Part Eight: Cemeteries.

It was now about two-thirty in the morning, the radio traffic had slowed down quite a bit. The mood between Ted and I was casual, familiar. We talked about families, hobbies, exchanged war stories, all the while cruising the back roads, slowing down occasionally to spotlight a church or drive through the parking lot of a business or school. He even checked cell towers that were close enough to the road. He’d busted a pair of metal scrappers on one just a few weeks back. He also showed me a gun shop where they’d found a guy cutting a whole in the roof to gain access.

This is what he does when there are no active calls, he cruises and checks up on places, all over the southern half of the county. The Southern Zone covers about 340 square miles, mostly rural, sparsely populated, dotted with small unincorporated towns and a few heavy-industry areas and the occasional churches, small businesses and a few farms. Most of the roads are narrow, curvy, and several are barely paved. An important part of his job is to cruise around, making a presence, and keeping an eye open. We covered a lot of miles, my back was getting stiff.

Back at the southern tip, he drove down a back road that turned into a dusty industrial road, next to an enormous power plant. Long lines of coal cars, some empty, some full, lined the many railroad sidings. Fifty or more acres of gravel, utility roads, marshes, tree stumps, litter. Dirty, gritty, remote.

“This is a popular dumping ground.” He pointed to a murky, oily, stagnant pond about a hundred feet square.

“Dumping, like trash?”

“Dumping, like trash, bodies, whatever needs to be dumped and not found for a while.”

He showed me a couple more of these lovely spots, desolated places where things unpleasant had been found more than once. He said he checked on them regularly.

It got kind of quiet for a while, the early hours were starting to sink in. “Hey, you ever been to the Baur Cemetery?” He asked, jolting me out of my fatigue.

“I’ve heard of it, never really had the opportunity to go there though.”

He pulled the car over alongside an old Iron fence. He shined his car-mounted spotlight toward it, and lo and behold, there it was. A small, old cemetery typical of those found in the area, except this one had something I hadn’t come across before, Iron, cross-shaped markers from the late 1800’s.

“You bring your camera?” He asked.

“Nope, didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Too bad.”

We left, and he turned down a few more country roads, sparsely populated if at all. Abandoned or vacant farms, the occasional boarded up auto repair garage or machine shop.

“There it is.” He said. I looked ahead. Another cemetery.

“Moon, family name Moon, people call it the Moon-something cemetery, been here?”

“I have no idea where we even are.”

He pulled in, this one was open, no fence, just a few hundred yards back from a paved road on a gravel path, barely a road. He pointed the car in toward the stones, then spotlighted a few, grabbed his flashlight and got out. I followed. We went up and down a couple of rows, looking at the dates.

And no, I find nothing at all creepy or scary about being in a small, secluded cemetery at three in the morning. 

 (To be continued.)  Go to Part Nine