The Sleuthing Silvers and The Mystery of the Disappearing Deceased

Paralyzed, but still able to think, retired private investigator Bernie Silver is being wheeled on a gurney toward the crematorium.  His main thought, continuously looping in his mind: “It isn’t supposed to end this way.”

*****

Bernie had not really thought much about cremation until several months before, when he and his wife and former business partner in Silver Investigations, Barb, visited with the euphemistically-titled Director of Family Relations at the Eternal Groves Cemetery. They had had the best of intentions: making their final arrangements—hopefully far in advance—to spare their children that task.

“Why go to the cemetery?” asked Barb.  “Wouldn’t a funeral home be the logical place to start?”

“Essentially we’re buying real estate,” responded Bernie. “Like a good real estate agent, the fellow we’re going to speak to will recommend any other service providers needed by our corpses.”

“No graveyard humor, Bernie, please.

“Are you kidding? Where else but here?” he laughed, as they pulled up to the Eternal Groves administrative office.

*****

A half hour later, the black Cadillac sedan in which they were being given a tour swerved to avoid a stream of water.  Barb involuntarily gasped as she is pushed into the Bernie’s side.  Ed Meyer, the Director of Family Relations, apologized while navigating the narrow pathways at the cemetery:  “Sorry about that, but the water from our sprinkler system contains a lot of calcium. Nothing will ruin a paint job quicker.”

Barb frowned, thinking about the source of that calcium. Their morning at the cemetery had consisted of one depressing event after the next.

First was the weather, a chilly, rainy Bay Area day in November, perfect weather for going to a cemetery, but for little else.  Living in the Bay Area had made them weather wimps, unable to accept anything less than the usual Mediterranean climate that they enjoyed by living on the peninsula south of San Francisco.

Second was their own personal disagreement about final arrangements.  Bernie preferred cremation—saying, not altogether jokingly, that he was too claustrophobic for a coffin—while Barb preferred burial in a coffin.  Although they wanted eternal togetherness insofar as that was possible, this disagreement could well lead to some remoteness in the great beyond.

Bernie supported his stated preference by stating that cremation is much more environmentally friendly than taking up space forever.  Barb was ready for this with some recent research she’d done: “Cremation takes four hours at 2000 degrees. That is not environmentally friendly.”

Meyer intervened with, “Yes, but eternity is a long, long time to take up space, which is why we recommend cremation. We use the best crematorium in the business, the Seahorse Society.”

“But my research—“responded Barb.

“Research doesn’t answer emotional questions,” interrupted Meyer..

“My point exactly,” said Barb. “Cremation’s just undignified. The so-called cremains look like Tide detergent. Also, the option of cardboard or particle board container in which to be ferried to the crematorium is downright creepy.”

“I think the economical cardboard is what I’ll choose,” weakly joked Bernie, cutting them both off. “Especially considering that it’s needed for just a few minutes.”

Finally, the expense of the whole final arrangements process got them down. “It’s going to cost $40,000 before it’s all over,” moaned Bernie, “even though for us it will already be all over.”

“Let’s just hold our noses,” said Barb, as if Meyer was not present, “make our choices and find a nice warm place to have a drink.” A dark look passed over Meyer’s face.

“Amen,” intoned Bernie.

“Nice to meet you both,” said Meyer, with a well-practiced forced smile.  “Please let me know if you re-consider cremation, Mrs. Silver.”

*****

“Are you sure you want to stick with cremation, Bernie?” she asked as they sipped martinis at a nearby watering hole.

“Haven’t you seen enough dead bodies during our career?” he countered, referring to their five years at Silver Investigations and to the thirty years before that as investigators at the Alpha Insurance Company..

“Now that we’re retired,” she said, “I’ve sort of put those corpses out of my mind. Most of them probably didn’t end up at a classy place like Eternal Groves.”

“Nothing but the best,” he toasted, raising his glass.

*****

A few weeks later, Barb came into their living room carrying a print-out of an email. “Looks like we’ll see a trial run of a cremation ceremony. Bunny McFarland has passed.”

“Our old hippie friend from college,” Bernie mused.  “I’m shocked she’s still around. Also, I doubt that it’s a trial run from her point of view.”

“It’s been many years,” said Barb, “but she was a good friend before she continued to take flower power seriously after college. I was surprised we got emailed the news, but I’d like to attend.”

“Where?”

“Her ashes are being scattered at Point Lobos near Carmel.”

“Is that legal?”

“Dunno, but ashes tell no tales.”

*****

Even though it was a late winter day, it was sunny and relatively mild in Carmel when Bernie and Barb set out for Point Lobos and the ceremony. “I’ll say this,” he smiled, “it’s a lot warmer and more pleasant than that day at Eternal Groves.”

“But the cremains are going into that cold northern California ocean,” she shivered. “Are you sure you’ve given your final answer on cremation?”

“Now that these decisions don’t seem so academic,” Bernie responded, “I will give it a second thought after today, and we can have another uplifting conversation on the topic tonight.”

“Keep an eye out for that detergent,” she said.  “Not a good look.”

*****

They received a map and a brochure from the ranger as they entered Point Lobos State Park.  “It doesn’t say anything prohibiting the deposit of cremains,” Bernie observed.

“On the other hand, the map doesn’t indicate any place where that’s supposed to occur,” responded Barb, “so I think that we can assume the law against public cremains-scattering applies here.”

They wound around to the appointed place, a quiet cove about 100 feet down from the path.  A basket with a sign on it saying “Astral Communications Only” was the first thing they saw.  Barb took her cell phone out of her pocket and dropped it in the basket; Bernie followed suit.

In the throng of attendees, most looking like refugees from the sixties, they recognized, just barely, Bunny’s college boyfriend, George Barnard, despite his flowing white robe.  His lengthy beard looked the same as it did in college, except for the color, which now matched his robe. “George,” Barb exclaimed while giving him a hug, “how long has it been?”

“Since 1967, I think,” he said, “because since then I’ve adopted the name Rama.”

“We are terribly sorry about…” began Bernie, before realizing that he might not be stating the correct name.

“Javeen,” interjected Rama. “Fortunately she departed the earthly sphere soon after the horrible diagnosis. We had been companions on the life journey for forty years.  She is happy that you are here.  Please find a spot on the beach because we are about to begin the ceremonies.”

Then started some chanting in a foreign language, as Bernie and Barb made themselves as comfortable as possible on the sand. Barb extended her hand to Bernie and said “Hand it over.”

“What?” Bernie responded, wide-eyed.

“You and I both know you only went through the motions of putting your phone in that basket,” said Barb sharply. “Show some respect.”

“But I’m expecting a text from our accountant, and our tax payment is due tomorrow,” protested Bernie.

“I took care of that this morning,” responded Barb, keeping her hand extended. Bernie shrugged and surreptitiously handed her the offending phone, which she silenced and carefully placed behind her under some seaweed.

After some remarks drawn from an amalgam of Eastern philosophy, Rama took out a small sack that looked like it was made of velvet. “That’s Bunny,” Barb whispered to Bernie, who grimaced.

Then Rama emptied the contents of the sack into a greyish-white pile on the beach, urging the waves to re-integrate Javeen into the godhead. Bernie and Barb sat in a silent daze.  This death of a close college friend was too close for comfort. Afterwards they made their way back to the path, having the minimal contact possible with Rama and the other attendees.

“Hopefully she’ll come back as a dolphin, “ mourned Barb.

“More likely as a laundry detergent, I would think.”

*****

They headed straight to the bar when they returned to their oceanside hotel. They were on their second martini when Bernie started patting his pockets for his phone.

“Have you seen it?” he asked Barb with a sinking feeling.

“Omigod, I left it on the beach,” she exclaimed.

“We better get back there,” he said, “while there’s still a little daylight. I was so distracted by what was going on that it completely slipped my mind.”

“Daylight ended, both actually and metaphorically, with our first martini,” said Barb, “and the park is now closed.  It should still be there in the morning unless a sea lion needs to send a text. Serves you right for attempting to violate the ‘Astral Communications Only’ rule.”

*****

They rushed back first thing next morning, retracing their steps to the cove. Bernie made a beeline to the place where they had sat and felt a surge of relief when the phone was still there.  He started heading back when he noticed Barb standing at the place where yesterday’s ash deposit had occurred, staring at something.

“What is it?” he asked.

Saying nothing, she pointed to what looked like a piece of conical concrete where Javeen’s ashes had been.

*****

“Thanks for the cement sculpture of dog waste,” said Detective Joe Kelly of the San Francisco Police Department, a 30-something with whom Barb and Bernie had worked successfully in the past. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Actually, it’s concrete, Joe,” offered Bernie, who had recently researched the subject and who had had a local lab analyze what had purported to be Javeen’s cremains.. “Not many people know that cement is actually an ingredient of concrete.”

“And to think that I’ve been saying things like ‘Cement Mixer’ all my life,” said Joe. “But I presume you’re here for some other reason than correcting my French.”

“Yes,” said Barb.  “We think we’ve uncovered a scam where mourners of cremated people are given concrete powder rather than what’s called the ‘cremains.’ Turns out that concrete powder and cremains look identical to the untutored eye.”

“Interesting,” responded Joe, “but I’m not thinking ‘crime of the century.’”

“What about the whereabouts of the actual corpses?” asked Bernie. “Wouldn’t that be of interest?”

“We would need a little more evidence than this,” answered Joe, gingerly handing over the concrete cone.

“But—“started Barb.

“I get the story about the hippie funeral and your discovery afterwards,” interrupted Joe, “but right now we’re trying to solve about 17,000 car break-ins. Use those investigative chops you have to get me more evidence, and I’ll think about it. In the meantime, if you get into trouble, as per usual, text to my personal phone.”

“So you agree this is something worth looking into?” asked Bernie.

“Ok, boomer.”

*****

“Good old creative Joe,” said Bernie to Barb when they are back in their car. “But at least he was a little encouraging at the end.”

“I hate to break it to you, Bernie, but ‘Ok, boomer’ is a put-down, not encouragement,” said Barb. “Google it. I had hoped Joe would take this off our old hands and into his young ones,” she continued, “so now what do we do?”

“I’d like to just forget about it” responded Bernie, “but what happened to Bunny is sort of haunting me, especially since she used the same all-star crematorium that Ed Meyer has arranged for me.”

“I’ve been thinking of Bunny too,” said Barb, taking his hand.  “Maybe there’s an insurance angle to this. Let’s call Al,” referring to their former boss at the Alpha Insurance Company, Al Jordan.

*****

“Bernie, you seem to have things reversed,” stated Al Jordan.  “I call you when I have an assignment; you don’t call me.“

“I’m doing you a favor, Al,” replied Bernie. “Giving you an early warning about what could be huge claims.”

“Run that by me again,” said Al.  “Usually I feel differently when somebody’s doing me a favor.”

“Let me just ask one question,” queried Bernie.  “Do you have any crematorium clients?”

“I’ll check,” responded Al, “but I’d be surprised if we didn’t. Usually businesses have general liability insurance, even if most of their customers get burned.”

“Do me two favors, Al: stuff the graveyard humor and check on the Seahorse Society. That was our friend’s crematorium, and, I regret to say, my future temporary home.”

“Don’t rush into anything, Bernie.  I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

*****

“OK,” reported Bernie to Barb, “the Seahorse Society is a client of Alpha’s and we’ve got a week of per diems from Al to solve this thing.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I have an idea. Let’s visit our friendly Director of Family Relations, Ed Meyer.”

*****

The next day they outlined the situation to Meyer, who, if anything, appeared more upset than they were. “What we need to do, Ed,” said Bernie, “is to analyze the cremains that come back to you for entombment from the Seahorse Society.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Meyer stuttered.  “What you have raised is our worst nightmare because it is so upsetting to the survivors. Also, many customs, laws and regulations control what can be done with the cremains, and. although it hasn’t arisen here before, I’m quite sure  that performing chemical experiments on cremains without permission—or even with permission–is not allowed. Asking for permission, I am sure you will understand, is out of the question. Can’t we keep this quiet and just focus on whoever is actually perpetrating this at Seahorse?”

“I see your point,” answered Bernie. “How do you think we should proceed?”

“Let me give it some thought,” said Meyer, clearly agitated, “and I will call you tomorrow.”

*****

“Hi, Ed,” greeted Bernie into the speakerphone the next day, “what’ve you got for us?”

“It’s a little unusual, Mr. Silver,” Meyer nervously responded, “but I think it will work. The problem is that we don’t know who within Seahorse is crooked.  Is it someone in management or is it a lower-level employee who’s being controlled by someone on the outside?”

“I see your point,” Barb chimed in, “but I don’t see how we get in there to observe someone who’s obviously trying to conceal these activities.”

“Exactly the problem, Mrs. Silver, but there is one easy way to get into the facility.”

“I’m dedicated to the cause,” responded Bernie, “but I am not willing to die for it.”

“How about faking it?”

“He can’t even sleep without messing up the bedclothes,” exclaimed Barb, “so I think that staying still long enough to fool anyone into thinking he is dead  is out of the question.”

“That’s what I’ve been researching since I met with you yesterday,” Meyer responded.  “I think there’s a drug we can use that renders Bernie motionless but still enables him to think and to move his fingers and toes.”

“Why me?” asked Bernie.

“You’re the one that wants cremation,” Barb hastened to add.

“Ed, can’t I just go undercover as a worker?” asked Bernie.

“It’s all unionized, Mr. Silver, and the process would take a while,” responded Meyer.  “My plan is foolproof.”

“But I’m the fool that could be looking into an oven burning at 2000 degrees,” protested Bernie.

“You’re also the one who’s convinced that cremations aren’t actually occurring, Bernie, so you should be safe,” rejoined Meyer. “Also, you will be able to move your fingers enough to press an emergency call button that we can install in your shroud.”

“What about documentation?” queried Bernie.

“That’s another virtue of this plan,” said Meyer.  “I can provide you with ironclad proof of your death.”

“I had hoped that reports of my death would be greatly exaggerated,” protested Bernie weakly.

“We’ll get back to you tomorrow,” said Barb.  “My dearly beloved and I need some time to process this.”

*****

“This is crazy, Barb. There is no way.”

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds, dear,” she responded, “if we have the right safeguards. And, it enables us to end this matter before our per diems from Alpha run out.”

“Like what safeguards?” he queried.

“Well, Meyer already mentioned that you’ll have an emergency button to press. Also, I will follow the vehicle that transports you to the facility, so I will be on site. Finally, I can alert Joe Kelly that we may need some police back-up in a hurry if I text him.”

Somewhat mollified, Bernie sighs “Let me sleep on it.”

*****

“This is the emergency transponder,” said Ed Meyer, handing it to Bernie.  “You can see how small it is, so you can easily conceal it in the palm of your hand, which will be closed and stiff. This is the death certificate, and these are the documents authorizing the cremation, which I will hand over to the crematorium’s driver when he comes here to the cemetery to pick you up. Here is the pill you have to take 30 minutes prior to the pick-up, before you disrobe and put yourself into this shroud in this open-topped box. Do you have any questions?”

“It seems like you’ve thought of everything,” responded Bernie.  “How do I know the transponder is working?”

“There’s a small red light that goes on,” said Meyer, demonstrating by pressing the button.

“Perfect,” said Bernie. “What could go wrong?”

“Good luck,” said Meyer, shaking Bernie’s hand and handing him the transponder.

*****

“It’s freezing in here,” shuddered Bernie as he started undressing in a refrigerated room at the cemetery.

“That’s why you need to hurry up,” urged Barb, helping him with the pill and the shroud. She kissed him on the forehead and said “I’ll be parked in the lot outside and I will follow the Seahorse Society truck as soon as it leaves here with you.”

*****

Thirty minutes later the Seahorse Society truck rolled up to the cemetery office, and twenty minutes after that, it was on its way.  Barb followed from a safe distance, comfortable in the knowledge that she knew the destination of the truck, in an industrial part of town.

She arrived at the destination, an imposing building with Doric columns and a fountain in the front with—what else?—a seahorse spouting water. The Seahorse Society truck parked next to a similar truck with a logo that said “BDS” in large letters and “Colma, California” in smaller print.  Barb watched from a distance as two men unloaded Bernie onto a gurney, and then–figuring that she won’t be there for long and that she wants to be nearby in case of trouble—she pulled her white Lexus behind the BDS truck.

*****

Bernie was trundled into an overheated room. His mind was racing and he gripped the transponder tightly. He could barely see it out of the corner of his eye. He heard the voices of two men.

One said “This is the one Ed called about.”

The other asked quizzically, “So this is an actual cremation?”

“I know you’re out of practice,” responded the first man. “But, what Ed Meyer says, goes.”

“Ok,” said the second, as he started pushing the gurney toward a place where Bernie heard a dull roar in the background and felt increasing heat. Bernie immediately pressed the transponder button. There was no flash of red light. He lost consciousness.

*****

Meanwhile, in her car, Barb googled “BDS Colma California” and was horrified to see the result: a company called Body Donation Services specializing in providing body parts for medical research. She was about to get out of the car and rush the building when a black Cadillac pulled up, blocking her car. Ed Meyer and a heavyset companion emerged from the Caddy.

“Ed, stop this immediately,” said Barb, getting out of her car. “You can never get away with it.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Silver,” said Meyer through clenched teeth, waving some papers. “In fact, I’m holding your death certificate. You will be joining your husband shortly. Grab her, Bart.”

As she backed away from the heavyset man, Barb pressed the alarm button on her car keys, setting off a wail.

“Give me that damn alarm,” Bart snarled.

“You’ll have to fetch it,” taunted Barb, tossing it into the fountain. “Can you swim?”

She ran toward the crematorium as a police car entered the parking lot with its siren blaring. Fumbling in her purse, she came up with some mace as she entered the building and raced toward a room from which the unmistakable sound of a furnace was emanating.

Bernie’s gurney was about five feet from the mouth of the furnace when she entered the room. She screamed, startling and stopping the two men pushing the gurney and then sprayed mace directly in their faces. They fell back, grasping at their eyes, as she gave the gurney an adrenalin-aided push to the far end of the room. Then several policemen entered the room, led by Joe Kelly.

*****

“I told you this was a major crime,” Bernie crowed to Joe Kelly the next day when they were de-briefing at the police station.

“Pardon me if I didn’t connect cement—er, concrete—dogshit with the Russian Mafia. Nonetheless, when the fat was literally almost in the fire, it was good old Joe that pulled your chestnuts out.”

“Ok, millennial,” said Barb. “Despite your mixing of metaphors, it was lucky you gave me your personal text contact.  As soon as I googled BDS, I had just enough time to send you a text before our trusty local mortician showed up. But, what does the Russian Mafia have to do with it?”

“You don’t think that that your trusty local mortician had the cojones to pull this off, do you?” Joe responded with his own query.

“My opinion of his cojones went way up when I saw him waving my death certificate,” replied Barb, “and his sleight-of-hand in switching out Bernie’s live transponder for a dead one was also impressive. But I still don’t get the Russian Mafia part.”

“Apparently there’s good money in used body parts for medical research and for transplants,” said Joe.  “Of course, one has to give permission beforehand for the harvest to occur, which is a nicety that Russian Mafiosi don’t really care about. These are pretty rough characters, and it didn’t take much of their muscle to scare the bejeezus out of Meyer and get him to do their bidding. Nice guys that they are, they threatened to cremate his daughter alive. He was really a victim in all of this, and we still have to find the real perps. That’s why we’re keeping yesterday’s bust on the down-low.”

“Just for the record,” interjected Bernie, “ I am not having my body shipped to Russia in order to solve this one.”

“Hopefully we won’t need that form of undercover work,” responded Joe.  “Ed Meyer has agreed to cooperate with us, and, through him, we hope we can nail the bad guys.”

“That restores my faith in humanity,” said Barb. “If you can’t trust your mortician, who can you trust?”

Ron Katz is a trial lawyer who has written non-fiction extensively. The Sleuthing Silvers series is his debut as a fiction writer.