Buried Face Down: A Novel

By Thomas H. Williams

When archaeologists excavated an Indian village in a farmer’s field along a river in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia, they made a startling discovery. Among the buried remains of ancient American natives, was found the skeleton of a man who had been bludgeoned to death and interred face down sometime in the early nineteen-hundreds.
At about the time of this gruesome discovery, Jenny Franklin, a student at State College, went missing. As far as everyone knew, she was a happy, studious individual who was majoring in sociology. One day she was there, the next, she was gone without a trace.
Professor Jimmy Houston and his friend, Sam Miller, were asked by the dean of the college to investigate Jenny’s disappearance. What fate had befallen her? Was she still alive? Was there a connection between Jenny’s disappearance and the face down burial? Jimmy and Sam wouldn’t rest until they solved this mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781669801696

Thomas H. Williams

Thomas H. Williams is a former biology teacher, public school administrator, and college professor and has a layman’s interest in botany and archeology. He is a lifelong resident of West Virginia and spends his leisure time writing, fishing and traveling. He attended graduate school at Virginia Tech where he earned a doctorate in education administration and is professor emeritus at West Virginia Wesleyan College. He is the author of four previous novels: Into the Mountains, Backbone Mountain, Blackwater and Bones in the Woods.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Thomas H. Williams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 11/26/2021

Xlibris

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Afterword

Author’s Notes

We are none of us good enough for the sweet earth we have, and yet we dream of heaven.

From a Natural and Human History by Edward Abbey in Appalachian Wilderness: The Great Smokey Mountains, Eliot Porter, Ballantine Books, New York, 1973.

For all the doctors, nurses, medical specialists, technicians, custodians, EMS professionals, and mortuary personnel who cared for the sick and dying during the dreadful Covid19 pandemic that swept across our great nation and the world.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to all who aided in the publication of this book. As always, I am grateful to those who read and made suggestions for the improvement of early drafts. T.M. Bautista assisted with editing, made many suggestions for the development of the storyline and provided unwavering encouragement. Janet Myers served as a reader and made several excellent suggestions for the improvement of the book. Anita Craig provided editorial services and suggested valuable additions and corrections. I don’t know what I’d do without her expertise. I am grateful to the folks at Xlibris for their skill and professionalism in publishing this, my sixth book with them.

The police department, officers and officials described herein are fictional. Any resemblance to organizations, persons or events is coincidental. All characters and their names in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely accidental. This is a book of fiction. Any errors that have found their way into this publication are solely my responsibility.

Chapter 1

Jimmy Houston watched the yellow float plane circle lazily in the clear, blue sky as the pilot prepared to land. It was a six passenger de Havilland Canada DHC-2 MKI Beaver bush plane piloted by a young native man no more than sixteen years old. At least that’s what he’d looked like to Jimmy on the flight to the lake. I have socks older than he is, he thought. The plane, almost fifty years old, was landed expertly and taxied to the wooden dock in front of the rustic cabin perched on a rise facing the lake. Piles of fishing gear and duffle bags were stacked nearby, ready to be loaded. John Compton, one of Jimmy’s best friends and fishing companion, lashed the plane against the dock, using lines tossed to him by the pilot.

Jimmy, John, Sam Miller and Old Henry had spent the last two weeks on the remote Canadian lake fishing for walleyes and northern pike. The camp was located on an island in the middle of six-mile-long Moose Lake in northern Ontario. The cabin’s lights were powered by solar panels and water was pumped by a cantankerous gasoline engine directly from the drinking-water lake into a 200-gallon plastic tank perched high on a tower made of cedar logs. Propane tanks provided gas that powered the cabin’s cookstove, refrigerator and shower. The cabin came with two Lund aluminum v-hull boats equipped with fifteen horsepower outboard motors. They had shared the cabin with a family of field mice that kept them awake at night scampering about in the dark. One of the best features of the camp was that there was no cell service.

Sam Miller was a retired state policeman who had left the force under something of a cloud but had been instrumental in helping Jimmy solve mysteries in the past. They had also become close friends. Old Henry—everyone called him that—was a widower who spent every waking moment of his retirement either fishing or thinking about fishing. This was his first trip to Canada. John and Jimmy had played high school football together. Upon graduation, John had enlisted in the military while Jimmy completed a PhD in botany and was a professor at the local college. John owned and operated an auto repair service. Both men were in their early thirties.

You ready to go back to civilization? the young pilot asked. We gotta hump it. There’s a cold front comin’ in, and we’re expecting some thunderstorms to pop up.

Yeah, I suppose, Jimmy said. I don’t know about the other guys, but I’m in no hurry to leave. The other three men nodded in agreement. It had been an excellent trip with many fish caught and many sunsets watched. With good luck catching walleyes, they had enjoyed several excellent shore lunches with Old Henry showing off his campfire cooking skills. Anything happening out in the real world?

Nope. It’s just the same old, same old. You didn’t miss a thing.

They loaded their gear into the back of the plane, climbed aboard and strapped themselves in. Henry’s knuckles grew white on the armrests as the plane roared down the lake and lumbered into the air. The pilot tipped one wing down sharply as the plane circled and headed south. The lake and cabin grew smaller and smaller as Jimmy watched out the plane’s window. This wasn’t his first trip to Moose Lake, and he hoped it wouldn’t be his last.

Forty-five minutes later they landed on a lake beside the main lodge and unloaded their gear onto the dock. The lodge owner showed up with a cart attached to a four-wheeler and transferred everything to the parking lot where their rental car waited. They sat for a few minutes at a picnic table under a large tree and talked with the owner, filled out evaluation forms for the camp, and made a reservation for the next year. Hands were shaken all around and the fishermen drove the fifty miles to the airport. Only when they’d turned in their rental car, cleared security and were seated in the small waiting area near their gate did they turn on their cell phones.

Jimmy’s phone lit up with a long list of texts and missed calls. There were several texts from the academic dean—his boss at the college—that became increasingly strident as he tried to reach him. Jimmy didn’t bother to listen to all the dean’s voice mails. Together, they all had one theme; the dean wanted to see him in his office and the sooner the better. He didn’t say what it was about. It was just like his boss to leave Jimmy wondering what he’d done wrong this time.

He left the most pleasant text to read last. It was from Emily Flynn, a former graduate student at State College where he taught. He and Emily had become close friends born out of many common interests. Jimmy was hoping their relationship would prove to be more than just friendship. She had recently completed a master’s degree in archaeology and had been hired by the college to assist in an archeological dig in a nearby mountain meadow. They were excavating an ancient Indian village. They had uncovered several burials and were working through the red tape involved in dealing with the governmental agency that oversaw such things. One burial was especially interesting, and she wanted to talk to him about it. The body had been buried face down.

* * * *

Jimmy arrived at his cabin on Laurel Mountain at sunset. It had been a grueling trip from northern Ontario involving several flight changes and a two-hour drive from Pittsburgh to northern West Virginia. It amazed him that that morning he’d awakened to the call of loons and the lap of water on the rocks near the rental cabin. Now, he carried his gear into his cabin, dumping it in a corner to be dealt with the next day. His yellow Lab ran in circles, sniffed every corner and crack, and seemed to be happy to be home. He’d spent the last two weeks with one of Jimmy’s students who had volunteered to keep him. Both man and dog would welcome getting back into some semblance of a routine.

Jimmy stepped out on the deck that surrounded three sides of the cabin thirty feet above a bed of boulders and rocks. The structure perched precariously on the face of Laurel Mountain, one side anchored firmly onto the mountainside and the other supported by long steel support posts. The cabin’s walls were constructed mostly of glass and visitors had told him it resembled a fire tower. His father had built the cabin years ago and called it his Eyrie. Jimmy sat on a comfortable Adirondack chair and watched the sun drop behind the distant mountains, setting them afire. The sunsets at Moose Lake were spectacular, but he was partial to this view of wave after wave of emerald mountains extending into the hazy distance. He relaxed and scratched the dog’s head. Yes, it was always good to be home after a satisfying journey.

He was awakened early the next morning to the primeval call of a pileated woodpecker and the dog’s insistent whine. He needed to go out. Jimmy slid out of bed and padded barefoot to the front door. The deck vibrated as Yellow Dog trotted across the deck and approach-ramp to the grassy spot near the small parking area.

Jimmy returned to the main room that contained a small kitchen area, woodstove, couch and chairs, a desk cluttered with an assortment of scientific equipment, and a small table with two chairs. The cabin had two small bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. The dog’s bed was located on the floor near the woodstove.

Jimmy looked in the refrigerator in hopes of finding something for breakfast but was out of luck. He’d need to go the grocery store. He’d cleaned almost everything out before he left for the fishing trip. He filled his old percolator with cold water and coffee and set it on the gas stove to brew. The percolator had been his father’s and was showing serious signs of wear. A bullet had pierced the pot through-and-through, and he’d paid one of the maintenance men at the college to repair it. Now, there were two neat patches brazed onto the pot’s sides. Luckily its innards had escaped serious damage. Soon, the pot did its magic, and the cabin was filled with that wonderful aroma that only coffee can produce.

He sat on the deck drinking the steaming brew, watching the western sky fade from pink to pale blue. He couldn’t see the sunrise since it was occurring over the mountain behind the cabin, but vestiges of the vermillion light spread across the sky to the far hills.

His mind wandered. What did the dean want with him? He didn’t think he was in trouble, but he never knew. He and the dean shared a troubled past, and although they’d buried the war axe, their relationship had remained on shaky ground. After he’d finished his coffee and had gone out somewhere to find breakfast, he’d go see what the man wanted.

And then, he’d go see Emily. His curiosity had been piqued with her cryptic text about finding a body buried face down. He knew that wasn’t a common occurrence, and he knew her curiosity was aroused as much as his. Was there some significance in such a burial? Had it been the result of a weird religious ceremony or a community’s retribution for violating its social dictates? How would she ever find out? Interesting.

He loaded the dog into his old Cherokee and drove off the forested mountain, following the winding road that his father had bulldozed into the mountainside years ago. He bought breakfast in town at the drive-through window of a fast-food restaurant and parked long enough to eat the greasy sausage biscuit, sharing much of it with the dog who watched his every move. He drank another cup of coffee. It was almost nine o’clock and the streets in the small college town were busy with traffic. Spring classes were over, and the summer session was slated to start in a few days. Jimmy wasn’t scheduled to teach classes, but he had grants to write up and close out and enough research to keep him busy through the summer.

He arrived at the dean’s office to find a new administrative assistant. She was young and pretty and smiled at him when he entered. He told her his name and asked if the dean was available to see him.

She said her name was Kimberly and then said, Oh yes, he’ll see you. He’s been trying to reach you for several days. I guess you’ve been out of town, she said, letting her words linger in the air as if she wanted him to tell her where he’d been.

Yes, I’ve been traveling.

She laughed and said, I guess it must have been somewhere far away since your phone wasn’t working.

Yeah, something like that. He paused and asked, Why does the dean want to see me?

Oh, he’ll tell you. I’m not at liberty to say. She leaned toward him and confided in a low voice, You’re not in trouble or anything.

Jimmy laughed and said, Well, that’s a relief.

She had long brown hair and was smartly dressed in a dark skirt and a blouse that complimented the color of her green eyes. Her fingernails were painted bright red. She was in her late twenties and looked boldly at him. Say, aren’t you the professor who lives in a fire tower or something? I’ve heard about you.

Yes and no, he said. I’m living in my father’s old cabin until I can have a house built. It’s about half done, and I hope to move in by the end of the summer. He didn’t tell her that his building contractor had fallen on hard times when his wife of many years filed for divorce. She had been awarded half of everything they owned, including the construction business he had built before they were married. While all of that was being sorted out, Jimmy’s house sat half finished.

The door to the dean’s office opened and another professor left with a frown on his face.

The administrative assistant stepped to the open door and asked if the dean could see Jimmy. He heard the rumble of the dean’s voice, and she nodded to him. Dean Emerson will see you now.

The dean stood when Jimmy entered his office and extended his hand. Thank you for coming in, Professor. I’ve been trying to reach you for several days.

Yes, I was out of cell range. I returned your text as soon as I could.

The dean smiled and said, I didn’t think there was anywhere in the world that didn’t have cell service.

Jimmy told him where he’d been. We were there for two weeks, and I have to admit it was nice to be out of contact. We’ve all become dependent on our phones and the Internet.

Oh, I see. On an island in the middle of a lake in the wilds of Canada? Well, that’s different.

Jimmy knew the dean and his wife traveled widely, mostly to expensive resorts and on cruise ships. But, to each his own. Jimmy had no interest in going on a cruise, just as the dean had no interest in roughing it in the woods.

The dean was tall and slim with silver hair. He swam laps each day in one of the college’s pools to keep in shape. He wore an immaculate suit, white shirt and silk power tie. His dark, expensive shoes gleamed and were adorned with tassels. Jimmy’s feet were clad in hiking boots, and he wore jeans. The dean was in his mid-fifties and had been an administrator for most of his academic career. Although he had a PhD in an academic subject, he had only taught classes as a young man.

I’ve looked at your schedule for the summer. You’re doing grant work and research. Isn’t that right?

Yes. I have a couple of grants that I have to close out before we receive the final funding payment, and I always have a research project or two that needs attention.

Good. You’re very conscientious, Jimmy, and I appreciate the work you do for the college.

Jimmy appreciated his compliment, but his BS meter was in the red zone. Something was up.

Here’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m sure you remember that we lost a student last fall. Jenny Franklin didn’t return to her dorm room one night, and she hasn’t been seen since. Her parents filed a missing person report with the state police, but she was never found. She was last seen in October—this is June… He looked at the screen of his phone. June sixth. They’re suing the college and everyone else who they think has any money and are harassing the police nonstop. I don’t blame them. If one of my children went missing, I’d be crazy with worry.

Yes, of course I remember. It was all over the papers, and students were upset. They staged several vigils in support of Jenny. I attended a couple of them myself. It was very disturbing.

Did you have her in class? Did you know her?

No, I didn’t. If I remember correctly, she was a sociology major—a junior. She would have graduated next year.

That’s right. I’m concerned about the college being sued, as is the president and board, but that’s for the lawyers to worry about. I’d like for her to be found. I have a daughter about her age. The dean was genuinely concerned.

I’m confused. What is it you want me to do?

I want you to find her. Either bring her back to her family alive or provide them some closure, if that’s possible.

What? You want me to try to find her? What about the police? Aren’t they looking for her? What can I do that they haven’t? They have resources I don’t have; access to police data bases, manpower, networks with other police forces.

I’ve talked to the state police. They’re stumped. Captain Whiting oversees the search, and he said he was okay with you doing an investigation. He said he worked with you before. You and Mr. Miller, the former policeman.

I can’t imagine he’d want me poking around in his investigation.

He said you knew the students at the college and might be able to uncover something he and his men weren’t able to. You know, maybe the students would open up to you where they wouldn’t with the police. Students like you. Your student class evaluations show their respect and trust. What do you say? Will you do it?

Let me think about it. I’d like to help, but I don’t know what I could find that the police didn’t. Jimmy hesitated, frowning. Let me talk to Sam. See what he thinks.

The dean smiled broadly. Good. Good. You’ll be doing the college a big favor, but more than that, maybe you can help her parents. They must be dying of worry. It’s been eight months and no word. Nothing. I can’t imagine how they’re holding up. I know I’d be a basket case.

What about the president and board of directors? Are they on board with me taking this on?

I’ve talked to the president. He knows you’ve solved other cases, and he thinks maybe you can help find this student. He’ll deal with the board. I can’t imagine why they would object.

What about my grants and research? I don’t want to get behind in my work.

I can take care of that. You’ll still be responsible for the grants since they’re in your name, but I can provide you some help with the paperwork. That’s what graduate assistants are for. I can budget some expense money for you and a small stipend, and I can do the same for Mr. Miller if he’s willing to help.

Let me get back to you in a couple of days. I’ll talk to Sam and see if he’s interested. Jimmy left the office frowning as had the professor who talked to the dean before his appointment. What was he getting himself into?

Chapter 2

Jimmy met Emily for lunch at Mountain Diner just outside of town. The restaurant was a relic of the past with battered booths and tables and lots of hot coffee and good country cooking. It had been bypassed when the new four-lane highway had been constructed, but locals knew where to find it. It was usually crowded. Today was no exception and they lucked out by finding an empty booth in a quiet corner. The previous year, Emily had supplemented her meager graduate student income by waitressing at the diner while she completed her master’s degree. Now, she was fully employed by the college as a member of the Indian village excavation team. It was a short-term gig, but she was confident she’d find permanent employment when the project was complete. The experience would be a good addition to her resume.

They grinned at each other across the booth table. They hadn’t been together for several weeks and were pleased to see each other. Emily was in her late twenties, had sandy-blond hair and beautiful eyes. She wore tight blue jeans, a long-sleeved chambray shirt and heavy work shoes. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She was extremely attractive.

I just got back from the dig, she said with sparkling eyes. We’ve only just begun, but Dr. King thinks the village is quite large and spreads up and down the river bottom. A couple of acres, at least. Dr. King was the lead investigator in the excavation and her boss.

That’s great, Emily. How did he find the village? It must have been covered by several feet of soil after centuries of erosion and flooding from the river.

The landowner, a farmer, has been plowing up artifacts for years—projectile points, sherds of pottery, flintknapping flakes and such. He showed up at Dr. King’s office one day and asked if he’d like to excavate the site. That was a huge break. Archeologists usually have to beg landowners to allow them to come in and excavate. Dr. King went out to his farm and dug some preliminary pits. What he found was astounding. He spent about a year writing grants to fund the project. As you know, we just started digging this spring. It’s really exciting.

The waitress came by with glasses of water and took their orders. It was lunchtime and the diner was filled with friendly, outgoing customers. There was a lot of good-natured banter and much laughter.

Do you know what tribe lived there? Jimmy asked.

No, not yet. That’s one of the goals for the project—to identify them. We have some ideas, but we need proof, she said.

In your text, you said something about finding burials and that one of the bodies was buried face down. What’s that all about?

She leaned forward with an intent look on her face. Well, that’s where it gets really interesting. So far, we’ve found six graves near what we think was their main structure. Probably a common house, much like our community buildings. All that’s left of the structures is postholes. You know, all the wood has rotted away long ago, and all that’s left is the holes used to imbed support posts. The rotting wood leaves telltale, dark circles where the posts once stood. We approximate the shape and size of the structures by their number and arrangement.

Yes, I’ve read that’s how it’s done. Are you saying they buried their dead in or near their community houses? Jimmy asked with a surprised look on his face. He was a botanist and had little knowledge of archaeology never having taken a course on the subject. The closest he’d come was a course in geology he had been required to take in undergraduate school.

Sometimes. Dr. King thinks the people buried there may have had some special standing in their community—leaders, shaman or something similar. It’s something we’d like to find out.

What about the face down burial? How does that fit in?

That’s the interesting thing. It doesn’t. I mean it doesn’t belong in the village. It’s not Native American. Dr. King thinks the skeleton is between fifty and a hundred years old but certainly not less than fifty.

How could he tell that?

The bones were much better preserved and were found in a soil stratum that was shallower than the Native American bones. You probably remember that the deeper the artifact is in the ground, the older it is.

Jimmy chuckled and said, Yeah, I remember something about that. So, who was this person who was buried in a Native American burial ground, but wasn’t a native?

We don’t know. That’s another thing we want to find out.

Have you contacted the police?

Yes, of course. They’re involved. Their crime scene technicians have the bones now and they’re trying to determine their age. They’ll eventually be able to tell us quite a lot about the unfortunate person who was buried there. Maybe even determine the cause of death.

How was the body positioned in relation to the Indian burials? he asked.

We don’t think the person or persons who did the later burial knew about the earlier ones. It was just a coincidence that they were buried in the same area.

How could you tell that? Jimmy wasn’t leery of coincidences, but Sam said he didn’t believe in them. To Sam, there was no such thing as a coincidence. But Jimmy wasn’t so sure. To him, a coincidence was just that—a co-incidence.

Emily said, "Well, the newer burial was across one of the older ones. If you were to look at them from above, they’d form a rough X with the newer burial over the older one. The newer burial was only a couple of feet down. The older