Baddington's Tomb

By Dennis E Smirl

Sometimes burying the body is not enough. Frank Battelle is an investigator with unusual abilities. The authorities in a rural town are experiencing a series of murders, with no clues and no motive. Frustrated, they call in Frank to investigate. Some people think he's a fraud while others are uncomfortable with what he does. Either way, Frank Ba

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lost Aardvarks Press
• Release date: Jan 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869139993

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Frank Battelle didn’t like cemeteries. He didn’t like what he saw there, what he heard there, or what he smelled, tasted or touched there. But what he truly despised was exposing his psyche to the shadowy unrest he sensed in cemeteries. So what was he doing in a two-hundred-year-old cemetery on a cool autumn morning in rural Missouri?

He was working a contract.

He’d been offered a fair price to consult with the sheriff of Cherokee County, Missouri and get to the bottom of the cold case murder of a woman who had been laid to perpetual unrest on the front step of Jeremiah Baddington’s limestone crypt.

Earlier that day, Battelle had been met at the regional airport and then driven to the Eternal Hope Cemetery by sheriff’s deputy Mike Miller. About two inches taller, and with skin a couple of shades darker than Battelle’s, Miller was about five years younger. He was also doing a decent job of hiding his intelligence behind a good ol’ boy façade.

I was first on the scene, Miller said with a noticeable Missouri twang. "I was on rotation, had another week on the midnight to eight A. M. shift—most people call it the graveyard shift—when I was told to make a stop at Jeremiah Baddington’s crypt. Dispatch had answered what she thought was a crank call, but you gotta’ check things out, even if you think there’s a crazy person on the other end of the line.

It was 3:36 A. M. when I arrived, and for a moment or two I wasn’t sure what I was lookin’ at. I mean, it coulda’ been a department store mannequin, all white with no hair. I got out of the cruiser with my flashlight, moved up close, and saw the victim was a woman, naked, and probably dead, as she wasn’t breathin’. She had no pulse. I checked for that, too. And her body was as cool as the outside air. That’s when I was sure she was dead.

Okay, Battelle said. What else did you see?

Nothin,’ really. And that’s a problem, isn’t it? Maybe it’s what I didn’t see. No blood. No signs of a struggle. No drag marks. Just nothin’ in the way of clues. That’s when I figured she’d been killed elsewhere and dumped here.

What did you do then?

I called dispatch and told her what I had. After that, she would have called the sheriff, the county’s criminalist, and the medical examiner, in that order.

And did she?

Why, yeah. Shirley’s good at her job. Knows the ropes inside and out. I waited about fifteen minutes and then Sheriff Carson pulled in. He looked bright and fresh at that ungodly time of the morning, and I wondered how he managed it.

"And what did you do while you waited for the sheriff?"

I strung yellow crime tape and then placed the LED lanterns we carry in our trunks so the scene would stay lit without running the cruiser’s battery down or burnin’ a lot of gasoline needlessly.

Did you notice anything while you were doing that?

Miller paused before saying, Nothin’ I want to talk about.

Battelle said, Let me rephrase. Did something make you uncomfortable while you were stringing the tape around the crypt?

Okay. And I don’t want this getting’ out. For no reason I could think of, things got really cold, and when they did, I may have heard something.

What do you think you heard?

Voices. Without words. Or maybe voices without words I could understand.

When you say, ‘. . . really cold,’ how cold are you talking about?

Like twenty below with a wind out of the north. That kind of cold. But it didn’t last long. A few seconds. Five or six quick gusts and it was over.

And then the county criminalist arrived.

Right.

Did he or she find any trace of blood or other bodily fluids?

Miller shook his head. She. And it was the same with the medical examiner. Neither one of them found a dang thing . . . except for footprints out in the grass, fifty feet or so from the crypt. I shoulda’ found them first. There were two sets. No idea whose they were or when they were made.

And the sheriff doesn’t know who the victim is.

No idea. I know I’ve never seen her before.

I’d like to walk over to the crypt. Maybe around it. And alone if you don’t mind. It’s better that way.

Whatever works. We took the yellow tape down when we were sure we weren’t going to find any more clues.

Battelle got out of the cruiser and walked toward a small building constructed of light gray limestone. Built to resemble a temple from ancient Rome—or maybe Greece—but in miniature, it was about twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and twelve feet high at the top of its sharply pitched roof. There were four columns in front, two on each side of a bronze door. The columns sat on a slab of limestone about ten feet wide and eight feet deep. According to the photo he’d seen while riding in Miller’s cruiser, the naked, hairless body of an adult Caucasian woman had been placed on that slab with her back to the bronze door. She was curled into a fetal ball with her arms wrapped around her shins.

He stopped, closed his eyes, waited for something—anything—that might give him a clue. But it didn’t come. At first, he thought it might be due to the noise from the nearby highway. Then he began hearing sounds from other residents of the cemetery—the ones that weren’t supposed to be making noise. As he stood waiting, Battelle started feeling cold, nauseated, uneasy. He wanted to get away from that crypt. He wanted to get away from that cemetery. He wanted to run back to Miller’s cruiser, jump in, and tell him, Get me the hell away from this place!

Instead, he lingered and then felt a touch of cold as evil sat upon his shoulders and worked its way down his spine. He stood there for half a minute, fighting the unwanted feeling. Maybe the sunlight helped. Before exhaustion could take over, he felt a breath of warm air against his face, inhaled deeply, and walked back to the cruiser, utterly shaken.

Inside, after Battelle had closed and locked the passenger’s door, Miller asked, What happened?

I’m not sure. I need to talk to the sheriff about it.

The deputy nodded. Not a problem. Sheriff Carson told me to help you however I can.

First, I need to drop my luggage at the Roundup Motel. I have a reservation there.

No problem. Where would you like to go then?

I’d like to see the sheriff as quickly as possible.

Miller chuckled. I know just where to find him.

CHAPTER 2

Sheriff Daniel Carson didn’t pretend to be a good ol’ boy. Looking to be about fifty years old, he was six feet tall, trim—maybe weighing a hundred seventy pounds—and wearing a khaki uniform with creases one could get cut on. With a tanned face, close-cropped light brown hair, small ears, blue eyes and a guarded smile, Carson wore a look of measured intelligence; one tempered by a load of common sense.

Once he had debriefed Deputy Miller regarding the trip to the cemetery, he invited Battelle into his office, shook his hand, and offered him one of the two leather chairs facing the sheriff’s desk. They were the only upscale items in a drab, institutional green room with a single window allowing a single shaft of sunlight to illuminate a trapezoidal area of cheap, brown, vinyl flooring. The sheriff’s desk was gray metal, functional, and just about as ugly as the two metal filing cabinets that sat in the corner of the room, off to Battelle’s right. Happily, the room smelled clean, and the bit of accumulated dust on flat surfaces here and there wasn’t that noticeable or off-putting.

Deputy Miller tells me you’ve had quite a morning, Carson said.

Battelle nodded in agreement.

Mind giving me a quick run-down of your experience at Eternal Hope Cemetery?

Don’t mind at all. Battelle ran through the things he’d sensed in less than a minute.

The sheriff listened carefully and then asked, Now that you know what we’re facing, are you sure you want the contract? Battelle wondered if he was offering an easy way out. Maybe he wanted to save the taxpayers some money.

He said, I’m intrigued by the challenge. What’s not to want?

You know this case has been cold for a while.

I’ve muddled through worse.

You’re not one to oversell yourself, are you?

And not the first time I’ve been told that.

I don’t doubt it. Carson paused. One observation. Your services don’t come cheap, Mister Battelle.

You pay less, you get less has been my experience.

Can you make a real difference in this case?

If I don’t, you don’t pay. It’s how I guarantee my work.

So I’ve been told. Carson looked away and then back. Miller took you to the Baddington crypt on the trip back from the airport.

He seemed to know the way. One heck of a big cemetery for such a small town.

The cemetery’s been here since the town of Wiggins was founded. More than two hundred years of interments. And for a while the town was a lot bigger than it is today.

There’s something not quite right out there. Evidently one of those burials has gone seriously sideways.

Carson looked a bit surprised. You’re saying?

You have no idea who the dead woman is and no clues as to who killed her. If she’d been surreptitiously buried, say in a recent grave where all the killer had to do was move some sod and a few cubic feet of dirt, you’d never know she was there.

So, displaying her in that manner was . . .?

Intentionally provocative. I’d say someone is showboating. You know better than I that modern forensic science often turns up amazing bits of evidence. Something tiny, maybe too small to see with the naked eye, is enough to result in conviction these days. So, why take such a foolish chance?

In that case, what’s the motive? the sheriff asked.

Battelle shrugged. You brought in help from the state and . . .?

Two of their best investigators were here for a month. They didn’t turn up one bit of useful evidence.

Or anything that would point to motive.

That, too.

What about your own department?

My criminalist was working with the state police early on. Then, when nothing came to light, I took her off the case and assigned Deputy Miller to it. He and the state people put in a lot of overtime and got nothing.

When did management decide the case was too cold to pursue any further?

A year ago.

Who made the decision locally?

It was made by the county commissioners. They got tired of authorizing overtime dollars.

And no one came close to putting a name with the corpse.

Carson shook his head. There was no match for her fingerprints, DNA, or dental records. No tattoos, no scars, no birthmarks. Nothing that would identify her.

Do you think she was a U. S. citizen?

Carson wasn’t fazed by the question. Consensus was, ‘Maybe not.’

Where’s the corpse?

It was cremated. A decision based on money.

How long ago?

Her ashes were interred six weeks ago.

Why do you want my input now?

We had a special election and wound up with four new commissioners. Suddenly, no one wants a cold case hanging around, especially one so strange. They want it solved.

Why choose me for the job?

The grimace went away. I know a guy who knows a guy who⁠—

And . . .?

A few months back, you saved an insurance company some big bucks. Millions, I’m told. And the whole case hinged on things and events only you could observe.

That was a big plus in the ‘win’ column. But it doesn’t happen every time, and it may not happen this time.

We’re budgeted to pay you for a maximum of two weeks. If you come up with something solid, or even promising, the contract could be extended.

Fair enough. I’d like to have a chat with your coroner.

He prefers the term, ‘medical examiner.’

Battelle shrugged. Whatever.

I’ll set it up.

Before Carson could pick up the phone, a tall, spindly fellow wearing an ugly brown suit, an even uglier yellow tie, a pale complexion, and thinning hair entered the office without being invited. Battelle wondered how long that had been going on.

Are you the psychic they hired? the intruder asked in a hoarse tenor voice.

Battelle looked at the sheriff. It was his play.

Frank Battelle, meet Tom Lutz, local newsblogger.

Battelle said, Before you start asking questions, yes, I’m the psychic, but I wasn’t hired. My services are contracted. Important difference.

Right. Especially when it comes to spending public money. Lutz paused. Got it solved yet? You know who killed her, and why, and got a reason why the dead woman showed up at Jeremiah Baddington’s crypt?

No comment.

Lutz wrote something in his notebook. That means you’ve got nothing,

You’ll have to ask the sheriff about that.

The newsblogger looked at Carson. So, I’ll interview you, Sheriff. What progress is being made in this case? And what do you expect to get from Mr. Battelle’s efforts?

Carson waited a beat or two before saying, He may be able to provide new and important insight into a cold case.

I could almost make a headline out of that.

Please don’t. We’ve had one media circus already. Let’s not create another.

Lutz scoffed. Then I need something, Sheriff. A lot more than you’re giving me. Keeping the public informed is what I do, and you’re not helping.

I’m asking you to keep a lid on it, Tom. For a few days, at least.

Define ‘a few.’

A week. We hope to have something by then.

And there’s my headline, Sheriff. ‘We hope to have something⁠— ‘

I can live with that, Carson said. Just play it down. Don’t get people stirred up.

Lutz shrugged and left the office.

Battelle asked, What are you not telling me?

I wanted you to go into this thing with fresh eyes. Telling you things . . . He took a deep breath.

I’m listening.

History tells us that Jeremiah Baddington was not a good man. His wealth was said to stem from an unnatural source. Some have even said he was a necromancer.

Hearing the word made Battelle uncomfortable.

Carson noticed, said, You look as though you just swallowed a frog.

"There are things that can distress me. This is one of them."

Why?

Sometimes, with certain individuals, evil lives on after the interment.

A few seconds later, a shapely brunette wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform entered the room. She looked fit—everything where it should be and in just the right proportions—except for her face. Battelle had seen asymmetry in others over the years, but hers was disturbing. He wondered if she was the product of a botched forceps delivery or perhaps a terrible accident that left her face unfixable.

Got a minute, Sheriff? Her voice was normal; a clear, almost melodious alto.

Is it something that can wait?

Sure. It’s not a big deal.

Fine. Caryn Richardson, department criminalist. Frank Battelle, psychic. He’s here as a consultant to help us with the Baddington incident.

Battelle stood and shook her hand. She had a strong, warm grip.

Pleased, she said. Then she added, I’m a bit surprised. This office doesn’t often hire . . . consultants.

Smiling, Battelle said, I was available.

Carson said, Mr. Battelle may need some help as he investigates this incident. I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few questions, showing him what little the department has. Photos, etc. Unless, of course, something has changed in the past few minutes.

She shook her head. No changes, no problems.

Battelle looked at his watch. Close enough to noon.

Maybe we could talk over lunch, he suggested.

Richardson replied, How about delivery? I can’t think of any place in town where we won’t be overheard unless we whisper. And if we whisper, people will talk.

Battelle nodded. Who delivers?

CHAPTER 3

While they waited in Richardson’s office for their lunches, Battelle asked a few questions, starting with, How long have you lived here?

Eight years. Sometimes it seems longer than that.

Really.

Yeah. There’s not a lot to do here unless you’re into baling hay and griping about soybean futures.

Battelle laughed. I guess that’s one way of looking at it.

Richardson rested her chin on her right hand, her right elbow on the desk. We have a rodeo once a year. Someone almost always gets hurt. That can be entertaining.

How so?

Watching the EMTs drive their van right out into the arena and load a busted-up cowboy? It usually results in a bunch of high-end local drama.

No feelings of empathy for the ‘busted-up cowboy?’

Would you climb aboard a wild-eyed, slobbering, snorting, jacked-up bull? For any amount of money?

He shook his head. No. But you do sound a bit jaded.

She scoffed. You noticed.

Change of subject. Tell me everything you know about Jeremiah Baddington.

A moment passed before she said, You could have warned me that was coming. You nearly gave me whiplash.

She was funny in her own way. Battelle was beginning to like her.

Jeremiah Baddington was born near here, out in the county. I don’t have an address or the exact dates, but let’s say ten miles north of town sometime around eighteen-eighty. He died in 1965. He had no surviving children, but he did have a wife—his third—who outlived him by several years, and as far as I know is responsible for that limestone atrocity in the cemetery.

You don’t like his crypt.

It’s ugly. Some say it’s haunted. Either way, I try to avoid it.

You’re saying that the crypt is haunted by Baddington’s ghost?

She shrugged. No one knows. And I can’t think of anyone who admits to having seen a ghost there. I think it’s mostly stories dreamed up by high school kids. From what I’ve been told that’s been going on since the crypt was erected and Baddington’s corpse was put in it. Things had slowed down since the unidentified corpse was found there, but after a while, people forget and . . . Well, it’s started up again.

Do you have an example?

How about weird noises and strange lights? I got sent out there once on a call and had to wait until daylight to find all the equipment the kids had left there. It was cheap stuff that had just enough volume, lumens, and battery life to scare the heck out of a couple of local lovers who’d parked right in front of the crypt—on a dare—and then tried to get it on. I’ve heard that’s difficult when you’re really scared.

The arrival of their lunch orders saved Battelle the indignity of laughing until his sides hurt. They talked of inconsequential matters until both sandwiches were no more than memories. Then, he said, So the whole idea of the ghost is⁠—

If I had my guess, ghost is the wrong word. Sadly, some stories aren’t quite so pleasant. There have been people so badly frightened by what they experienced that they had to be sedated. Now, something like that might be self-induced, just an internal, hormone-driven escalation from a tiny fright to an all-out episode of terror, but whatever it is has been going on for a while.

Some people say Baddington was a necromancer. True or false?

She took a long breath before answering. I have no idea. I wasn’t alive when he was. All I can share with you is local lore.

Do you mind showing me the crime scene photographs?

No problem. She took a thin folder out of the single file cabinet in her office, returned to her desk, and handed him several eight by tens. They were much better than what Miller had shared. She added, Full color, tack-sharp focus, and perfectly lit. And they tell us absolutely nothing of use. Then again, maybe you’ll see something we didn’t.

He finished his ginger ale and studied each photo in the order she gave them to him. He took his time, hoping to get at least a minor nudge from his special talent, but it didn’t happen.

He returned the photos. "These are professional quality. Did you take the shots?"

She all but blushed. I had a good instructor at the community college.

Let’s get back to the problem of identification. Do you have anything? A hint? A clue? A gut feeling?

No. There was nothing at the site that could help. The victim’s face wasn’t damaged, so I took a few shots before the autopsy. Sheriff Carson had me run the least disturbing image through our copier and then distribute the copies among the deputies and other county officials. The idea was, show the picture to everyone you encounter and hope someone recognizes her. There were no hits.

Any impressions? Feelings? Hunches from the contactees?

She looked straight at him. No. And if I can be perfectly honest, I’m not into that kind of thing. Show me a fact and I’ll run for the goalposts with it. Show me a feeling or an impression, and I have no idea what to do with it.

I had a hunch you’d say that.

She was quick with a laugh. And I knew that was coming, but I couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.

Point for me. Hopefully, the match is far from over.

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Did you delve into Baddington family history?

Ohhh, and another ball thrown to home from deep left field.

You’re a baseball fan.

She nodded. You’re thinking about the necromancer legend.

I’m not sure what I’m thinking about it.

Obviously, there was a Poppa Baddington and a Grandfather Baddington. The grandfather was an immigrant. The grandmother was Native American. Kiowa, or so I’m told.

And where was Grandfather Baddington’s origin?

England. And I’m betting you were hoping I’d opt for Transylvania or Romania, or some such creepy locale.

England can be just as macabre, but the royal families had better press agents.

Whoa. Another point for team Battelle. She looked at her watch. Sorry, but I have a witness on a different case coming into the office ten minutes from now. I need to get ready to take her statement.

Trashcanning his lunch mess, he said, Not a problem.

He got up to leave. But before he could go, she asked, You want to go roust something spooky? We could meet shortly before midnight and drive out to the cemetery.

As she spoke, he noticed a flicker of anticipation behind her eyes along with a fierce, internal battle to keep a measure of fear in check.

Let me check my schedule and give you a call. And, as we’ll be working together, please call me Frank. I get tired of hearing ‘Mister Battelle.’

Call me Caryn.

Battelle nodded and headed back to Sheriff Carson’ office. He didn’t look that busy. Or happy.

How’d your talk with CSI Richardson go?

Fine until the very end. We talked about making a midnight visit to the Baddington crypt and suddenly, her affect changed. For an instant, I saw a bit of fear. Then I had to leave because she had another appointment and came here to see you. I’m wondering. Has she experienced something unpleasant that’s had a lasting impact?

She saw something. . . puzzling. . . once. In my company. It wasn’t at the Baddington crypt, and it wasn’t a ghost. If she wants to tell you more, it’s a free country.

Battelle felt the nudge of a hunch and asked, Whatever she saw, you saw as well. And you didn’t like it any more than she did.

Actually, I despised what I saw.

Does it have bearing on the cold case you called me in for?

He shook his head. No.

Then we probably shouldn’t be talking about it.

Talking about what? The voice came from a vigorous, slightly sunburned man in his early sixties. He was wearing black slacks, black sports shoes, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a dark red tie as he entered the office.

Hello, Doc, Carson said with a smile that seemed a bit tight. "And right on time. Doctor Ted Mason, county medical examiner, meet Frank Battelle, psychic investigator. Mr. Battelle is here as a consultant, contracted to help us discover the identity of the Jane Doe found in the Eternal Hope Cemetery and perhaps shed some light on the mystery surrounding her murder.

How do you do, the doctor said in a strong baritone voice. The rest of his features included thinning brown hair with a combover, a high, broad forehead, blue eyes, narrow nose and lips, small ears with his jaws and chin covered by a lush, well-trimmed beard gone mostly white. About 5’ 10" tall, he looked to weigh around one-ninety, with twenty of those pounds clustering behind his belt buckle.

Have a seat, Doc, the sheriff said.

In a moment. Mason turned toward Battelle. I don’t believe in ESP, Mister Battelle, but I did look you up. Your success record argues against my normal skepticism.

Thanks, I think.

They all sat down.

CHAPTER 4

Sheriff Carson said, Doctor Mason performed the autopsy. He has some information for you.

I would have told him that had you given me the chance, Mason grumbled.

Trying to improve the mood, Battelle said, I’m interested in anything you have to say, Doctor,

I don’t have as much as I’m sure you’d like. But here goes. He opened a folder he’d brought with him.

The victim was a Caucasian female thirty to forty years of age. She would have stood 5’ 6 tall, and had she not been exsanguinated, would have weighed about one hundred and thirty-five pounds. She’d never had children. There were indications she’d been pregnant more than once but miscarried or aborted. Her body was hairless. I looked for signs of chemotherapy and found a partially healed incision where a chemo port had been implanted slightly below her right clavicle. As I continued the autopsy, I found cancer in both lungs. Surprisingly, I did not find evidence of tobacco use. The cancer had spread into her abdomen before the start of chemotherapy, and I can’t say it was in remission. Had things gone otherwise, I’d say she would have lived another few weeks, maximum.

"Externally, I found a fresh incision in her left thigh deep enough to sever the femoral artery. That’s what killed her. She bled to death. The incision was neat and precise, and the dimensions of the wound suggest a thin sharp blade. In other words, a scalpel. The wound was sutured shut, although I can’t imagine why. She had a load of barbiturate in her system, enough that I’m sure she was unconscious when her thigh was incised.

Finally, because it was a very cool night and morning, the body would cool faster than it would inside a climate-controlled building, so I can only give you a range for time of death: six to twelve hours. He closed the folder and placed it on his lap. Then, he said, I also had a DNA test run. Her parents probably came from Appalachia. Her maternal great-grandparents were Greek, and her paternal grandparents were German.

Interesting mix, Battelle said.

Most likely a useless bit of information, Mason replied.

Who knows? Maybe I can unravel some of it.

"Unless you really are conversing with the spirits, good luck. Mason turned to speak to Sheriff Carson. I have things that need tending, Daniel, so unless you have something else. . ."

Carson shook his head. If I think of anything, I’ll give you a call.

Mason left, and before Carson and Battelle could resume a conversation, Caryn Richardson entered the office.

Is he gone?

The sheriff nodded. For now.

Good. I wanted to check with Mr. Battelle. Do we still have a midnight date?

Carson lifted an eyebrow. Will you consider yourself on duty, Caryn?

I’ll be on unpaid, unscheduled overtime and driving my own vehicle. I’m in the mood to see a ghost. Or a spirit. Or an apparition. Or whatever.

Battelle wasn’t in any such mood. He’d seen something once that had scared the hell out of him. Call it what you wish, Caryn had, as well. And whatever it was, Battelle encountered it alone and cynically, because he didn’t believe he was going to see anything supernatural. Maybe he thought that with his own unpredictable portion of ESP he had a corner on the market. Then, something malevolent, terrifying, hideous, and deadly came out of nowhere, and he had to run for his life. He was younger then, and in great shape, and he ran for most of a mile before the odious thing that had draped itself around his shoulders and dug its claws into his pectorals, let go, and fell away.

Now, he was being challenged to prove his courage by accompanying an apparently fearless young woman on a midnight tour of a graveyard.

What time are you picking me up? he asked.

She looked slightly perplexed. I thought we might meet at Baddington’s crypt.

Sorry. I didn’t rent a car. I flew in at the regional airport under the impression that I wouldn’t need wheels.

Not a problem. Where are you staying?

The Roundup Motel.

She curled a lip. What a dump.

No more or no less than I expected, considering that public funds are being used to pay for my lodging.

That may be, but it’s still a dump. Check your sheets for bedbugs. Or sleep in the recliner.

He nodded in concern. Right. How does eleven-thirty sound?

It’s only a five-minute drive to the cemetery. So, sure. But not at the motel. I don’t need people talking. Meet me out front. Here.

See you then.

She favored him with a faux-salute and exited. Sheriff Carson said, You could be making a mistake.

I’ve made a few in my life.

This one could be huge, Carson said. "I think you’re conflating, and it could make your task impossible. Think about this: If Baddington’s crypt is haunted, that’s one thing, separate from the rest, something I have no interest in, and which takes you well out of the parameters of our contract. A more important issue is the dead woman. Currently, we cannot connect her, in any way, with Jeremiah Baddington. Dumping her body in front of the crypt may be significant, or it may be a random act. We don’t know where she died, who killed her, or who placed her corpse in public view. As far as your