The Body Man

If digging graves was easy, then everybody would do it. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. If he were a brave man, he’d stand up to his mother and tell her just that. Jack was no coward, but he’d known better men who’d gone toe to toe with Nettie Sims. Their only consolation had been divorce papers and a bus ticket out of dodge. Instead, he solemnly took the lasagna pan, from her gloved hands, rinsing the remaining bubbles and a stray bit of burnt noodle down the drain. Jack’s mother blabbered on.

“You were a terrific police officer. Could have been a detective by now if you hadn’t thrown it all away. It’s sad really. Embarrassing even, to tell my friends that my fifty year-old son moved back home.”

“I’m sorry you’re embarrassed of me, Mother. I’m doing the best I know how.”

His words were clipped, just as they always were when the subject of his old life inevitably crept into their after dinner conversations, especially since he should have left fifteen minutes ago.

“I know it, Jackie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Will you be home late? I can wait up, and we can play a round of Scrabble before bed, or listen to a book on tape.”

She always took extra care when drying her antique bakeware, so she didn’t notice as he took two brown paper sacks down from the top of the fridge. He stowed them both in the waist band of his Wranglers and adjusted his quilted flannel to conceal them from view. Mother would not approve. In fact, she’d given him a list of rules he had to abide by if he wanted to live under her roof, and Jack couldn’t think of a single one he’d left unbroken. No drinking, no swearing, no guns, and worst of all, mandatory attendance at the early service every Sunday. Nettie had gotten the misguided notion, Jack’s soul could still be saved. The thought was laughable, but she meant well.

He crossed the kitchen, and planted a quick kiss on her temple. 

“Please, don’t wait up for me. And make sure you remember to lock up before bed.”

“I’ll do it for your peace of mind, even though there ain’t no point in it. This isn’t that kind of town.”

He grunted his disapproval, and she rolled her eyes. It was that kind of naive thinking, which made small towns the perfect target for criminals. It’s why phrases like, “Until that day, nobody locked their doors”, had become such a cliche in true crime specials. Everyone was capable of wearing two faces, and it was impossible to know who was prowling the streets at night, especially in sleepy little towns. Jack had first hand knowledge of that. 

He started up his truck, letting it idle so the engine had a chance to warm. The past couple of weeks had brought the first hints of Spring and the warmer weather to come, but the night air still had a bite to it. Jack didn’t mind the cold, just as long as it didn’t penetrate the ground. Nothing was worse to dig through than frozen earth. 

He settled in, taking the paper bags from his pants. The sack crunched beneath his fist as he put the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. He swiped his sleeve over his whiskers before replacing the cap and wedging the bottle between the seats for safe keeping. He carefully slid the pistol and holster from the second bag, and made quick work of securing it to his hip. By the time he finished, the truck was warm and ready, and so was Jack, now that he had a nip of whiskey in his system. It was time to go hunting. 

Everyone has their own personal scent. And, no, not a fragrance that can be purchased behind a department store counter. This is the scent unique to every individual, due to biology or their environment. Jack’s signature scent was graveyard dirt. Most normal people would be hard pressed to describe it. If jack was ever asked to do so, he’d say the smell is a mixture of freshly turned earth, the mustiness of the worms which wriggle beneath, and a subtle brightness reminiscent of grass clippings. 

He’d been thrilled when the preacher man offered him a job as a grave digger. It was the perfect cover, because no one batted an eye at his dirt covered clothes and truck. Even Nettie didn’t seem too concerned when he left for work at all hours of the night. Although he’d never been asked to dig a grave for the cemetery after dark, people tended to conflate the meaning of, graveyard shift, with how Jack made his living. When that happened, he never corrected them; instead, choosing to use their confusion to his advantage.

The hole he’d steadily been chipping away at for the last two hours was nearly complete. Jack stepped back, leaning on his shovel to survey his handiwork. He ran a hand over his sweat drenched face. Using his own height as a measuring stick, Jack decided he’d dug plenty deep. He scooped out a few remaining shovelfuls of loose dirt, before hoisting himself up and out of the hole. He checked the time on his burner phone. It was nearly eight, and he needed to make a call before the real fun could begin.

Not that Jack minded digging. He enjoyed working with his hands, because it gave him an outlet for the unbridled anger he’d been accruing over the last two years. Even before he’d become, The Body Man, Jack had struggled with aggression. After years of sitting behind a desk, toiling over a never-ending mountain of paperwork, he was glad to finally be out in the world. Glad to be sweating under a crescent moon, instead of fluorescent lights. He felt lucky even, to have banished the part of himself that once cared about promotions and paychecks. Revenge was a better motivator than ambition. 

“9-1-1. Where is the location of your emergency?”

Jack went through the same song and dance, he’d done a dozen other times. He gave his exact location to the dispatcher, refusing to provide his name. 

The dispatcher’s voice was timid, as she asked, “Is this the Body Man?” 

Jack hung up the phone. 

Back when he’d still been Officer Jack Sims, he’d known guys who were willing to sell their souls just to see their names on the front page of the Sunday paper. Guys who got off on the notoriety. Jack wasn’t in it for that. He’d gladly let someone else take the credit for his deeds, if it meant he had one more night like this. One more opportunity to stalk and trap and torment. 

Call complete, all he had left to do was wait. He’d done this enough times to know, he had about ten minutes before the blue light cavalry would make their valiant entrance. Now, it was his time to play.

He glanced at the hog-tied stranger in the back of his pick up, and grinned. He retrieved his hockey mask from the cab, securing the elastic band behind his head. The worm realized the digging sounds had ceased, and was screaming. Howling like a wounded animal before Jack laid a single finger on him. Overcome with adrenaline, Jack turned his face up at the moon and howled along with his prey.

An hour or so later, Jack stood with Detective Rick Daniels, as a second officer shoved the handcuffed worm into the backseat of the squad car. It pleased him that the man was still trembling. He hoped his efforts would be enough to fuel the worm’s nightmares for the rest of his miserable life. 

Jack remembered when he’d first gotten the idea for his Body Man persona. He’d been tired of sitting behind his desk, unable to do anything about the backlog of unsolved cases. One day, he and Rick had been passing a bottle of whiskey after work, just like they were now.

Rick had looked at him and said, “If I only had a body, I know I could solve this one.”

He had been referring to one of the many missing girls. One of the many cases that went unsolved each year. It was a catch-22, and although the idea made Jack sick, he understood too well that closure was better than not knowing. Better than the plague of constant worry. He felt a kinship with the families of the missing, because, unfortunately, Jack understood the torment of being unsure if your loved one was gone for good, or if they were still out there suffering, waiting for someone to save them. 

He hadn’t actually expected anyone to answer when he’d placed the add on the dark web, offering his services as a grave digger to those who, for whatever reason, needed to dispose of a body. But, he offered and they came. That’s when his work truly began.

The blue lights faded into the distance, and Jack was happy knowing that another family would find some measure of peace tonight. That the girl, the one the worm tried to throw away like trash, was safely in the back of the coroner’s van. He liked knowing she would get a proper burial.

Rick passed the bottle to Jack as he asked, “Do you ever get tired of digging those holes only to fill them in later?”

Jack shook his head. “No. It’s effective. Making those sickos think they’re being buried alive is a better punishment than they deserve.”

“You ever worry you’ll go too far one day?”

Jack stopped mid drink, raising a brow at his friend.

Rick continued, “I mean, do you ever worry that one day you’ll become like them? It seems like a slippery slope.”

Not that he’d admit it to Rick, but Jack spent countless hours contemplating this exact question. Where was the line between vigilantism and criminal? But the truth was, he didn’t actually give a shit anymore. He would do the work until the work was done with him, because this was his calling. He wanted to ask, Who Cares?

Instead, Jack simply said, “No.”

“It’s been two years since Caroline disappeared. If you’re still looking for her abductor, I think he’s probably long gone. Maybe even in a new state by now.”

Jack bristled at the mention of his daughter’s name, and images began flashing behind his eyes. Jack holding up his daughters picture. Jack screaming at the worm to remember; that he would stop filling the hole with dirt if the worm would just tell him where she fucking was. He’d done the same all thirteen times. Some of the worms lied, giving him random locations or fake names, but Jack could always tell. It didn’t matter how many times he’d been disappointed; he would keep searching. Jack would never stop looking for his Caroline. The Body Man was nothing, if not patient, like a spider waiting to trap his next meal.

He smiled sadly and said, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Rick.”

Jack felt his friend’s wary eyes trained on him, as he walked around the truck to the passenger side, and opened the glove compartment. Rick called out to him, clearly not finished with the conversation.

“You know you don’t have to be an unsung hero. There’s always a job waiting for you with the force. All you have to do is ask.”

His only answer was to pop in the cassette tape and press play. Jack turned the dial, and Neil Diamond’s, Sweet Caroline, drowned out anything else Rick had to say. 

The Body Man returned to his weapon of choice—his beloved shovel, and began the satisfying work of filling the empty grave. 

The next morning, Jack attended Sunday service with his mother, dutifully singing along with each hymn, and mouthing the words to every prayer. After driving them home, he helped set the table by setting out her favorite china and silver.

“Your detective friend, Rick, was in this morning’s paper. That boy is doing the Lord’s work, I tell you.”

Jack did his best to sound attentive, between mouthfuls of biscuits soaked in sausage gravy.

“Good for Rick. He deserves that recognition.”

His mother crossed her legs under the table, and used her knife and fork to ruefully saw through a biscuit like it was a porterhouse steak. 

“He doesn’t seem to think so. He was quoted saying as much.”

Jack’s brows shot up, sheer panic gripping his chest. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“He said that all the praise should go to the unsung heroes. The stubborn ones who refuse to take credit where it’s due.”

Jack smiled at that, silently adding, “And to those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

Soon enough, a new worm would come along, and the Body Man’s shovel would be ready.