Chương 9: Chapter 9: Who Stole the Body?
There were three others besides him who helped carry the coffin to the burial. Two of them were Louis's strong nephews, and the third was his brother.
"Was there anything unusual during the burial? Or did you notice anything strange?"
Officer Ryan asked the four men.
"There shouldn't have been."
One of Louis's nephews recalled the events.
"We buried the coffin, and Norma—the funeral director—was standing by the hearse with his tall, strong son. Everything seemed normal."
Officer Ryan nodded, removing his rain-soaked hat.
"What's happening now is anything but normal. It's been years since something like this happened in Smallville. Body theft? That's no ordinary crime."
As he spoke, his gaze shifted to Peter.
"Mr. Podrick, do you have anything to add?"
"No."
Peter shook his head, indicating that he didn't know more than the police.
"Really?"
Ryan stepped through the muddy ground, approaching Peter.
"We haven't even finished the Walmart shooting case, and now we have to deal with this."
Peter looked at him, surprised. "It's been six years, and you're still investigating that, Officer Ryan?"
"Of course. No matter how long it takes, I'll catch the killer."
He gave Peter one last glance before turning around and putting his hat back on.
Peter squinted as he watched Ryan's retreating figure.
Peter drove his black Toyota SUV, taking his cousin and his family home. Louis sat in the backseat, dazed, as if still reeling from the overwhelming blow. His wife, Vanessa, looked anxious, wanting to say something but hesitating.
"I'm sorry this happened," Peter said, trying to comfort his cousin.
"I'll be fine, Peter. Thank you for driving us home."
Louis forced a smile and thanked him.
He asked, "How's John doing?"
"He's fine. He was already asleep when I left."
"You're a good father, Peter. Azu may not be your biological son, but you've always taken care of him. You've even delayed your own marriage for him."
Louis spoke with admiration.
Although he didn't interact much with Peter, he knew that Peter had adopted a baby boy with no blood relation to him long ago.
"It's fine," Peter responded casually.
Now that Peter possessed immortality, he figured that by the time Azu hit a mid-life crisis, he'd still look like he was in his twenties. Why rush into the "grave" of marriage when he could live for centuries?
After a few more polite exchanges, Peter focused on driving.
Ten minutes later.
Peter dropped off Louis and his wife at their home.
In the living room, Louis poured him a cup of hot coffee.
Peter reassured him, "I'm sure the police will catch the culprit soon."
"Let's hope so."
Louis took a beer from the fridge.
He seemed like he wanted to confide in Peter. "It's my fault. If I'd kept a closer eye on little Terry, maybe he wouldn't have run into the street…"
"Don't say that," Peter picked up his coffee. "It's all in the past now, Louis."
Louis sighed. "Peter, you don't know what he was like when he was six. He was such a sweet, well-behaved boy, always coming up with wild ideas and sharing them with me."
Louis, now slightly tipsy, began sharing a series of heartwarming memories, speaking clearly and emotionally.
Peter listened patiently for a while but eventually started to lose interest.
Just as he was about to say his goodbyes, he noticed drag marks on the lawn outside.
Clang! The sound of a beer can hitting the floor.
Peter turned to see Louis's beer can on the ground, with Louis himself passed out drunk.
Opening the door, Peter stepped outside onto the lawn.
The drizzle continued, and the grass was flattened in one direction, with patches of foul-smelling soil scattered around.
With his superhuman senses, Peter immediately recognized the scent of the foul dirt—it came from the cemetery he had visited earlier.
Could the grave robber be here?
Peter's expression grew more serious.
He took a few steps, following the smell, and re-entered the house.
Louis was still unconscious.
Peter left the living room and, following the faint scent, climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The smell grew stronger in his nose.
It had a hint of freshly cut grass mixed with the scent of decay.
In short, what Peter smelled was the stench of rot and death.
Although faint, it was unmistakable to Peter's heightened senses.
On the second floor, in the master bathroom.
Behind the shower curtain, a dark shadow swayed slightly in the dim light.
Swish!
Peter yanked back the curtain.
But there was no figure behind it—only a canvas tarp.
The tarp was covered in dirt, and the stench was even stronger.
Staring at the tarp, Peter frowned.
This seemed to be the same tarp that had wrapped little Terry when he was buried.
He turned around.
Boom!
A clap of thunder tore through the night, illuminating Peter's emotionless face.
So, the one who dug up the body was Louis himself?
Did he personally exhume his son's corpse?
No!
It couldn't have been him!
The pain and guilt on Louis's face earlier didn't seem fake.
If not him, then it must have been his wife—Vanessa.
But why would she do it?
Peter furrowed his brow.
He left the bathroom and continued to follow the faint scent.
The rain outside intensified, and Peter's footsteps echoed down the hallway.
At the far end of the second floor stood Vanessa, Louis's wife.
She was standing nervously in a storage room, gripping a knife tightly in her hand, listening as Peter's footsteps drew closer.
Behind her, on the floor, lay the corpse of her exhumed son.
Thud-thud, thud-thud!
Her heart pounded as she waited for Peter to arrive, as though awaiting her final judgment.
To keep Peter from discovering her secret, she would have to kill him!
But she had never done such a thing before. Her hand, holding the knife, trembled, and her heart raced uncontrollably.
Click, click, click.
Peter's footsteps came closer and closer until they stopped in front of the door.
Thud-thud, thud-thud!
The two were now face to face, separated by only a door. Vanessa's pounding heartbeat echoed in her ears.
Click!
The broken doorknob to the storage room twisted slightly.
Vanessa's eyes filled with resolve as she raised the knife.
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