B.A., I guess I’m just handicapped.”
The watchman was a dead ringer for Ichabod Crane with a long face and extended skeletal frame and sunken eyes unsuitable for daylight. Any minute, Decker expected to see the headless horseman. His given name was Isaiah Pellman and his family had been living in Greenbury for two hundred years. The history was given by way of introduction to his good character. There were a lot of loquacious people in Greenbury as well as a lot of odd ducks. Eccentrics were everywhere in the world, but they were more noticeable in smaller populations.
They were chatting while standing between rows of headstones. Pellman said, “I check the Bergman crypt all the time, so I was really surprised when this happened.”
Decker pulled out a notebook. “What specifically happened?”
“My key doesn’t work the lock: that’s what happened.”
“Okay … so the lock wasn’t broken off?”
“No, it was broken off and exchanged for a different lock.”
“And your key always worked the lock before?”
“Yes, sir, it did.”
“Are you sure the lock just didn’t freeze?”
“I’m sure. First thing I did was heat it and oil it. The key goes in, but the tumblers don’t move. Everything worked perfectly four days ago. I called up the family and explained the situation a few hours ago. They told me to cut the lock and make sure everything inside is okay. But I told them I was gonna call the police. So I called the police. And now you’re up to date.”
“Who does the crypt belong to again? Bergman?”
“Ye-ah. They’re all buried inside—Moses and Ruth and their three children, Leon, Helen, and Harold along with their spouses—Gladys, Earl, and Mary. Ken Sobel’s the one I deal with. He’s a grandson from Helen Bergman, who became a Sobel when she married Earl. Ken’s older cousin, Jack Sobel, was buried here around six months ago. He was seventy-three.”
The man knew his local history. “How old is the crypt?”
“Erected in 1895.”
“And the family visited the crypt for a funeral about six months ago?”
“Ye-ah. Then Ken Sobel came back in the fall. Ken’s in his late sixties. He comes down four times a year as regular as clockwork. And he always makes sure the lock’s on tight.”
“So he has a key.”
“He does. Others as well but they don’t come down.”
“Could Ken have changed the lock?”
“No, sir, I asked when my key wouldn’t work. And he said no, he didn’t change the lock. And he’s the one who’s in charge. He told me to break the lock and make sure everything’s okay inside. So that’s when I called you—the police.”
“Anything of value inside the crypt?”
“No. Unless the bodies were buried with jewelry.”
Decker said, “Jewish custom is not to bury bodies with anything material.”
“So there you have it!” Pellman exclaimed.
“Indeed,” Decker said although he really wasn’t sure what Pellman was talking about. “Has this ever happened before? That your key didn’t work the lock?”
“No, sir, not on my watch.”
During the interview, McAdams’s toe was constantly tapping. Finally, he said, “Why don’t we just go and see what’s going on? If everything looks fine, we can all go home.” He looked at Pellman. “Well, not you, but I’m not getting paid to freeze my ass off.”
Decker was annoyed, not just at the kid’s rudeness, but at the disruption of the interview. He always collected as much information as possible before he witnessed the crime scene … if there even was a crime scene. “Mr. Pellman, do you have anything else you want to tell me before we look around?”
“No.” The man was stunned. “Should I be telling you something?”
“It wasn’t a trick question,” McAdams said. “No is a perfectly acceptable answer.”
“Take your time, Mr. Pellman,” Decker said.
“No, nothing else.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Decker folded his notebook. “Do you have a pair of bolt cutters?”
“I do.” He shuffled his feet and didn’t move.
“Could you get them for me?”
“Uh, sure. I don’t know if they’re strong enough to cut the lock.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Pellman said, “I guess you’re right about that.” Slowly he headed toward a shed that sat about two hundred yards away.
“Queer old guy but then again they’re all odd over here.”
Decker turned to the kid. “Don’t interrupt when I’m interviewing. It distracts me.”
“Just trying to move things along.”
“Tyler, this is probably nothing, so it’s no big deal. But if you have a chance to investigate a real crime, you can’t rush it along. You’ll miss things. You’ve got to slow down.”
Before McAdams could respond, Pellman came back with the bolt cutters and handed them to Decker. “You want to see the crypt and the lock?”
“That would be helpful.”
Slowly Pellman took them over to the Bergman crypt, an enormous rectangular stone vault with a dome ceiling. Each of the four outside walls hosted a leaded glass window that would have lit up the interior had it been daylight. Five stone steps led down to a padlocked concrete door. No foul odors seemed to emanate from the ground, but it was so cold that everything was frozen solid including dead matter. Decker looked at the bolt cutters and looked at the thin shank of the padlock, something that teens would use on their school lockers. With a little muscle, he should be able to make a clean cut through the U-shaped metal.
Decker said, “Can I try your key just to make sure?”
“Sure.”
Decker inserted the Schlage into the key slot. He could move it a millimeter to the left and right. The insides didn’t appear to be frozen, just that the key didn’t work the lock. He handed it back to Pellman. Then he handed the cutters to McAdams. “Go ahead, Harvard.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, take a whack at it.”
McAdams threw dagger eyes, but he secured the blades of the cutter around the U-shaped metal. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Okay.” He pressed down hard and the lock slipped under the blades.
