officious but non-threatening manner, “this is Sheriff Johnson. Could I speak to the manager, please?”

“Just a minute, please,” said a deep feminine voice.

“This is Joan Armitredge,” a much younger voice spoke rapidly into the phone.

“Ms. Armitredge, I received a complaint from one of our citizens about a grave that he purchased but that had someone else buried in it.”

“Mr. Wilkerson,” she asked?

“Yes, I take it that you spoke to him.”

“No, my assistant did, however, she brought me up to speed as soon as I returned from a meeting in town. Since then, I have been researching, however, I am afraid that I have not found any evidence of such a transaction.”

“Was anyone working there at that time?”

“No one who is still working here,” she answered.

“I wonder if you could do me a favor,” I asked? “The plot that Mr. Wilkerson claims to have purchased. Can you tell me who purchased the plot?”

“Jonathan Calder, is the name we have,” she answered.

“Do you have a date of burial?”

“Sheriff, a grave marker does not necessarily mean that anyone is buried there, yet. It simply means that someone has the right to be buried there.”

“So, there has been no burial at that site,” I asked?

“Not according to our records.”

“I see. Can you tell me when it was purchased?”

“It was purchased in January 2015.”

I looked at Harvey’s document. October 18, 2014.

I asked for a list of employees and their contact information that were working there at the time of Harvey’s purchase. She agreed to fax it to me.

Later in the afternoon, after helping clear an automobile wreck with, luckily, no injuries, I returned to the office. There were two documents on my desk. The first one was the search on Wild Man Calder. Calder was, where else, in prison. He had been arrested and convicted in a neighboring county of robbery and was serving a 12-year sentence. However, he was due to get out next week. That meant that the man was in prison when the plot at the cemetery was transferred.

The second document was from Western Groves with the names of the employees who worked there at the time of the sale. Strolling out front, I handed the document to Jennifer and asked for research on the three names and an updated address.

When I got to the office the next day, the report on the Western Groves employees was on my desk. Apart from a few traffic tickets, there were no criminal items of note. I did see where Jason Lamar had faced financial difficulties at about the same time as the sale of the plot to Harvey; liens and heavy debt had shown up on his credit report.

Normally, I would have handled this matter over the phone, but I was curious about what Lamar would say, and what he wouldn’t say. Lamar lived in a quiet neighborhood just on the outskirts of town. I walked up and knocked on the door.

The front door opened, revealing a tall white man with grayish hair, wearing a white sweatshirt and blue jeans.

“Sheriff, welcome,” Jason said in a friendly, yet guarded manner. “Please, come in, how can I help you?”

“I need to talk to you about a matter at the Cemetery you used to work at.”

“I think the used to is important, Sheriff.”

“I know,” I nodded, “but this happened while you were working there.”

The man settled in his seat, crossing his leg. “I am not sure how I can help you, but I will do what I can.”

“Do you know a Harvey Wilkerson,” I asked?

“I believe so, Sheriff, although not well.”

“Mr. Wilkerson, claims to have bought a plot at the cemetery and has paperwork to back that up. Now it seems that someone else has taken possession of it.”

“Do you mean someone else is buried there?”

“That we don’t know, however, there is a marker there with someone else’s name.”

Jason shook his head, “I am not sure how I can help you, Sheriff. It is probably just an understandable error. Did you ask the office about it?”

I nodded, “yes, I did, and they said that there was no record of Harvey Wilkerson owning a plot there.”

“Wow,” Jason replied. “I am sure there is an explanation.

“What are you doing now,” I asked?

“I work for Hargraves Construction Company in their accounting department.”

“I see, I am sure that is a better position than taking orders for graves.”

Jason nodded and waved as I walked out the door. From a factual standpoint, I didn’t get much.

After returning to the office, I made a call to the prison.

“This is Johnny Calder, who am I talking to?”

“Hello, Wild Man,” I said. “This is Sheriff Johnson from Jason City.”

“Sheriff, well, it has been a long time. In fact, the last time we talked you were a Deputy Sheriff. I see that you have been promoted. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to know if you own a plot at Western Groves Cemetery?”

“You mean a grave site,” he asked?

“Yes, I do. A friend of mine took care of it for me while I was, unavailable shall we say.”

“Who is the friend,” I asked?

“I would rather not say,” he answered, “let’s just say that he is shy around law enforcement personnel.”

“Is the grave for you,” I asked?

“Who else would it be for?”

“Thank you, Wild Man,” I said, sure that I was not getting the truth and that I would not get any other information. The only thing to do now was wait. Luckily, I only had a week to go.

Calder and Lamar made their way through the back way to the region of the cemetery they were looking for. They stopped suddenly, standing in front of the same marker that I had seen when this whole fiasco had started. Lamar gestured at the marker and held his hand out, either for a handshake or, more likely, the exchange of cash. I felt it was time for me to make myself known.

“Hello Wild Man,” I said, “Mr. Lamar.”

The two turned around, startled, shocked to see me there. “What are you doing here, Sheriff,” Calder asked?

“I could ask the same thing of you,” I replied. “You told me that you had no relationship with this cemetery, no one you knew buried here.” I stopped, waiting for his answer.

“I know, I said that Sheriff,” Calder finally answered. “And two years ago, that would have been true. But Jason here, came to see me in prison and told me something that I didn’t know.”

“What was that, I asked?”

“I have or had a son,” he blubbered, his face turning red, tears starting to rain down his face. “He was gone from me before I ever even knew he existed,” he cried looking at the marker on the ground.

“His name was Jonathan Calder,” I asked, interested in seeing what the man would say?

“Well, not on the birth certificate,” Wild Man shook his head, “It was Terrance William Macron. He had his mother’s last name,” Calder explained. “We were never married.”

“I am assuming that you wanted this particular plot,” I asked?

“Yes,” Calder answered, “it was important.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Lamar almost shouted before realizing that he probably should keep his mouth shut.”

“Why was it important,” I asked, ignoring the interruption?

“Why, his mother is buried right over there,” he said, pointing at a grave site one row over and almost directly in line with the plot we were standing in front of. “Sharon Macron,” he murmured, at least that was the name that I knew her under. “But I didn’t know that she had my son.”

“The question is, how did Jason Lamar know it,” I asked, turning my head toward Lamar?

“I handled the burial,” he answered, “through her family.”

“Then how did you know about the Calder?”

He looked away for a minute. “Her Grandmother told me,” he finally admitted. “I met with her, her Step-Grandfather and their lawyer to finalize the paperwork. She was very upset and suddenly asked her husband if they should tell Terrance’s father. He shushed her and said that would not be necessary.”

“How did you know he was dead, the son, I mean,” I asked?

He looked away, even more guiltily. “Once I found out about his father, Calder, I did some research. I could see that he was into shady things but that he also should have some money to do what should be done for his boy. I even wondered if he knew about the boy, which of course he did not.”

“Why didn’t I,” Calder shouted? “I didn’t get a chance to see him when he was alive. Now my only chance was to provide him with the right grave, close to his mother.”

“How much did you have to pay for the right grave,” I inquired of Calder? “ $10,000, $20,000?”

Calder lowered his head. “$50,000. Lamar said that the current owner didn’t want to sell and that he would have to do some behind the scenes record manipulation to keep the cemetery management from finding out.”

“How much have you paid him so far,” I asked?

“Half,” he admitted.

“First of all,” I said, “there is no record of anyone being buried here.”

“Jason arranged that on the quiet,” Wild Man interrupted. “Because of the way we had to do it, the burial was not entered into the records.”

“Secondly,” I said, ignoring Calder’s remarks, “Terrance Macron is not dead.”

“What do you mean, he’s not dead,” Calder shouted? “I saw the death certificate; Jason brought me a copy.”

“He may have brought you a copy of a death certificate, but it was a fake. I think that Jason was in financial trouble, he found out about your son, your history, the fact that you most certainly had money hidden away and concocted this scheme for you to pay big time for something that he couldn’t give you. For you to be interested, it had to be one that meant something, one that would not be sold to someone else, one that was close to his mother,” I finished, pointing my hand at the marker close to us.

“You can’t prove any of this,” Lamar said, his voice trembling.

“How do you know all of this,” Calder asked me?

Here it was, the moment that I was dreading. “Because Sharon Macron was my sister. And her son, is now my son. I adopted him officially two years after my sister’s death.”

Both Calder and Lamar looked at me with their faces dropping, the shock and surprise radiating from their heads.

Lamar suddenly turned on his heels and began walking quickly, then running out of the cemetery. I let him go. He wasn’t going anywhere because officers were waiting at the gate to take him into custody.

Calder looked intense and at the same time joyous. “Does he know about me,” he asked?

I shook my head, “neither one of us did. My sister, nor my mother never told us what they knew. I am assuming that it was because they knew your history, and what kind of man you were. They were trying to protect Terrance. That is the reason you were never told that you had a son.”

He nodded. “I understand and can’t blame them. But I would never do anything to hurt him. How do you feel about it,” he asked?

“Terrence is and will remain my son. However, he is a teenager and growing up fast. Maybe it is time that he knew the truth about you. After all, you don’t have the plot anymore.”