Free Mary Jane's Grave by Stacy Dittrich

was technically no one we could hold accountable at this point.
    To take my mind off my personal problems, I sat down cross- legged on my office floor to look at the photographs I had taken by the edge of the woods, along with the photographs from the crime scene.
    Coop walked in, clearly feeling chatty. “And a good day to you, babe. Want to hear about how I keep busy?”
    Resenting his easy familiarity, I shot back, “Forget the babe bit. What’s up?”
    He flushed briefly, then decided to ignore my rebuke. “I drove all over the county yesterday and didn’t see Anything that resembled your description of that car,” he announced, sitting down in my one shabby chair. “I also listened to some of the messages the local kooks left on your phone.”
    I looked at him curiously. “I thought you had those two drug murders to work.”
    “Not much to work. We know who did it, and the warrants have been issued. I’m sure Detroit or Chicago PD will find them by the end of the month. The other detectives are working on the Harker Street shootings so I’m all yours, babe.” He smiled.
    I looked back at the photographs and began to check out the names on the tombstones. Coop had grabbed the case file off my desk and was flipping through it, but my attention stayed on the tombstones. Then I saw something I hadn’t seen before. I turned to Coop, who had put the file down and was stretching out his legs.
    “From the way it looks, we’re at a dead end. Doesn’t look like we have any more leads right now,” he said with a yawn, clearly bored and looking for more excitement.
    I held up one of the photographs. “Think again, Coop. I’ve got a lead right here. We’re going to look into the history of Mary Jane’s Grave.”
    “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Coop protested. “How is looking into the history a lead? Hasn’t every historian in the county researched Mary Jane’s Grave?”
    “Not like we’re going to do it.” I handed him the photograph. “Look at the new tombstone that the county put up. It lists the names of everyone buried in the cemetery.”
    “So?”
    “They’re all related, Coop.” I needed him to understand where I was going with this. “It’s mainly the Secrist and Berry families, and Mary Jane Hendrickson’s name is second to last. I know that Mary Jane’s real grave was the last one in the cemetery, but for some reason the county listed Ann Maria Baughman last.”
    “What does any of that have to do with the murder?” He still didn’t get it. I groaned inwardly; patience was never my strong suit.
    “Look, Coop,” I said, “this recent murder was a very personal one. It required a lot of forethought. All I’m saying is we should be able to rule everything out, and we can’t do that without a thorough investigation. I’m wondering how the Mary Jane legend got started in the first place.”
    “Don’t know,” Coop answered. “I know it was before my parents’ time—they went to see the grave when they were teenagers.”
    “Mine did, too.” I paused. “I heard she was actually an herbalist, and that was where the story came from. People back in the eighteen hundreds mistook herbalism for witchcraft.”
    “What the hell is an herbalist? I mean, I’ve heard the term and all, so I know it has to do with herbs…”
    “Yes, that’s exactly what it means, Coop.” I snorted. “It’s a person who uses plants, herbs and other homegrown stuff to treat ailments.”
    “Like that euthanasia stuff you take when you have a cold?”
    I laughed hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. “It’s echinacea, dummy, and yes.” Actually, it felt like a relief to laugh—at least Coop was good for something.
    I wiped my eyes. “Say, for example, you lived back in 1898 and got a sunburn. If you went to an herbalist, she’d give you part of an aloe plant to rub on the burn. Even today we use the plant’s sap to heal burns. It’s certainly not witchcraft.”
    “I think you’re wasting