the ones we bury

DARK COMEDY THRILLER

CHAPTER ONE: HAYK

Little Sadie, Georgia. Population of about 4,857 as of this year, give or take a newborn baby or three, but who was counting? Well, besides Hayk. Sadie was his hometown, only town, and he took pride in every single resident, especially as an officer of the law. He never once questioned leaving Sadie in his thirty odd years on this Earth. Not once. 

Alright, maybe once or twice. Being an Armenian man in the South, in America, it wasn’t easy, even with a badge. But he figured, yes, they were racist in Sadie, but at least he had a big family. Yes, they were misogynistic, but at least most women in Sadie wore the pants. Yes, they were homophobic, but you should see what went on at the Moose Lodge. It wasn’t the easiest life for him, he wasn’t one to lie or sugarcoat, but it was home. There was something to being at home and helping your own. 

That’s why Hayk suited up with the noblest of intentions to change the system, even though he realized pretty quick there wasn’t much he could do. It was pretty much the same old, same old, day in and day out. Having been on the police force for five some years now, he wasn’t rescuing children from shipping containers, or tracking down murder suspects with latent fingerprints, or even changing the systemic racism running rampant in his small town. No, it seemed like his main contribution was bickering with the elderly, crotchety, riot-prone Mrs. Foster out in front of their local Crazy Joe’s Dollar Store. 

“Well, look who it is!” Mrs. Foster said, raising her oversized floral nightgown ever so slightly. If Hayk heard her say that line one more time, he might go blue in the face. Mrs. Foster attempted to scuttle quickly past Hayk, but this dance had happened one too many times for a different outcome. Hayk headed her off.

“Mrs. Foster! Crazy seeing you here.” Hayk replied.

“I see you every goddamn Sunday!” Mrs. Foster retorted. She was nothing if not blunt.

While Hayk would never take the Lord’s name in vain, he would also never correct an elder. And certainly not Mrs. Foster. 

“Now Mrs. Foster, who’s fault is that?”

“Yours, Detective. I told you my fun bags are taken.” Here she went again, just trying to get a rise out of him.

“I’m not a Detective. Did you want that ice cream, in your purse?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Mrs. Foster questioned. Once again, Hayk decided to take the high road.

“Did you purchase that ice cream, Mrs. Foster?”

“Well I woulda, but I ain't got no money!”

“Mrs. Foster. It's a dollar.”

“It's a dollar eleven! It's a dollar store and their items are a dollar eleven! I won't stand for-”

“Now, we've been through this, you have to put it back-” Hayk said, reaching for the ice cream in her purse.

“Who, are you? Stew!? Where-”

“You can’t fake dementia, Mrs. Foster.”

“And why the fuck not?” Mrs. Foster asked, as Hayk visibly cringed. He couldn’t stand the ‘F’ bomb in particular. In his books, it went against everything holy. 

“Look. As much as I enjoy our time together-”

“Gerontophile-”

“Mr. Derrick, the owner, calls us every Sunday to report you. You really have to stop stealing ice cream. He has to make a living, ya know? And me, I’m supposed to be off-duty today, going to church.”

“Where am I? Stew?”

“Mrs. Foster. Mrs. Foster?” 

But Mrs. Foster wouldn’t answer. Instead, she unleashed the waterworks. When Hayk still wasn’t responding to the normal song and dance of it all, Mrs. Foster reached utter hysterics. She screamed, beginning to try to slowly lower herself to the concrete. Hayk knew it wasn’t worth it for Mrs. Foster to lose her mobility. Luke would kill him. And as such, he grabbed a hold of her wrist and gently lifted her back up, patting her ice cream safely resting in her purse.

“See you next Sunday, Mrs. Foster.”

And with a complete about-face, Mrs. Foster retorted her usual, “Sounds good, sexy,” as she opened the packaging and took a bite of her taco shaped ice cream. 

As she strolled home, Luke Foster, his fellow officer, pulled up beside Hayk.

“You good, Hayk?” Luke said.

“Talk about timing! Looks like ya just missed Grams,” Hayk responded, seeing Mrs. Foster duck behind a nearby bush.

“She’s a sneaky one,” Luke joked back.

 “I’m gonna go pay for her Choco Taco, then going to church, to pray. Wanna come?” Hayk questioned.

“As appealing as that sounds, sure you don't wanna grab a drink with me instead?” Luke batted his baby blues at him. They were so convincing, they really were.

“You know I can't miss church,” Hayk replied in a singsongy voice.

“Well then, give Jesus my regards!” Luke shot back with a wink.

As Luke peeled off, Hayk hoped that he would get to see Luke later tonight. If not tonight, hopefully tomorrow. There was a new red wine he got from Mount Etna he wanted to try together at home. People often paired wine with their food. Hayk paired food with his wine.

But there wasn’t much time to plan the perfect dinner pairing, because when Hayk glanced down at his watch, he realized he was running late. So he promptly trudged into the dollar store to pay for Mrs. Foster’s Choco Taco before rushing to his 5:30 PM evening service.

***

There’s all different types of home. There’s home, as in Sadie, ‘cause that’s all Hayk wanted to know. Then there’s home as in his four walls on Grandwood Circle, the four walls he grew up in, slept in, and ate in. And then there’s home as in Sadie’s Liberty Baptist Church, where Hayk was raised. Where his sense of self, his beliefs, his way of the world was formed. This home, more than the others, somehow meant the most. Even the smell, the musty smell of old wood and worship, relaxed his tense bones to the core.

Most days, that was. Mrs. Foster had put him in the rough predicament of once again being late to church. And by late, that meant five minutes early. His family always went to service one hour early to pray and stayed one hour late to pray. 

Hayk sped walked all the way up to the altar. If his family was any closer to the front, his father would be the preacher.

“Sorry I'm late, Mama.” Hayk kissed his mother, Roberta, on one cheek.

“Ain’t my service you’re late to,” his mother shot back, reiterating how late he was in his own mind, even though service hadn’t started yet. 

Hayk grabbed his sister’s hand to acknowledge her, opting to save their conversation for later, so as to not get on their father’s nerves.

“The man, the myth, the legend,” Hayk’s sister said, apparently not getting the memo. Ani was still a teenager, a high school junior to be exact, and very much the baby girl of the family. 

Hayk’s body tensed up as he looked to his father for approval.

“Hi, Father,” Hayk said, but Hayk’s father didn’t respond. He slightly moved away from his son, while keeping his eyes straight ahead, looking to the altar. No, Hayk wasn’t surprised, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

“Sorry I’m late, Father,” Hayk said, trying to make amends as quickly as possible. He knew if he didn’t, he’d really be in for it at supper time.

Hayk was relieved when his father finally spoke, saying, “A good name is to be more desired than great wealth, favor is better than silver and gold.” Yes, Hayk’s father was speaking scripture of relevance, but also, he was quizzing his son.

“Proverbs 22:3,” Hayk said with certainty. 

“Proverbs 22:1,” Ani corrected him with a quickness.

“We can't take you anywhere, broseph!” Ani responded. She loved her brother, but she also loved that he was the screw-up and that she was the perfect daughter, 4.5 GPA student, already on the path to becoming a lawyer at the age of sixteen. 

Of course, Hayk was envious. All his life, he wanted his father to be proud of him, as a son, as a man. But it felt like no matter what Hayk did, it was never enough. To make matters worse, Ani had everything he wanted.

“You're one to speak. Where's the new boyfriend, huh, sis?” Hayk knew it was a low blow, with her revolving door of young men that perturbed their father, but he was over being the black sheep of the family all the time. Especially when he worked so hard. Tried so much.

“I don't know, bro, where's yours?” Ani retorted.

Roberta squeezed Ani’s hand so tightly, her eyes bugged out so greatly, her whisper sounded so scream-like, Hayk had to clench his pelvic muscles to prevent himself from urinating down his Sunday’s best.

The entire family looked straight ahead, to the altar, sitting in utter silence, transfixed.

He couldn’t breathe. Hayk couldn’t breathe. His vision was closing in. His feeling was leaving his body. He had never told his family. Never. He felt like a child again, going through the local Johnston tunnel in their family Windstar van, except instead of holding his breath until the end for a wish, he actually couldn’t breathe. There was no end to the tunnel, so no wish could be fulfilled, it was just more and more darkness.

When the church service began with the chorus singing a cappella, Hayk swore he gasped out loud for air. And even though his pager was blinking during service, even though his pocket was vibrating with messages, Hayk remained immobile and focused on a singular prayer. A special prayer to the Lord that, somehow, his father had heard nothing. 

***

Deep down, Hayk liked to believe the people of Sadie, his people, were good, honest people, even if they didn’t see the truth that was square in front of their eyes sometimes.

Little Hayk was only five years old when his eyes opened. You believe that? There was another little boy in town named Ceddrick that had the loveliest smile and the warmest spirit. He made Hayk feel seen for the first time. He couldn’t explain it, other than being seen. And that’s when Hayk knew that something was terribly wrong with him. The Bible said boys liked girls. His mama said he would have children with a woman. His papa said a man provided for his wife. So where did that leave him? The more he learned about the world through the eyes of little Sadie, the more he learned to hate himself. 

And so, from the tender age of five years old, Hayk never spoke about his feelings, but instead converted those feelings into shame and carried them silently on his back. The problem with carrying shame, especially over decades, was that shame divided, rapidly multiplied, and really weighed you down. Hayk could attest to that, because at this point, he was so weighed down he could barely walk. He could barely crawl.

That was a part of the reason Hayk was so religious, why he believed so adamantly in the Lord, with his whole heart. He knew city folk wouldn’t get it. They couldn’t reconcile his faith with his sexuality, but to be fair, neither had Hayk. Hayk opted to follow his heart, and his heart told him Jesus was real. He also didn’t care that city folk kept saying that religion was a crutch. Hayk always said, If you’ve got a broken leg, what’s wrong with using a crutch?

Maybe that was also a part of the reason Hayk was on Sadie’s police force. It was a crutch. Being an officer meant you were a man. It meant you were respected. It meant you had honor. It was everything he dreamt of having. Armenian men had been attacked for no reason other than being Middle Eastern, they didn’t have the luxury to be seen as anything less than macho, or else they’d be eaten alive. For Hayk, that meant he had to be strong, which unfortunately meant being overwhelmingly masculine, which meant being a police officer. Plus, Hayk figured he could right at least a few wrongs from the inside. And you best believe, there were some wrongs in Sadie. But for the most part, nothing ever happened in Sadie. Not a dang thang. 

So after service ended, after an hour of praying with his family after service ended, after Hayk said his casual goodbyes to his family, he was relieved that something was happening in Sadie. He was needed as much as he needed a distraction. At Cha Cha’s, the local dive bar.

Hayk knew he had the option to speed to the scene of the crime. Even in his pedestrian vehicle, he could speed. No one would dare pull him over. But Hayk wouldn’t dare speed because of the principle. Because of the message it sent to all the other 1,607 residents, give or take a baby, of Sadie. He was an officer that played by the rules. A right, good, just, moral, man. 

Pulling up to The Cha, as the locals called it, Hayk had no idea what he was in for. The messages just said to ‘come quick’, ‘incident with a minor’, ‘life or death’. Hayk was particularly surprised to see Roadie, the spirited man in charge of the department, a man twenty years his senior, also just pulling up to the scene.

“No, no. It looks grainy. Like a fake,” Roadie intently focused on his phone call as Hayk approached. “What, are we supposed to release it to the public?!” Whatever Roadie was talking about, Hayk got the sense he wasn’t supposed to hear it. When Roadie switched to speaking Spanish, Hayk knew he wasn’t supposed to hear it.

“Got to go, alright, adios,” Roadie hung up the phone and barged through the front door of The Cha, Hayk catching up behind.

“Where ya been, rookie?” Roadie barked back at Hayk.

“Church,” Hayk responded.

Anyone else and Roadie wouldn’t believe it. But it was Hayk, after all.

When Roadie and Hayk walked inside The Cha, Elijah sat at the bar with what appeared to be a drink in his hand. Elijah was a good friend also on the force, but it looked more like he was enjoying a drink than working a crime scene. Hayk scanned the room and saw Briggs tending to the empty bar, but Luke wasn’t present. Hayk thought better than to ask about it.

“We meet again, Briggs,” Roadie jumped right up and sat at the bar beside Elijah. He grabbed the whiskey from his hands and downed it. 

The bartender, Briggs, was non-responsive, and it seemed intentionally so.

“You any good at making old fashions?” Roadie asked, knowing all too well the answer.

“They’re not bad,” Briggs responded.

“A salesman. I'll take one,” Roadie replied.

As Roadie tapped his fingers on the bar, he looked around, feverishly, up and down, every nook and cranny. Hayk tracked Roadie’s movements, his behavior, his every move on the job. Roadie was what Hayk aspired to one day be.

“You need to lighten up a bit,” Roadie let the bartender know. “You drink?”

“Not on the job,” Briggs was careful not to say or do the wrong thing, especially when Roadie was in uniform, which caused Roadie to let out a monstrous chuckle.

“Good one! What’d ya drink, Briggs, my boy?” Roadie questioned.

“Whiskey,” Briggs answered.

“Is that so. Whiskey how, son? Here, sit, sit.” Roadie motioned for Briggs to take a seat beside him, and Briggs obeyed, almost a little too easily. Roadie quickly took his spot behind the bar, almost a little too easily.

Roadie observed each of the liquor selections, and picked the most expensive liquor on the shelf, the Johnnie Walker Blue Label . He put a strong pour into the shaker with ice and shook furiously. “I was the designated bartender during my stint in the army,” Roadie said, “among other things.” 

Roadie then poured the booze into the correct glass as he said, “I'm just fucking with you, Briggs. I've never been in the army! Now tell me that ain’t the best goddamn drink you’ve ever had.” Roadie slid the cocktail into Briggs’ hand and he took a sip.

“This ain’t the best goddamn drink I’ve ever had,” Briggs said.

“There ya go, there we are! Some signs of life!”

“Whiskey will do that,” Briggs replied.

“Wanna come out and tell me what happened so I can skip all the coy cops shit?” Roadie said, with Hayk particularly admiring Roadie’s audacity. 

“Look the guy -”

“You mean the kid, right? The mayor’s son who almost choked to death on his own vomit?” Roadie questioned.

“He's okay, right?”

“Still waiting to hear back. You give him too much booze?”

“No sir, I only gave ’em one each,” Roadie’s eyebrow raise told the story that he believed otherwise.

“You know they were underage?” Roadie inquired.

“No, sir. They had IDs.”

“Is that so?”

“The guy lost it, went mental. Broke our pool stick,” Briggs said, gesturing with his hands to show the intensity.

“Intentionally?” Roadie asked.

“Does it matter?” Briggs responded.

“Intention's the half of it. So you kicked him out?”

“Yeah, I kicked him out. Him and his friends. They were rowdy.”

“Want another?” Roadie asked, still behind the bar, knowing the importance of keeping Briggs’s whistle wet. Hayk took note.

“That's fine.” Briggs agreed.

“Once they were outside, what happened?” Roadie was one of the few men Hayk knew that could multitask. He could make an artisanal cocktail and interrogate a witness at the same time, which wasn’t an easy feat in his books.

“It escalated. It happened quick, pushing him and kicking him, but they all scattered all the sudden. Didn’t know why at the time.”

“And why? Do you know why now?” Roadie said.

“The kid has a history of seizures. He started to shake, convulse, or something.”

“Did you go out and help him?”

“We didn’t see him,” Briggs said. This visibly gave Roadie pause. He set down the shaker for a brief second, and raised his eyebrows high, real high, ungodly high, in Briggs’ direction. Hayk was glued to the subtlety, the nuances of what was being said, and what was not.

“Why’d the other kids run away from him, when he was choking to death on his own vomit?”

“I’m not sure, sir, you'd have to ask them that,” Briggs’ responded, as Roadie smacked the two metal pieces of the shaker together and started shaking, faster and faster. It was clear Briggs’s was unnerved. Because Roadie was trying to be unnerving.

“If you had to gamble though, son?” Faster and faster, the ice was clinking and rattling.

“I don’t gamble.”

“You know it's in your best interest to cooperate, right?” It seemed like Roadie might spontaneously combust at this point and Briggs clearly couldn’t handle it anymore.

“Maybe they didn't want to get in trouble?”

“You think so?” Roadie stopped shaking the cocktail. It was clear Briggs was not actually speculating at this point.

“I mean, I doubt they thought he would die,” Briggs clarified.

“Anyone else see?”

“Not that I know of.”

“If someone else did see, why didn't they help? You know it's in your best interest-”

“Not their place, not their place to get involved.” Briggs’ answer came a little too quick. Hayk knew it.

“Well, someone else saw and thought it was their place, called 911. I look forward to speaking with her.” Roadie poured the whiskey into the glass, stabbed a cherry with the little drink swords and watched the red juice spew out, placing it on top of the drink for Briggs to take.

“What?” Briggs was alarmed, Hayk could tell now he was on high alert. Roadie got him right where he wanted him.

“I’m gonna need the credit card records from all those people here last night, as well as many names from that group of guys as you can come up with, please and thank you. Oh, and the security footage from these cameras scattered about. I’ll be right back to collect.” 

When Roadie exited out the back bar door, Elijah and Luke hesitantly followed suit behind him. Upon opening the door, they saw Roadie kicking the dirt and cussing up a storm.

“Shit, cock, fuck, goddamnit,” Roadie thrashed about his words and his body.

“The always eloquent, Roadie!” Elijah yelled brazenly.

“Fuck! You both scared me! Don’t be creeping up on me like some goddamn creeps!”

“Sorry, sir,” Hayk knew it was in his best interest to apologize and did so often.

“You got him to talk. Why are you upset?” Hayk said a silent prayer for Elijah’s life with this comment, as he knew all too well it wasn’t the right tactic with Roadie. 

“No shit! But the son of a bitch won’t stop incriminating himself and everyone else.”

“What? You saying they were all in on it?” Elijah still didn’t get it. He didn’t see what Hayk saw.

“For fuck’s sake, Eli, no, but they all turned a blind eye. A kid’s lying face down in a pool of his own vomit and nobody calls, says, or does, anything.”

“I thought someone did call?” Elijah, again, with a lack of tact.

“One person! A goddamn stripper named Petunia Withers! The stripper's the only one that's had a goddamn moral compass!” Roadie spoke as Hayk cringed. 

Her name was not Petunia. Her name was Delia, Delia Withers. Hayk had booked her a few times for some drug charges and she was nothing but kind. Hayk would even go so far as to say angelic. He thought of Mary Magdalene, a helper of Jesus with a past who was judged by humans, but never by God himself.

“Maybe no one else saw him,” Elijah said, as Hayk knew he tested his luck for the final time. 

“You go into that bar right now, both of you, you walk up them set of stairs and tell me where you can’t see his pool of barf from that floor to ceiling window. This ain't a joke, do it!”

Hayk and Elijah realized Roadie was serious. So they entered the bar, walked up the stairs, and stood in multiple spots, including behind the bar, and then exited towards the parking lot.

“Well?” Roadie asked.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Elijah ran back up the stairs, obviously into the bathroom.

“Everybody at this bar tonight better hope that kid lives, Hayk. They better fucking hope.”

“I’ll be sure to say some prayers, Detective Roadie.”

“You know what, you go do that. I’ll close up here, once Elijah’s outta the shitter, alright? Guess right now, we’ll take all the help we can get for that kid.”

Hayk did as Roadie asked. The whole way home, Hayk prayed for the mayor’s son to make it through the night, for the mayor’s family to feel peace as they waited, and he also prayed for the woman who had saved his life, Delia Withers.

But that wasn’t the end of his prayers, he couldn’t help it. He selfishly prayed that Luke would be waiting for him in his apartment when he got home.

A man could always pray, right?

***

After the mayor’s kid almost died at The Cha, Hayk thought he’d experienced the most excitement he was gonna get for a year. He thought he’d be on cruise control at the office, for maybe another two years. The last time anything had happened was five years ago, when he got a late night call that Mrs. Velma had taken her own life at eighty-seven years old because the cancer had become too much to bear. But that was five years ago, so two years actually seemed pretty early, all things considered.

The truth was, as much as Hayk thought he loved excitement, if that were true, he wouldn’t live in Sadie. Truth was, he loved night drives in the cop car, windows down, listening to light jazz and eating fresh pickled okra from Jerry’s diner. This was how he enjoyed Sadie most. Knowing they were safe. Knowing they were true. Knowing they were all good people, in little Sadie, Georgia.

But that wasn’t how life worked. Life could never be planned for. Just when you thought you could be on cruise control for another two years, at least, Jesus threw you a curveball, and you didn’t even have a bat. Hell, you weren’t even in the batter’s box. You were in the dugout just trying to hydrate and put your helmet on before you got hit square in the noggin.

Which was exactly what happened to Hayk in the middle of the night, only a week later. Multiple missed calls, one after the other, until one ring was different and he woke up. At 4:34 AM he was notified that there was a crime scene. An actual crime scene. Out by the Sooney Swamp. Off of Old Pine Road. Luke, Roadie, and Elijah were all there.

“Be forewarned, Hayk, you can’t unsee this shit,” Luke did his best to prepare Hayk, as they trudged deeper into the woods, down towards the river, together.

“Oh my, Holy Great, Son of Mary, who art in heaven.” Hayk couldn’t believe what he saw.

“A simple Jesus would’ve done it.” Luke said.

Hayk saw a woman. Dead. Posed. On a wooden chair. Covered in stripes of light pastel colors. Soft, faded paisley pink along her cheek line, lavender down the bridge of her nose, sky blue across her clavicle. Speckles of glitter flickered across and ran heavy along her eyelids. She was only covered in a nude leotard, which was also covered in paint. Her gaze looked soft, at peace. He didn’t understand how her body hadn’t given over to gravity. How the weight of the world hadn’t forced her down.

Behind her, a backdrop, a canvas of dark greys, greens, deep blues, swirled alongside each other in varying patterns. Painted in a modern way to make the body stand out even more. 

Hayk also couldn't see a clear cause of death anywhere on her body. No strangulation marks. No entry wound. It almost didn’t appear that she was gone from her body. Hayk didn’t want to admit it, but she looked radiant. She looked at peace.

“What sick fuck could, who could?” Luke said, when no sooner did Elijah begin to uncontrollably heave.

“You better catch that shit in your hands, Elijah! Not on my crime scene!” Roadie barked out, as Elijah cupped his hands over his mouth. “What are you thinking, Hayk?” Roadie asked.

“I, I.” Hayk couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He knew this feeling all too well, he couldn’t control it.

“Speak, son! Speak. Be strong,” Roadie insisted.

Hayk gasped for air, “Umm. It looks like. The decomposition isn’t much, I don’t think? Someone, um, went to the trouble of painting her, waiting for the paint to dry,  placing her out here, with a backdrop and everything. Seems like that would take some planning, and some time. Some time where he could’ve gotten caught,” Hayk stumbled through as best as he could. He studied some of this forensic stuff, sure, but that was a while ago. A while ago when he thought he would never need to use it.

“One confident mother fucker,” Roadie blurted out as someone drove by, roadside. They must have seen the woman, posed, helpless.

“Goddamnit! We need to cover this crime scene up! Now!” Roadie spoke with authority, but something switched in Hayk. He knew he needed to speak.

“We can’t disturb anything right now. We need the evidence preserved,” Hayk demanded. And surprisingly, Roadie approved, “Get a sheet, get a fucking, pallet and sheet, we can’t have people driving by, seeing this. People gonna be here in no time. Word’ll get out.” 

Far down the road, Hayk saw the car that drove by the scene pull over. Knowing his time was running out, Hayk took a death breath, said a prayer, and got extremely close to the victim's face.

“Well shit, don't make out with her!” Luke jousted.

“I know her, we know her,” Hayk realized.

“What?” Luke asked.

“Look at her. It's Delia Withers, the lady who called us for the Mayor’s kid.” 

“Petunia? The prostitute?” Luke said.

“Luke! She wasn't a prostitute. She saved that child's life,” Hayk responded. Even saying that didn’t seem enough for Hayk. He never thought, Why are you like that?; he always thought, What happened to you?

Roadie saw something that caught his eyes. 

“Holy shit.” As Roadie walked around to the backside, he saw writing, in large block letters, “The Mercy Killer (b. Today) You See What You Want. Body on Canvas.”

“The Mercy Killer, born today. I got a bad feeling about this, boys, I got a real bad feeling.” 

And like always, Hayk agreed with Roadie.

***