The Exhumation Read online

  The Exhumation

  By David Hatton

  © 2020

  Edited by Julia Gibbs

  Front Cover by Ivan Zanchetta

  Also by David Hatton

  The Return (2018)

  The Medium (2019)

  The Catfish (2020)

  Available on Amazon

  For those who continue to fight today for equality

  “Character is like a tree and reputation is like a shadow.

  The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.”

  - Abraham Lincoln (1842)

  Disclaimer

  The theories in this book are simply that… theories. They’ve been well researched and well documented for years, therefore this is in no way an ‘exposé of Lincoln’; certainly no more than Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code claims to harbour the secrets of Jesus Christ’s descendants.

  The author has tried to keep as close to the Lincoln story as possible, with some elements dramatized. This book is a work of fiction and shouldn’t be used for anything other than entertainment.

  If you’d like to read more about Lincoln’s life and the theories explored in the novel, you can read any of the following texts which were studied as part of the research for the story:

  Lincoln Unmasked by Thomas Dilorenzo (2006), Three Rivers Press

  Emancipating Slaves, Enslaving Free Men by Jeffrey Hummel (1996), Open Court Publishing

  Abraham Lincoln: His Dark Side Exposed by Jack White (2015), Lulu

  The attractions described in this book are very real and are well worth a visit, however don’t expect to find every artefact described in this book there… you might be a tad disappointed.

  Equally, this book covers a very different time to one we live in now, and attitudes have changed, therefore you may find some language which may not be appropriate today but falls under the context of the periods explored.

  Enjoy…

  Prologue

  7th November 1876 – Oak Ridge Cemetery, Springfield Illinois

  The screeching of a file cutting through a steel chain broke a silence, which was deadly as the inhabitants beneath. Four gangsters huddled together; despite their nefarious backgrounds, they were lacking in experience when it came to lock picking, but they hadn’t considered this potential barrier whilst plotting the most controversial heist in American history.

  Despite their desultory appearance, they had formed a detailed plan in the Hub Saloon in Chicago with an air of effervescence. The saloon served only its regulars, who pulled up a stool at the mahogany bar if they wanted a chin-wag with the bartender, or hid away in a dusty dark corner with a tired, dehydrated dog for company. It was the perfect place to conceive the extraordinary scheme, congregating around a barrel, lit by shimmering candlelight. The swinging of the saloon doors alerted them to any eavesdroppers, offering them enough time to hide away the map of Oak Ridge Cemetery.

  Neither of them managed to drift off on the supposed sleeper train to the state capital of Springfield. A mixture of fear of getting caught, as well as the excitement of a lucrative reward for the scheme, ricocheted round their minds like a disobedient ball at an amateur tennis match. This had never even been attempted before, never mind achieved, and their anxiety levels were at an overwhelming scale.

  ‘I thought you said he was a professional?’ Terrence Mullen asked his dodgy friend. His question was directed to his partner-in-crime, Jack Hughes, over the hiring of their new recruit. Mullen’s thick black hair was slicked back and a bushy moustache cuddled his top lip. Despite the sodden surroundings, he was dressed formally, as he always was, in a grey suit, white shirt and black bowtie. The bottom of his trousers were drenched in mud as he trekked across the marshy path.

  ‘If anyone asks, I’m grieving,’ he said as he picked out his attire for the heist. Grief doesn’t have a schedule, he considered as he tackled the predicted questions regarding his late night trip to a cemetery.

  Hughes had arrived slightly more prepared in big black boots and a long black overcoat. He had short black hair and what looked like a badger hanging from his chin, which even the most resilient of beard combs would have struggled to contain.

  They’d hired Lewis Swegles as his résumé offered a more diverse range of skills required for this unfamiliar scheme. Swegles had picked them up from their retrospective houses in his vehicle, driven by their getaway driver, Billy Brown. Throughout their plotting, they’d been impressed by Swegles until he suddenly became stuck with something as simple as picking a lock; a chore which would have been menial in most criminal circles.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you try and find an expert in exhumations?’ Jack replied with a look of dismay. ‘Believe it or not, there isn’t much call for this type of work in this town.’

  ‘What’s his background anyway?’ Mullen whispered.

  ‘He used to be an undertaker, apparently,’ Hughes replied with a sceptical stare.

  ‘Then he’s used to putting bodies in the ground, not pulling them out.’ He spat on the floor and exhaled. ‘We can’t screw this up. You know that Big Jim will kill us if he doesn’t receive his goods.’

  James Kennelly, otherwise known as Big Jim, was an Irish crime leader, whose business was usually restricted to counterfeiting. The goods in question were worth a ransom of $200,000. They could also be exchanged for the freedom of his partner in crime, Benjamin Boyd, who was locked away in an Illinois State Penitentiary jail cell. It was a very lucrative bargaining chip and they certainly weren’t leaving the cemetery empty handed.

  Entering the graveyard itself was far from a challenge; it was open twenty-four hours a day to the public. On any given Monday evening, they would have swanned in undetected as the graveyard was unmanned overnight and all natural light had put the headstones into complete darkness with just the odd wanderer nipping in to pay their respects.

  But this was no ordinary Monday.

  They’d selected the date purposely, offering them extra security that they’d get their goods without issue. The eyes of the country were firmly locked on the presidential election. Republican Rutherford Hayes, was in a political battle with his rival, Democrat Samuel Tiden, for three states: Florida, Louisiana and South Carolina. Both candidates claimed to have won the vote and the nation prepared for an independent adjudicator to determine the outcome of the dispute. Any usual strays who wandered the land in the dead of night had disappeared to the town centres, desperate to hear the outcome of the election from their town criers.

  Once they’d prised open the entrance to the crypt, they walked deep down beneath the headstone into a tunnel. Only the glow from their candles allowed them to navigate their way into the tomb, which sat beneath a large obelisk with a statue of its inhabitant above.

  They glanced over the details of the stone to ensure that the individual beneath was who they presumed it was, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy their boss. With high profile deceased men, it was not uncommon for their gravestone to be a ploy, while their bones were hidden in a secure location elsewhere; in these circumstances, what remained behind was simply a cenotaph. Big Jim had demanded that they personally check the credentials of this particular gravestone.

  They opened the sarcophagus. The stench of rotting meat radiated from the casket, throwing its retching intruders away from the open coffin. Despite the decomposition of his midriff, the identity of the body remained recognisable from his famous beard, facial mole and his greying hair, which was remarkably preserved. His face had little erosion and only a small bronze bruise from a bullet wound scarred his ascertainable characteristics.

  ‘That’s definitely him,’ said Mullen, wrapping a scarf around his airways to conceal the smell.

  ‘That’s him alright,’ Hughes re
plied triumphantly. ‘President Abraham Lincoln.’

  *

  It had been nearly two years since the president had been laid to rest and during that time he’d been left undisturbed. The four fugitives were now breaking the peace which the nation’s hero rightly deserved; he’d unshackled the slaves after all. In 1865, following his assassination at Ford’s Theatre, the body was transported by rail from Washington DC to its final resting place in the Illinois capital, which he had once called home. During his time in Springfield he worked as a lawyer, had taken office as State Senator, and began his campaign for the presidency. Now Abraham Lincoln was leaving town once again.

  ‘Where are we taking him again?’ Hughes asked as he gawped over the famous corpse.

  ‘To some sand dunes in Northern Indiana.’

  The villains replaced the lid over the corpse and prepared to shift the coffin that Lincoln lay within. They took a corner each, and after a count to three, they pulled the casket off the ground.

  But the coffin would not shift.

  The cedar case inhabiting the president was lined with lead and was too hefty for the weedy gentlemen; a heavyweight champion would have struggled to carry it out of the graveyard.

  ‘Billy,’ Mullen called between breaths towards their getaway driver. ‘Go and get the wagon.’

  Billy turned towards Swegles, who shot him an encouraging nod. He ran up the stone steps, leaving the others to circle the tomb and contemplate their options.

  ‘I don’t want to wait around too long. It ain’t good to hang around a crime scene. We’re gonna have to shift the body. Come on, place it in that sack we brought.’

  ‘But, sir, it stinks!’ Hughes protested.

  ‘I don’t give a shit. We’re never gonna shift this casket. We’re gonna have to take him out and carry him. You only have to climb up a few steps until we can get it into Billy’s car. Big Jim needs his goods and I sure as hell am gonna deliver on my word. I don’t care if we have to chop him up and you have to carry his head out on a pitchfork, you’re carrying this body, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Sir, I also don’t feel too good about this. Lincoln freed the slaves. Can you imagine the uproar when everyone discovers his body has gone?’

  ‘If you’re having second thoughts by all means leave, but I don’t think Big Jim will be too pleased though.’

  Hughes gulped and took a seat on a nearby rock. Nobody wanted to get on the wrong side of Big Jim. His enemies had a habit of disappearing.

  ‘Where’s Billy with the car?’ Mullen asked, glancing at his wristwatch. He’d been gone almost twenty minutes. ‘Jesus, it’s getting warm in here, can you see anything, Hughes?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Hughes replied, raising his head around the spiral staircase, but the only activity he could detect was rain. ‘He could just be up there waiting for us.’

  ‘Well come on, let’s go and see what’s happening. If I stay down here much longer, they’ll have to add my name to his gravestone.’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick if I have to spend any more time with this body. Are we bringing it up with us?’

  ‘No, leave it for now. Let’s go and see what’s going on. We’ll need Billy’s help anyway.’

  They walked up the steps and reached the vestibule. At the entrance, fifteen men aimed their slingshot rifles in their direction. They were dressed in navy uniforms and cream hats with a large brim across the front.

  They’d been rumbled.

  ‘Shit,’ Mullen whispered under his breath.

  ‘This is the police, put your hands in the air!’

  Mullen and Hughes obliged. To their surprise, Swegles nonchalantly ignored the request and made his way to the officer.

  ‘Job done, Captain Tyrrell.’ Swegles shook his hand with an air of haughtiness, before walking to the back and joining his friend, Billy Brown, who hid behind a law-enforcement vehicle. The captain’s brown quiff blew in the light November breeze. He had a smooth face, large nose and piercing eyes, which would break any suspect who dared to hold back.

  ‘Those bastards!’ Hughes grumbled, having failed to see through the artifice. ‘We’ve been set up!’

  A gunshot diverted their attention. The startled police force turned around and found one of their fellow men cowering behind his gun. All colour had drained from his face.

  ‘Sorry, sir, that was an accident.’

  ‘Well never mind, no one was harmed,’ Tyrrell replied, shaking his head, before turning towards the fugitives.

  Except they weren’t there.

  ‘What the hell? Where have they gone?’

  The squelching of mud and the scurrying of boots directed them to the getaway car, a Ware Steam Wagon, which was green in body and carried by yellow wheels. Mullen and Hughes stepped inside and started up the engine and drove out of sight.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there! Go after them!’ Tyrell shouted at his gormless team.

  The officers ran to their vehicle and began to follow the wagon.

  ‘I can’t believe we lost them. We were so close,’ Swegles said, offering his boss a smoke.

  ‘Well at least we’ve got one thing,’ Tyrrell replied, lighting up his cigarette. ‘We’ve got Lincoln’s body, safe and sound in his tomb.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ said Billy, a satisfied smile forming across his face. ‘And we can ensure that this never ever happens again.’

  Chapter 1

  7th November 2012 – Prospect Avenue, Champaign, Illinois

  The hairs on the back of Detective Darnell Jackson’s neck stood to attention. It didn’t matter how many times he’d led investigations into Illinois’s most dangerous gangs, when it came to a raid on a property, the adrenaline was as vigorous as it was on his first jaunt in the force.

  The fact is that nobody knew what hid behind that door. Although they came prepared with enough ammunition for most eventualities, the people inhabiting these houses often played dirty. These were drug dealers after all; their sense of fair play was a little under-established.

  Jackson had seen first-hand just how wrong this routine could go. He’d lost more than he’d ever bargained for when a drug lord ensured at all costs that he would not face the wrath of the American justice system. Darnell had only been back in work a few months since the last raid had nearly killed him and he still had the scars as a reminder.

  2011 had been a relatively good year for Darnell. Decorated for Outstanding Contribution to the Illinois Police Department, he was invited to dinner with the State Senator, John Cullerton, and fellow servicemen who had also been recognised for their contributions to their country. Darnell himself made headlines not only in the local newspaper, but in national press as the hero who had prevented a planned assassination on the President of the United States, who was in town visiting his former constituents, where he was once State Senator before he took on the White House.

  Darnell had been employed by the force for thirty years. He could’ve retired ten years before with a fifty percent pension plan but he was ambitious. As a man of African descent, he’d faced severe racial discrimination during his early years in the force and he wanted to rise through the ranks to change behaviours. And whilst the culture had changed, his progression had been watered down by his white colleagues who made the patronising assumption that his success was down to affirmative action, rather than the blood, sweat and tears which he’d offered to the service.

  But after his heroic performance saving the president, he finally received the recognition he deserved. And added to that his beautiful wife, two fantastic kids, a big detached suburban home and two M-Class Mercedes Benz, life for the most-part was good.

  His good fortune didn’t last long though. In July of the same year, he was preparing for a similar raid which he was now embarking upon. He stood back from the scene in his unmarked police car, a silver Ford hatchback. The officers stood outside the door of the dilapidated wooden blue bungalow, armed and ready for battle.

  Wi
thin the SWAT team was Darnell’s own nephew, Bartholomew, ready to break down the door of Champaign’s largest supplier of heroin. Chuck Cunningham was famous for his ‘Try Before You Buy’ schemes, hooking young people into his product, before forcing those who could not pay for their habit into prostitution or face losing limbs.

  Bartholomew had followed his uncle’s footsteps into the force, looking up to the man who was his hero as a youngster. It wasn’t easy to fill the shoes of the man who had saved the President’s life, but he’d since built up his own reputation. He was a young, muscly nineteen-year-old who made all the girls blush as he passed in his patrol car. Darnell looked at him with envy; he once had those dashing looks. But now his hair was growing thin and his waist was forever expanding. He’d grown out of the blue uniform, which his subordinates were expected to wear, and was now privileged to wear his own brown tweed jacket, beige waistcoat, stripy cream shirt and burgundy tie.

  The go-ahead was given to enter and Bartholomew led the way, smashing down the door. An explosion threw Bartholomew and his colleagues back onto the lawn. Darnell rushed to his nephew’s side and pushed down on the wound to prevent his blood pouring out of his abdomen. Bartholomew looked pleadingly into his uncle’s eyes as he took his last breaths, before tilting his head away.

  In a moment of madness, Darnell ignored all protocol. He barged through the door and searched the house, pulling out his pistol for cover. Inside the walls were bare, there was no furniture and the floors had been stripped to boards and covered in dust. The detective ran down a staircase and into the basement; it was dark and he felt around for a light.