The Copper Casket

By DF Doran

An eager young reporter in search of a break.   

What happens when an obituary leads him down a rabbit hole of greed and corruption at the highest levels of power? Will Jim Monaghan be able to escape with his life?

It's 1963. Kennedy is president and there are mounting troubles in Vietnam.

Jim Monaghan is a young reporter stuck in the Siberia of journalism: the obituary section. But then he gets a call from a frantic widow insisting that her husband's dead body isn't where it's supposed to be.

As he starts to ask questions, Jim uncovers the truth that no one wants him to know. It goes to the highest levels of power and those people will do anything to keep their secrets safe.

Will he escape with his life or will his first big story be his last?

Praise for DF Doran's Jim Monaghan thrillers

"a fascinating book, which certainly kept me reading right up to the end…" - Amazon Review

"an emotional roller coaster…" - Amazon Review

"Jim Monaghan is a very interesting, multifaceted character with baggage…" -Amazon Review

"crisp writing and accelerated page-turning as funeral home intrigue encounters investigative journalism. Romance, murder and '60s nostalgia" -Amazon Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: DF Doran
• Release date: Jan 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386029328

Book preview

Part I

1

Thursday, June 13, 1963

T hey switched caskets! quavered the voice on the telephone.

What did you say? Jim Monaghan asked as he pushed back his long brown hair and pulled his headset closer to his ear. All he could hear was muffled crying.

The voice, which Jim recognized as an older woman, finally said, They switched my husband’s casket. I saw what they did. Please believe me, she pleaded.

Jim newly hired obituary writer for the Lincoln, Ohio News Tribune, turned to his colleague, Paula, rolled his eyes and said, I have one goofy old lady on the phone. She is trying to tell me someone switched caskets. What a croc!

Be respectful, Jim, Paula scolded. If it is a new widow, she will be hurting, so you treat her right, hear? Who knows, it might be true.

Riiiggghhhttt, Jim said suppressing a smile.

Ma’am, you said someone switched caskets. Did I get that right? Sounds just a bit far-fetched. I mean who does that? Did you see it happen?

There was silence on the line. Then, quiet crying.

Leaning back in his chair, putting his feet up on his desk and lighting a cigarette, Jim said, Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me your story.

She said her name was Irene Dunn, and she had been married to her late husband, Patrick, for fifty years.

Starting to lose interest, Jim doodled thoughtlessly on his desk.

We belong to the First Baptist Church, she continued. Reverend Smallwood, the preacher, suggested we use the Reid Funeral Home."

Uh huh, Jim mumbled.

I took funeral home director Alex Reid’s advice and bought a handsome copper casket. Even Reverend Smallwood agreed it was a perfect way to honor my good and brave husband. The funeral was beautiful. Reverend Smallwood preached a touching eulogy, and the First Baptist Church choir sang my husband's favorite hymns.

Jim offered another uh-huh as he scanned the early edition of the paper, half listening.

I had been surrounded by family and friends at our home—well, her voice broke, well my home now, I guess.

There was silence on the line.

Jim turned to Paula, rolling his eyes. I think the old lady hung up, he whispered. But then, he heard muffled crying.

Jim stopped reading and felt guilty for not listening. He pulled his feet off the desk and picked up his notebook.

Please continue, he said quietly.

I had been with family and friends for three days, said Irene, sighing loudly. "But I needed time alone, so after the burial, I slipped away from our crowded home, and drove to Calvary Cemetery.

When I looked into the gravesite… Irene’s voice trailed off and she broke down again.

This woman is nuts, Jim thought, tapping his pencil impatiently on the desk.

All I saw was a plain wooden box, Irene said, collecting herself. I spent a big portion of our savings on that expensive copper casket, and all that I saw there was a pine box.

Ma’am, I am sorry, but my other line is ringing, Jim lied trying to get off the phone. I have to go. If you want to continue this conversation, why don’t you stop by the office and we can talk more. My name is Jim Monaghan, and I am new, so I would like to have some veteran reporters with me." Jim suggested. He knew the likelihood of seeing her was improbable at best.

Paula, you lucked out that I took the call. She was really a wacko.

Paula Behrens, Jim’s partner and trainer on the obituary desk scolded, That wasn’t right, she said.

What? Wasn’t that a crazy story?

Maybe, but what if it is true? Besides, you weren’t very respectful to her.

Jim shrugged and turned his attention back to the newspaper.

You said her name was Irene Dunn. Go back a few days and read the obituary. I think I remember seeing it. In fact, I think you wrote it. Then if she comes in, you will be better prepared to talk to her.

If she comes in? Jim asked, leaning back in his chair. Paula, she’s not coming in. She is just some old lady who doesn’t have anything better to do. If she comes in, I will look up the obit. Jim put his feet back up on the desk, lit another cigarette, and laughed to himself.

Paula, if or when she shows up, I will take her to O’Toole’s. At least there, I can get a drink.

Paula just shook her head.

2

Less than two hours later, the receptionist called and told Jim there was an Irene Dunn waiting for him at the front door.

How the hell did she find me? Jim wondered, though he knew he wasn’t very hard to find. "She’s here Paula. And to get here so quickly, wow. This is the last thing I want to do.

What do you think? I’m betting, an old, disheveled, dumpy, woman wearing a scarf and a wool coat on this 85-degree day, he laughed as he walked down the stairs to the reception area.

Be nice, Paula shouted to him.

A mature, silver-haired, slim woman was waiting at the front door. She had a dignity about her, and an air of authority. She wore a navy blue jacket with matching skirt and a pale blue scarf around her neck. Her silver streaked hair was perfectly coiffed.

Well that’s not her, Jim thought. He assumed she was a friend of the publisher, from the country club, here to do whatever rich people did together.

He was stunned when the receptionist pointed to the woman.

Are you Irene Dunn?

Yes, I am. Are you Mr. Monaghan? I was expecting someone older, she remarked .Where are the other reporters?

I am the only one available, Jim said. But if you want to wait for someone else…

No, that won’t be necessary, she said.

Jim gritted his teeth and tried again. It’s no problem at all. I am sure someone else can help you soon.

I would like to talk to you, Irene insisted. Seeing no way out of the situation, Jim thought he might as well get a drink out of it and suggested they go to O’Toole’s.

Irene’s eyes narrowed and her lips curved downward in a disapproving frown.

I know it seems strange, Mrs. Dunn, but O’Toole’s is a perfectly reputable establishment and quite empty this time of day. Jim would know.

He was a regular.

As Jim and Irene walked out of the building, Jim suddenly stopped. Was your husband Patrick the long-time school teacher who was a hero in both World Wars? he asked.

Smiling broadly, Irene said, Yes, that was my Patrick.

I remember now, Jim said. I wrote the obituary. Mrs. Dunn, I am sorry for your loss.

Settling into a dark-stained wooden booth at the back of the bar, a strange feeling came over Jim. Her husband was a war hero and a long time high school teacher at Lincoln Central High School. And Irene Dunn is dressed as if she belongs at the Lincoln Country Club. Obviously, she is not some goofy old lady. My God, if her story is true, it would be a block buster, he thought

It has been years since I have been in O’Toole’s, but it hasn’t changed much, Irene said as she looked at the long oak bar and the black vinyl stools. Jim smiled, amused, and again surprised. Irene Dunn did not look like the kind of woman who had ever seen the inside of a bar.

I do want to thank you, Mr. Monaghan, for talking with me.

Please call me Jim, Mrs. Dunn. Irene smiled and said she would agree if Jim would call her Irene.

Stavros, owner and bartender, anticipated Jim’s order and had already poured a Bushmills on the rocks. Stavros lingered after placing it on the table. He looked quizzically at Irene, then glanced at Jim, waiting for an introduction. Jim liked Stavros, but he didn’t satisfy the bartender’s curiosity, instead asking Irene what she wanted to drink.

Coffee with cream, please. Irene smiled at Stavros, who went back to the bar, scratching his short, black beard.

"Irene, you are telling me your husband’s copper casket was switched to a pine box. I need to fill in some of the blanks in your story.

If you went to the cemetery hours after the burial, why wasn’t the grave filled in? Jim asked.

‘I don’t understand that either. When I parked near the gravesite of our family plot, I did notice a battered black pick-up truck next to the grave. A tarp was stretched over the truck’s bed and four brawny men were perched on a mound of dirt next to the gravesite, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer."

Jim sipped his Bushmills thinking, so far, not a crazy story.

I wondered why they hadn’t yet filled in the burial plot, but I was glad to be able to look down on Patrick’s beautiful copper casket. The men glared at me, but I kept walking. One yelled, What do you want, old woman?’ Another shouted, ‘Get the hell out of here!’

"All four stumbled, trying to get up, but I didn’t pay them much attention at all. I just kept walking to the grave.

I looked down, saw the vault and screamed. There was nothing but a plain wooden box in the bottom of the vault. Two of the men rushed over, grabbed me and growled, ‘We told you to get the hell out of here!’ They grasped me tightly by the arms, dragged me to my car, and threw me roughly into the front seat.

Wait a minute, Jim asked. You saw a plain box in the vault. Where was the casket?

I don’t know, Jim. Let me finish, she said with exasperation. One of the men shouted, you forget what you saw here, old woman, or we will bury you in that same hole.’ My heart was pounding, but I was able to scream, ‘What have you done with my husband?’ I moved my leg just in time as the biggest man slammed the door.

But, and I am certain about this, as I pulled away from the gravesite, I saw the sun reflecting on something under that tarp in the back of the truck. It looked like a copper casket.

Jim shook his head, a part of him unwilling to believe her. But when he looked right into her eyes, he knew she was telling the truth.

I hate to tell you, but this story is hard to believe, Jim said.

Irene shoulders slumped down.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t believe it. What they did was pretty despicable, and I am sorry you had to go through that.

Irene took a sip of her coffee and wiped her mouth carefully with a napkin.

Oh, it gets worse, Jim.

Go on.

The police refused to believe me. Captain Buckner said I have been through a lot and I must be confrused.

Jim shook his head.

So, I went to the funeral home to confront Mr. Reid.

You did? Wow, Jim leaned back in the booth.

To my surprise, Reverend Smallwood showed up. They both told me I was a confused old woman. They told me to go home and rest and Reverend Smallwood would see me later. They took me by the arm and almost threw me out the front door.

Then, when I got home, I told my kids, and they thought I was crazy and needed to see a psycharist. Well, I don’t. I know what I saw and I am telling you the truth. I am not some confused old woman, Irene said confidently.

Jotting in his notebook, Jim said, Irene, if you want to prove your husband’s casket was switched, you will need proof.

What kind of proof?

Maybe even dig up the grave to see if there is a pine box there, Jim said. Are you willing to do that?

Irene signed deeply and put her head in her hands. After a very long pause, she looked up and said, Yes, I am willing to do that. I already saw it is not the right casket. Now, I want someone else to see it, too. I don’t want whoever is responsible to get away with it. Besides, I know that Patrick would want me to.

Good, Jim said, giving her a sympathetic nod.

Irene, one last question, why was Reverend Smallwood there when you chose the casket and again when you confronted Reid?

I have no idea. You would have to ask him. The only person who seemed to believe me was that nice young man, Mr. Hampton, who works at the funeral home. I know he was listening to me rail at Reid and Reverend Smallwood because he gave me a very sympathetic look when I was being ushered out.

Jim gave her a nod and finished writing a note before looking up at her again. When their eyes met, she looked away quickly.

You don’t believe me, do you? she asked.

Jim took a deep breath. I didn’t believe you at first, he said. But now, I do.

Irene let out a big sign of relief.

"I took some notes, but could you do me a favor and jot down everything you told me and anything else you think is important? Would you mind doing that?’

No, of course not!

"Also, will you gather all the documents from the Reid Funeral Home.

I can and I will, Irene said as she grasped Jim’s hand and told him how grateful she was that he believed her story.

I am going to tell my editors, and I know they are going to want to have you come in and recount the story to them, too. It would be helpful if you had good notes. You should expect a call from me in a couple of days if not sooner, Jim promised.

Thank you. Thank you so much, Jim, Irene said patting his hand.

I intend to do some research on my own, Irene, but I believe every word you are telling me.

On their way out,she patted Jim on the arm. Young man, I don’t think you should be drinking hard liquor at three o’clock in the afternoon.

Jim laughed, and Irene smiled, though she did not mean it as a joke.

3

Zack Willy Williams was the long time city editor of The News Tribune. He was Jim’s immediate boss, and their relationship was at best, tense.

Jim often thought, What the hell is it with Willy? I graduated top of my class at the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University, and I interned at the Columbus Post Dispatch. Why does he treat me like I am just out of high school?

Willy sat at the top of a large u-shaped desk. On each side sat veteran editors and copy readers, who assisted Willy in preparing the copy to be published. Jim tentatively perched on the edge of the chair directly in front of Willy.

What do you need, Rookie, Willy dismissively asked as the other editors chortled.

Boss, I think I may have one of the most explosive stories ever, and if we do it correctly, it could be a prize winner, Jim said enthusiastically.

When Jim said prize winner, Willy and the others around the desk broke up in laughter. The laughter was so loud, it got the attention of everyone in the newsroom.

I am serious, Jim pleaded. It involves the Reid Funeral Home, which is the largest in town. And there are Reid Funeral Homes all over central Ohio. It also involves Reverend Raymond Smallwood of the First Baptist Church. I have a witness that says they are in cahoots to deceive old widows by switching….

Willy interrupted before Jim could finish his sentence.

The Reid Funeral Home is one of the largest advertisers this paper has, and Alex Reid is a friend of our publisher, Bernard Hill. Reverend Smallwood is pastor of the largest church in town. You don’t go around smearing their reputations. Now, what terrible thing is one of the most respected businessman in town and the most important Reverend are accused of doing? And young man, be careful what you say.

Sensing Willy had little interest in his story, Jim just gave a brief description of Irene’s account without mentioning her name. Midway through it, the laughter began again. When Jim said he believed it, Willy shook his head.

Pushing his wire-rimmed glasses to his wrinkled forehead, and raising his ink-stained hand, Willy leaned back in his chair.

You know I have been in the news business a long time, and that may be the biggest bunch of bullshit I have ever heard.

Jim’s shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Listen, Rookie, Willy continued.

Jim hated when he called him that, but there was nothing he could do but let it go.

You are new around here, not even two months in the business. Do you think you are some kind of investigative reporter?

Jim opened his mouth to say something, but Willy didn’t wait for him to answer.

Well, it’s not going to happen. I am ordering you to forget this nonsense and concentrate on your writing. Get your butt back to the obit desk and get to work. Don’t bring me these pie-in-the-sky, stupid conspiracies. Willy said as he rolled his eyes.

Jim squirmed in the chair, stung by Willy’s criticism.

And let me tell you one more time. You don’t make unsubstantiated charges against the most important people in town. Besides, they should have taught you in that fancy journalism school you went to that advertising pays your salary. Do you understand what I am saying, Rookie? And one more thing. Get your hair cut; you look like a hippie, Willy snarled.

As Jim walked back to his desk, others in the newsroom either laughed at him or shook their heads without sympathy. He wondered what truly great newspaper people would do in this situation.

At Northwestern, Jim was taught that the editorial side of the newspaper business was separate from the business side. Jim was an idealist, and that ethic was what he loved about being a journalist. He wondered, How could advertising play such an important role in whether or not a story should be investigated?

4

The next day, Jim arrived at work at his usual seven a.m. and was greeted by Willy who derisively asked if he had uncovered any more cockamamie stories. Before Jim could answer, the obituary desk phone rang, and he went to work.

Between calls, Jim noticed in Thursday’s paper the Reid Funeral Home had a burial scheduled for Saturday morning after the funeral Mass at nine a.m. at St. Patrick’s. The deceased’s name was Brennan. Jim remembered writing the obituary. The burial was going to be at Calvary Cemetery and since Jim didn’t work Saturday morning, he decided to go. He wasn’t entirely sure why. It was where the story was, and that was enough.

As the early deadline for the day’s paper passed, Willy plopped his short frame down beside Jim. "If you are going to make it in this business, you have a lot to learn. This is the real world, Jim, and I want you to see how much advertising the Reid Funeral Homes provide this paper.

This is a tear sheet from Sunday’s paper. It is a full-page ad. That’s a shitload of money. We have to be careful when dealing with large advertisers. That’s just a fact of life.

Jim answered with righteous passion, articulate, brave, and entirely in his head. He simply nodded at his boss.

Willy went on, You can’t take an old, demented woman seriously. And that’s not your job. You write obits. That’s your job. That’s it. You won’t get many chances in this business. Don’t make a mistake and go poking around and offend one of our biggest advertisers. Got it kid?

Jim nodded again.

This last barrage cemented Jim’s decision to not tell Willy about meeting Irene or his plans to go to the Brennan burial Saturday.

By God, I am going to get this story and prove to Willy that I am not some snot nosed kid, Jim thought. As he tidied up his desk for the weekend, Jim realized that it’s probably against the law to switch caskets. But, after Irene’s experience, he definitely didn’t want to talk to the police. But if not the police, who?

5

The County District Attorney’s office was in the Shelby County Government building, a newly constructed glass and steel edifice, the most prominent building on Lincoln’s east side.

Jim compared the building to his own, which was eighty-years old, brick and mortar, single-paned windows, no air conditioning, and decorated with peeling paint and scarred woodwork.

The News Tribune published evening papers throughout the week, and morning papers on the weekend. On summer weekends, the working conditions were particularly challenging as the windows were left open, giving the bugs an open invitation to swarm around the light fixtures.

The DA’s office was on the second floor. Climbing the circular staircase, Jim felt the taxpayers got their money’s worth on this beautiful building.

But entering the DA’s cluttered office full of scurrying workers toting sheaves of paper and thick books, those thoughts were quickly extinguished.

A stern voice rang out, Can I help you? and Jim came face-to-face with a middle-aged woman with the demeanor of a Marine drill instructor. Ramrod straight in her prim white blouse and brown skirt, the receptionist’s penetrating gaze behind horn-rimmed glasses signaled don’t mess with me and keep it brief.

Hating to admit to himself he felt a little intimidated, Jim gathered his thoughts and said that he was from the News Tribune and needed advice on a possible criminal case he was investigating. He asked to speak with the smartest assistant district attorney. The receptionist scanned him up and down, then barked, They are all smart. Take a seat and I will see if anyone has time for a news person.

After more than half an hour, Jim had almost given up hope of anyone seeing him, when he noticed a slim young woman with long, shiny black hair walking toward the reception desk. Jim was in awe, and noticed too late that he was staring. She smiled, and Jim blushed. The DA ought to have her as the receptionist and people would feel more welcome coming in here, Jim thought.

To his pleasant surprise, the young woman approached him and asked, How can I help you? Jim stammered that he needed to talk to an attorney.

My name is Mary Ryan, and I am an assistant district attorney.

Jim found her voice as beautiful as the rest of her and, for a moment, time stood still.

Time did not stand still for Mary Ryan. Are you surprised? Women can be district attorneys, too, you know, she said pointedly.

I am sorry, Jim fumbled, feeling his cheeks redden again. My name is Jim Monaghan, and I work for the Lincoln News Tribune. May I speak with you privately about a matter I am investigating?

Mary looked at him suspiciously, then nodded for him to follow. In her small office, she took a seat behind the desk and leaned forward with her hands clasped. Jim attempted eye contact, but he could not resist glancing at her hands, notably her left ring finger.

Ringless, Jim noticed. He felt relief, and then a rush of nervousness.

He began with small talk, complimenting the new building and sharing that he had thought of going to law school but couldn’t afford it. He asked if it was hard being the only female lawyer at the DA’s office. Mary laughed dryly. It’s fine if you don’t mind being given the mundane cases.

Sensing something in common, Jim confessed that he wanted to be an investigative reporter, but had been consigned to writing obituaries.

Mary grabbed a pen and small tablet. Now, what’s your story, Mr. Monaghan?

Disappointed at the abrupt end to their more personal conversation, he nevertheless admired her crisp professionalism.

What if a funeral home sold a casket to a family and then, after the services, substituted that casket for one of inferior quality. Would that violate any law?

If that’s a serious question, then, yes. It’s fraud.

Is it something the DA would be interested in investigating? Jim asked.

Mr. Monaghan, I worked in the Cook County DA’s office as an intern, and I heard some gruesome tales and came across some terrible people . . .

Call me Jim.

Mr. Monaghan, if someone is doing that they are one of the lowest forms of scum bag I have come across in my career to date.

So, yes?

Yes, definitely. I’m interested. Which funeral home? Who’s the victim? What proof do you have? I need more details, and I’ll get the police on it.

Whoa, slow down, Jim said, "I am just