“They think you are mad and should be locked away,” the ghost said knowingly.
Angela shrugged with a grimace. “There are just so few in the world’s population who are gifted. But we try our best to let our talents work for us.”
“You are police officers?” the ghost asked.
For a moment, Jackson was surprised. The first police force in the United States had been formed in Boston in 1838—years after this man’s death, he imagined.
Apparently, the ghost read the question in his expression. “I have been here a very long time,” he said softly. “And I learn all I can about the world and this country as the years go by. Shifts occur, people change, and there is always something new to learn.”
“We’re FBI,” Jackson told him. “A special unit. As far as our official doctrine goes, we handle unique cases where people think a place is haunted or where criminals use demonology or the like to commit their crimes.”
“Ah, well. Of course. You cover up the truth for your sanity,” the ghost said knowingly. “That is fascinating and wonderful.”
“We hope you can help us,” Angela said softly.
The ghost offered his hand. “Colonel George Clayborn, Continental Army,” he told them.
They touched air, but shaking the man’s hand was proper since he’d offered the gesture. While they couldn’t feel him, the air was just a little bit... different.
“Colonel,” Jackson acknowledged, and Angela smiled and nodded to acknowledge the introduction.
“FBI,” Clayborn said. “Yes, you see, I know about that, too. Founded July 26, 1908. The investigative force of the Department of Justice.”
“Yes. You’re well-informed,” Angela told him.
The ghost shrugged with a grin. “I’ve always enjoyed reading. Even with the internet these days, people are always forgetting newspapers in the cemetery. And since television, there’s an old pub down the road that carries the news most of the time. As I said, I like to keep up to date.”
In a serious tone, he added, “You are obviously here now because of the murders. I assumed you were police or law enforcement because no one else is allowed in the cemetery right now.”
Jackson nodded. “We were—”
“Hoping to meet someone like you,” Angela finished.
Clayborn sighed. “I wish I could help you. I can tell you that the Robertson vault is famous in its way. People hear about the patriot Ethan Robertson’s mausoleum being here, and some know the vault was built by a famous architect of the day, Gervais Conte. So, yes, people do come sometimes.”
“Have you seen anyone going into the vault? A young woman claims she saw a figure with a knife, and the door wasn’t fully closed or locked. That’s how we found the victims. There were three bodies in the tomb that didn’t belong there. They were killed at three different times. You never saw anything?” Jackson asked.
“I saw all manner of people when the last Robertson was interred,” Clayborn said and then winced. “But I never saw anyone enter and not leave. The groundskeepers go into the vaults now and then. At this cemetery, they check structural integrity. I am afraid I don’t pay much attention. It is as it has been for years and years.”
“It’s a pity that Ethan Robertson isn’t here,” Angela murmured.
“Ah, Ethan was here. He had to see the end of all we fought for. All he had died for,” Clayborn said. “But one glorious day, we bid him farewell after he saw the Fathers put down freedoms in writing. When he saw that our General George was heading the country but not as a king, rather as president. So, I’m afraid it’s been a while. Still...” he said and then paused, frowning. “I don’t think the Robertson mausoleum was closed after the last interment. There were so many people at the funeral. Some came in honor of the dead, grieving, finding prayers and a funeral to be a step in that process. Others wanted to peek inside and see shrouds covering the bones of many of those long dead.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “As he left that day, Benjamin Robertson seemed distracted. There was a writer fellow who came, one who wanted to interview him about the decorations that would be set out for Halloween. They were talking and, well, perhaps he forgot to lock the vault. I was there, and I don’t remember him with his keys.”
“That was three months ago, give or take a day?” Angela said.
The ghost nodded seriously. “I heard some of the conversation, much of what went into the article. I managed to read it when a tourist forgot a pile of her papers along with the article. She left them on old Rory’s grave over there.” He nodded toward another of the aboveground tombs. “People are always leaving things in cemeteries.”
Angela glanced at Jackson. He knew they were both likely thinking two things: The writer of the article needed to come in, and they might find something by the tomb.
One would imagine this murderer would be careful, but...
He’d started killing at least three months ago. Until now, he’d seemingly gotten away with it. But that might mean he was getting comfortable. Possibly careless.
He couldn’t have returned to the mausoleum to check once the news had gone out that his victims were discovered. The police had closed the place, and they were being vigilant.
“I can ask around,” Clayborn told them. “There aren’t many of us here. And as you can imagine, we spend most of our time away from here among the living, watching over our descendants. But we sometimes gather at night when nothing much else is going on. You are welcome to check back with me.” He grinned. “I hang here. This is my tomb. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be here. Hang. Funny expression, but I hear it all the time.”
“So they weren’t saying that during the Revolution, eh?” Angela teased.
He grinned. “They were not. But every decade, every year it seems, we have new expressions. New problems. And, sadly, old problems keep reemerging. Seek me out again. It’s been quite lovely to spend time with you.”
“It’s been our pleasure, sir,” Jackson assured him. “And we thank you, sincerely.”
“I am here to do what I can,” he said.
Angela smiled and thanked him again, then turned and walked toward the Robertson mausoleum. Jackson joined her after nodding to Clayborn.
“He must have been an incredible man,” Angela murmured.
“An amazing man, an amazing soul,” Jackson said. “Of course, the dead don’t naturally haunt the cemetery or graveyard where they lay. Not much sense in that. But... hopefully, he will find someone who saw something.” He grinned. “While hanging around.”
“Right,” Angela said. “Oh, and technically, this started off as a graveyard. There was a church, which moved when the congregation grew too big. It’s called a graveyard when there are burials around a church. Cemeteries really came into being during Victorian times. And while we refer to the family mausoleums as vaults, a vault is usually in a cliff. It’s a tomb or mausoleum when it’s free-standing on grounds such as these.”
A smile graced his lips. “Always a font of knowledge.” Arching a brow, he asked, “And?”
“Right. That doesn’t help us at all.” She laughed. “Just talking. And here we are.”