Mary Jane's Grave by Stacy Dittrich Page A

heading to work. Sean, who usually went to kindergarten in Cleveland, was staying with us for a few days while Vanessa went out of town. We’d hired a babysitter to watch him while the rest of us were out during the day.
    I decided to call the county health department rather than drive over there because I knew what I needed from them would take some time. In addition to the birth and death certificates, I wanted them to give me a list of the oldest living people in the county, preferably those who remembered their own names.
    I was pleasantly surprised when the fax came in less than twenty minutes later. Evidently, the health department folks kept a list pretty close at hand. The employee I had spoken to had written a brief note on the title sheet of the fax, explaining that the list helped the county know when residents hit their magical nintieth and hundreth birthdays. Having survived so long, these super-seniors were rewarded with a card. Personally, I’d rather get a nice check in the mail, but hey, at least it was something.
    I immediately faxed the list to our Communications Center to check and update all the addresses. To my amazement, I was faxed the list back within forty- five minutes. This might turn out to be a good day after all.
    Scanning the list, I highlighted the top five. The list showed which residents had been born in Richland County. I wanted to start with those who lived in the southern part of the county first, as older people tend to stay with familiar surroundings, and I was hoping to catch a break.
    I crossed out three of the top five and found another two who lived south. I grabbed the list and headed out the door. The first three stops were useless; one person was in a nursing home, one had died five days ago and the other had Alzheimer’s. It was at my fourth stop that I detected a shred of hope.
    Eighty-seven-year-old Walter Morris lived just south of the town of Bellville, about two miles from Mary Jane’s Grave. He lived in an old, battered farmhouse that sat a couple of hundred yards back from the road. A large red barn that appeared to have survived a century of storms stood directly behind the house. Surprisingly, the lawn was well manicured. Someone was obviously taking care of it.
    An old Lincoln with a white hardtop sat in the driveway. I ran a check on the license plate and was somewhat surprised when the dispatcher told me the car was registered to good old Walter, who still had a valid driver’s license. Eighty-seven and still driving—God, I found that scary. On the flip side, though, at least I knew he’d be coherent.
    I knocked loudly on the front door several times before I heard signs of life from within the house. As I heard the slow shuffling of feet moving toward the door, I tried to peer through the front windows. It was pretty hard to see anything through the inch of dirt on them. Finally, I heard the door rattle and a moment later it was opened by the oldest man I’d ever seen.
    Walter Morris, I presumed. The man looked as if he were two-hundred years old. This isn’t going to work, I thought. I’d be lucky if this guy could tell me his birth date. He might’ve been tall once, but I couldn’t tell since he was bent in half over his walker. He was completely bald except for a light covering of gray fuzz. He reminded me of an ancient baby chick. He squinted at me over the frames of his two-inch- thick glasses.
    “Walter Morris?” I asked the obvious question.
    “Yes. And who are you?” His voice was surprisingly deep.
    “I’m Sergeant Gallagher of the Richland Metropolitan Police Department, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.” I held out my badge, which he peered at over his glasses.
    “They lettin’ you gals carry guns now?” he asked affectionately. When he smiled, he revealed a gleaming pair of white dentures.
    “Yes, sir, for a while now,” I joked back, and immediately found myself liking him.
    “Well, I’ll let you in