Padanaram Village

June, 1999, Early

 

The silver 750iL BMW looked as much out of place driving among the dunes near Horseneck Beach as did the two men in it. They could hardly afford a bike between them, yet here they were in one of Germany’s finest. The car sloshed its way onward with the two nervous drivers bug-eyed and breaking a slight sweat from concern over all the slipping and sliding.

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“That sand can’t be good for this paint job.” Tony was talking to Marty, his eyes fixed ahead.

No response from Marty.

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“There’s the trees,” he said to Marty, relieved to be at the end of their wilderness trek. Now, get the job done and be gone. No response from Marty.

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They pulled close to the shrubbery and trees. This early on a Monday morning they looked as alone and isolated as Crusoe and Friday. Doors opened quickly and both men were at the trunk. To Marty and Tony, this job was part of paying their dues. There would be better days ahead, or so it seemed on this beautiful morning. A large green plastic bag was hoisted out, shapeless and bulky.

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Tony grunted, “We should’a cut this up smaller. Separate bags.” Marty didn’t reply. They dragged the bag together into the shrubs to a standing of trees.

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“I’ll keep watch, you go get the suitcases.” Tony barked. Marty cast a bewildering glance. Still no reply. “And bring the pick-ax and shovel too.”

Marty returned obediently for the last load - two large Samsonite “Voyager” suitcases and the tools.

Taking the pick-ax, Tony handed Marty the shovel and whacked at the ground a few then motioned for Marty to shovel.

“What if someone happens by?” Marty finally spoke.

“Pity the sucker does.”

Marty kept digging, completely ruining his new, best suit. Kiss that hundred dollars goodbye, he thought. Tony watched. Rested.

With the hole dug, they dragged the plastic bag to the edge and slid it in. They stuffed the two suitcases down the sides. The two-tone, beige suitcases with brass and leather trim detail were clean and without a scratch.

“What a waste,” Tony expressed, “look at them beauties of suitcases! Could’a used boxes. Anyway, we gotta cover it good, make it look normal and all.”

“Uh - we? You got anotha shovel?” Marty asked.

The hole got covered and Marty dragged some large branches over to cover it. Tony let him finish the job, brushing the marks away. The job looked done.

They returned to the BMW, slammed the tools into the trunk and took a slow pan around, checking again that no one had witnessed what just happened. They tried to catch their breath.

“Rosie’s for a beer?” Tony suggested.

“Some place closer, for a few?” Marty countered. It was decided, if there was a place that served beer this early, they'd find it.

The car pulled away with a fan spray of sand and gravel. Tony sensed the soft base under his wheels, gave it more pedal and overcame any notion the Beemer had about getting stuck. They fishtailed all the way out, spraying sand and debris along a wide swath, sandblasting a hummingbird’s nest clinging to a scrub pine just off their path. As distance was put between them and the site, the ecological balance of the dunes quickly returned to normal.

 

Two startled Ruby-Throated hummingbirds hovered around their house, unfamiliar with the form of disaster that had just shook their cottage by the beach. Hovering and turning, darting here and there, they spied the area sensing no further danger. The scene was serene as always, no predators or destructive storms apparent. Even their heightened senses couldn’t detect anything abnormal just a hundred and fifty feet east.

Richard Lewis remained still and hidden, not a single leaf shaking out of sync as he lay camouflaged in his hunter’s blind. He had fashioned the blind earlier in the spring and would often park a quarter mile away, quietly slipping into it at dawn. Lying prone in his hammock, even his six-foot plus frame was comfortable. He would spy for hours on the wildlife of the dunes through his 800mm Nikor lens and hardly have to budge. What he had just witnessed though, was something entirely unexpected.

With the car gone and the dust settled, Rich rolled out of his hammock and scooted out of the blind and up to the dig area, overcoming the soft sand of several dunes. He approached carefully. He took a three-foot long branch, broke off the small sidepieces, used it to break the ground apart, then used his hands. He worked harder and faster than either Tony or Marty, but with never a bead of sweat. You can always tell a jogger.

When he finally hit his target and scooped away enough dirt to peer in, a wave of anxiety rushed through him. The plastic bag loomed before him. Had he seen too many movies or didn’t this have to be a body? And the suitcases. Drugs? Loot? Body pieces? “Just calm down, it probably won’t be anything to get shook about.” But it was. A body.

Middle aged man. No smell, no blood that he could see. This was fresh, maybe a few hours. Like he was really experienced in these things. He shook, a wave of the woolies passing through him in a second. He’d have to report this. But the suitcases caught his attention.

Heavy as it was to drag out, Rich admired the style. The cases were new, or at least looked it. Had the appearance of something from the thirties, for the real traveler type of the time, steam boating all over the world, sometimes hopping an airplane, a Pan Am something or other. These cases would suit a savvy and experienced traveler. But they were copies, fairly new Samsonites, capturing the colorful mystique and flair of that bygone era. He noticed the brass emblem with a single word, “Voyager” embossed in it.

They were locked. Rich took out his Swiss Army and tried the awl. He popped the first lock, then the second. He took a breath anticipating body parts, or maybe clear plastic bags of coke. Or heroin. Or whatever drug was put into clear plastic bags. He’d seen it a hundred times on screen, but couldn’t keep up with which drugs are which. For an intelligent man, Rich could be very naïve in many ways.

He opened the case. Money. Lots.

Spread before him were thousand dollar bills! Stacks and stacks, nothing but thousands! Like a Grover Cleveland family reunion. In all different condition, no consecutive numbers, it had to be millions worth!

Rich closed the case, then dragged the other one out. It was a duplicate of the first, all in thousands. Questions flooded his mind as he tried desperately to grasp the full impact of this find. Who? Why? How? His mind raced considering the possibilities. It had to be illegal, there’s a body for crying out loud! Nothing could be legal about that. But why all thousands? How?

For a guy who never broke a law in his life, one speeding ticket that he didn’t deserve, a strange thought quickly took shape. If the money’s illegal, who would be hurt by taking it? Richard Lewis had never been in the trouble he was in lately and this money might just save him.

He locked the second case, grabbed the other and made for his Explorer parked three hundred yards away. He returned, first to his hunter’s blind to salvage his equipment then tore the blind apart, scattering the pieces. He took a fresh scrub-pine limb and used it to sweep away his tracks counting on the ocean breeze to erase the slight brush marks left behind. He made sure to get all of his tracks, right up to the burial site. He stopped short of the original foot prints made by the two goons. The police should find something to follow, otherwise they might start looking too close and find only his trail. Let them spend their resources tracing the BMW and the goons.

Awkwardly, Rich carried his equipment back to his Explorer while brushing his tracks clear. He threw the branch to the side, hopped in and headed home.

Cruising north on 88, then east on 195, Rich reached for his cell phone and punched 911. But he stopped - cell calls are too easy to trace. He remembered a gas-and-go type place off the next exit.

He punched the 911 again. Dartmouth Police Station picked up, a woman’s voice answered, warning that the call would be recorded, then asked how she may help. Rich disguised his voice, feeling silly about it.

“Just an honest citizen reporting that I saw a body being buried near Horseneck Beach, maybe two hundred yards east of Bridge Road, in the dunes. You’ll find tracks.” He hung up, then pulled away and headed home. Rich mused over his two new life’s experiences: He had just reported a major crime and he had just committed one.