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Authors: Solomon Jones
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suspect eluded him, the detective put out a description. We believe the man he described, a white male with black hair and a mustache who was dressed in black and white clothing, may have been involved in the victim’s death.”
“So is this male you described the same man who’s been identified informally as the Gravedigger?” the reporter pressed. “And are you treating the death in the graveyard as a homicide?”
Lynch glared at him for a long moment. “We won’t be commenting on the name, and we’ll have no comment on the manner of death until we see the coroner’s report, but I will say this.” Lynch locked eyes with several reporters before continuing in an angrier tone. “After that description was broadcast, Officer Frank Smith responded, and he did so with the same sense of urgency that he would if someone had found one of you dead in that cemetery. Whatever folks in the media had to say about Frank Smith in the past, I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. He went into those woods because he had enough respect for his badge to do his job. And just like all the other officers who’ve been killed in the last year fighting crime in this city, Frank Smith did that job well.”
Lynch paused, his jaw working furiously as he ground his teeth in an effort to calm himself.
“I’ve already seen a picture of his body online, and I haven’t even had the chance to meet with his family,” Lynch said with a stony stare. “That’s wrong. It’s disrespectful, and I think some of you agree with me, so if you’re covering this story, do all of us a favor. Give Officer Smith the same respect he gave to that victim and this job, because the bottom line is, he lost his life in an effort to protect yours and mine.”
There was a slight pause. Then a reporter from the Inquirer spoke up. “Does that mean you’re placing some kind of gag order on the media, Commissioner Lynch?”
“It means there won’t be any more pictures of this officer’s body posted on the Internet for his wife and children to see,” Lynch said with smoldering eyes. “Not one more.”
The reporters looked around at each other, unsure if they’d just heard a request or an order. Lynch didn’t care what they thought. He had one more message to deliver, and the media were going to deliver it for him, whether they liked it or not.
“And to the person who fled the scene this morning, you know who you are, you know what you’ve done, but you need to know this: we don’t let our officers die in vain in Philadelphia, and we don’t take our justice lightly.”
“So you’re promising retribution?” yelled a reporter from CNN.
Lynch turned his withering stare on him, and both the reporter and the rest of the crowd grew quiet. “I’m promising that wherever this man is, we’ll find him. No matter how far he runs, we’ll get him. No matter how good he thinks he is, we’re better. So if he’s out there listening, he should know that he better not stop, he better not sleep, he better not blink, because if he does, we’ll be there waiting. I promise you that.”
Lynch walked away from the microphones to the sound of shouted questions, and when the raven flew away, the man Lynch was looking for snapped shut his laptop and took a sharp knife to his mustache. After he’d shaved it, he changed the clothes he’d worn for the killings, and smiled at the name they’d given him.
The Gravedigger. He liked the sound of that name. It fit what he was about to do.
* * *
Ellison Bailey awakened to the sound of the brass knocker pounding the oak door of the Society Hill brownstone he shared with his wife. The sound always startled Ellison, especially when he was sleeping, and this afternoon, he was sleeping more soundly than usual.
For what seemed like days, he’d repeatedly heard the knocker along with the sound of ringing bells in his dreams. His mind had incorporated the sounds into a story of bombs and air-raid sirens.
“So is this male you described the same man who’s been identified informally as the Gravedigger?” the reporter pressed. “And are you treating the death in the graveyard as a homicide?”
Lynch glared at him for a long moment. “We won’t be commenting on the name, and we’ll have no comment on the manner of death until we see the coroner’s report, but I will say this.” Lynch locked eyes with several reporters before continuing in an angrier tone. “After that description was broadcast, Officer Frank Smith responded, and he did so with the same sense of urgency that he would if someone had found one of you dead in that cemetery. Whatever folks in the media had to say about Frank Smith in the past, I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. He went into those woods because he had enough respect for his badge to do his job. And just like all the other officers who’ve been killed in the last year fighting crime in this city, Frank Smith did that job well.”
Lynch paused, his jaw working furiously as he ground his teeth in an effort to calm himself.
“I’ve already seen a picture of his body online, and I haven’t even had the chance to meet with his family,” Lynch said with a stony stare. “That’s wrong. It’s disrespectful, and I think some of you agree with me, so if you’re covering this story, do all of us a favor. Give Officer Smith the same respect he gave to that victim and this job, because the bottom line is, he lost his life in an effort to protect yours and mine.”
There was a slight pause. Then a reporter from the Inquirer spoke up. “Does that mean you’re placing some kind of gag order on the media, Commissioner Lynch?”
“It means there won’t be any more pictures of this officer’s body posted on the Internet for his wife and children to see,” Lynch said with smoldering eyes. “Not one more.”
The reporters looked around at each other, unsure if they’d just heard a request or an order. Lynch didn’t care what they thought. He had one more message to deliver, and the media were going to deliver it for him, whether they liked it or not.
“And to the person who fled the scene this morning, you know who you are, you know what you’ve done, but you need to know this: we don’t let our officers die in vain in Philadelphia, and we don’t take our justice lightly.”
“So you’re promising retribution?” yelled a reporter from CNN.
Lynch turned his withering stare on him, and both the reporter and the rest of the crowd grew quiet. “I’m promising that wherever this man is, we’ll find him. No matter how far he runs, we’ll get him. No matter how good he thinks he is, we’re better. So if he’s out there listening, he should know that he better not stop, he better not sleep, he better not blink, because if he does, we’ll be there waiting. I promise you that.”
Lynch walked away from the microphones to the sound of shouted questions, and when the raven flew away, the man Lynch was looking for snapped shut his laptop and took a sharp knife to his mustache. After he’d shaved it, he changed the clothes he’d worn for the killings, and smiled at the name they’d given him.
The Gravedigger. He liked the sound of that name. It fit what he was about to do.
* * *
Ellison Bailey awakened to the sound of the brass knocker pounding the oak door of the Society Hill brownstone he shared with his wife. The sound always startled Ellison, especially when he was sleeping, and this afternoon, he was sleeping more soundly than usual.
For what seemed like days, he’d repeatedly heard the knocker along with the sound of ringing bells in his dreams. His mind had incorporated the sounds into a story of bombs and air-raid sirens.
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