The cemetery at Beulah Methodist Church was quiet and subdued, lacking the mourning and tears from any family over the two lost souls being laid to rest. I stood in the back of the large crowd hoping I, the outsider, would go unnoticed. My ball hat was pulled low on my head and looking through dark sunglass, I watched and listened to the murmurings of strangers huddled in groups around the grave site. There was a shroud of coldness hanging over the crowd, ignoring the suffocating heat of a South Carolina summer. Even from where I was standing, a good forty yards from the grave, I could hear the rhythmic pattern of the dirt raining down against the top of the metal caskets, playing its death song as strangers toss handfuls of soil. Two graves, the occupants still unknown, were being filled one year and five days after the two had died violent deaths. The August heat was smothering, it’s something I’m not sure you ever get use to; I know I haven’t in the months I’ve been here. Women frantically fan themselves even for a little relief as the men wipe beads of sweat from their foreheads. As I listened to the preacher, speaking softly to the crowd, I reached up and felt the scar under my hat. The wound had physically healed but left a deeper hurt still haunting me. I realized the crowd could just as easily be tossing handfuls of dirt on my grave. The tiny Sumter County church had not been where the deceased had attended. Neither families nor friends had gathered at the graveside for the memorial. Of the almost two hundred and twenty mourners, who were gathered in the crowd in front of me around the flower covered caskets, none of them had known the victims during their lifetime. But now, this community in this sleepy Sumter County town had united in their deaths. The victims were someone’s children who would never make it back home. No phone calls, no letters would ever arrive from their missing son or daughter. There had been no justice, just unanswered questions. Why had no one come forward, in over a year, and claimed the bodies? Why had the investigations not turned up a suspect? There had been a few people of interest, but they were never booked after questioning. The theories of their murders were full of unanswered questions. If it had been a robbery, why were the victims’ identification taken and their jewelry left? What were these two strangers doing on the back roads of South Carolina where no one knew them? Had they been murdered where their bodies had been discovered along the lonesome highway or had they been dumped on the side of the road to cover yet another secret? I stayed until the preacher finished and an eerie silence engulfed the crowd. What words do you share, when you know nothing about the victims other than a year of imagination? Even still, sniffles could be heard as they echoed throughout the gathering. As I watched and waited, the people begin to parade past the lowered caskets for one last reflection to why? I walked away and waited in the shadow of the tree line, where I could continue watching in partial seclusion. I waited until all but a few stragglers had left before leaving the security of the scrubby oaks and longleaf pines and walking over to look down at the graves myself. The grave diggers would be by soon to finish the burial. In a few hours the only hint of the burial would be the rectangles of fresh dirt in the midst of the green grass and granite headstones. I stood at the foot of the graves and read. The bronze plaques, one at each grave, told all that the town people knew. “Male Unknown, Aug. 9, 1976” and “Female Unknown, Aug. 9, 1976.” “It’s a shame isn’t it?” a stranger walked up behind me and asked. “Did you know them?” “No,” I hesitated. I was thinking I don’t think so, but then finished, “They were strangers to all of us. What about you?” I asked noticing how upset the burial for strangers seemed to have an effect on him. “No, I really didn’t know them at all. Just so young to have died,” the stranger replied before turning and walking away, leaves me alone with all my questions. I had been living in the timeless shadows, trying desperately to figure out if I had any connection to the crime that left the two young people dead. Brief moments of memory flashbacks had woken me on too many nights, for almost six months now. I had been setting alone in a barren motel room in the next county, when a March newscast had re-ran the story of the previous August murders. It pleaded for anyone who had any new evidence to come forward, even offering a reward for information. All new leads had virtually dried up; old leads had not paid off. The descriptions of the victims, their ages, their clothing and their appearance matched sporadic memories that had been haunting me. Were the memories real or mere dreams created from my immersion into the details of the murders? There had to be some connection, I convinced myself. I just did not know how. I dared not contact the police; for fear that the murders would be pinned on me in an effort to appease the community outcry for the police to solve the crime. Instead, I had begun trying to find out everything I could about the killings. At the County Library I reviewed articles from the local and state newspapers for hours. I listened absorbedly when I would happen upon anyone talking about the murders. Listening and probing for anything that would connect the dots, trapped in my mind. I started a notebook with dates and brief clues, as I came across them
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