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instincts told me he had more information than he was willing to share—information that could be helpful.
    “Why don’t you let me worry about that, Gary,” I said soothingly. “Look, I just want to hear your recollection of events from that night.”
    He looked around again, as if searching for a way out. He didn’t appear to be the type to take off running, but it was clear that the thought had crossed his mind. He began scratching the red hives that had appeared all over his neck. This guy was a walking ball of nerves. I did my best to try to calm him down.
    “Gary, really, there’s no reason for you to be nervous—you’re not in trouble. I’m getting strange stories from these kids about the night of the murder and I just want to see if there’s any basis in fact.” I lowered my voice to what I hoped was an intimate tone. “I was told you had somewhat of a strange experience there, and I need you to tell me about it. Then I promise I’ll get out of your way, okay?”
    He sighed, then suggested we go inside to the employee break room. “I’m due for a break anyway,” he said, “but I need to tell my boss I might need a longer one.”
    He ushered me into a small room that contained a coffeepot, about a dozen chairs, and some pastries. Forcing myself to ignore the Danish, I gratefully reached for a cup of coffee while Gary went off in search of his boss. He was gone only for a few minutes before he returned and shut the door. I took out my tape recorder and explained that I’d be taping our conversation for his own protection. He slowly nodded.
    “Gary, I want you to tell me everything you remember about the night of your accident. I know it was a long time ago, but anything you recall will be helpful.”
    He sighed. “You know, I’ve tried everything known to man to forget that night, Sergeant. I never thought I’d have to relive it. Even though it was a long time ago, I remember everything.” He started playing with a pen that he pulled from his shirt pocket.
    Gary began his story. He’d been a teenager at the time, and that previous July he and a few of his friends had gotten beer from their parents’ refrigerators and gone drinking on Trease Road, a stone’s throw from Mary Jane’s Grave. Trease Road was a dirt road with little to no traffic on it, a prime drinking spot for local teens. I remember visiting it a couple of times myself in high school. The kids were going to a party later on, but it was his friend Jesse Walters who suggested they go down to the grave.
    “Everyone was all for it, except me. I was always chicken when it came to stuff like that. The place gave me the creeps, even in daylight.”
    But Gary finally relented, giving in to his friends’ taunts. After standing at the site for only ten minutes, Jesse suggested they all urinate on the grave.
    “He said, ‘Did ya hear that if you piss on her grave, you’re cursed for life?’ We were all laughing, still drinking, and Jesse walked right over and pissed on it. Cameron and Stevie did, too.”
    “But you didn’t?” I asked. “Why not?”
    “It wasn’t about the curse and all that horse shit. It was just that I’d been raised to respect the dead, and I didn’t feel right about pissing on anyone’s grave.”
    Gary grabbed a coffee, threw in five packets of sugar and took a sip. He continued, explaining how the four of them had stayed a little longer, drinking and telling ghost stories. It was when they got into Jesse’s car to leave that he got spooked.
    “On my way to the car, I passed through an area that was freezing cold—I mean, I could even see my breath, and it was summer! No one else said anything, so I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to sound like an ass.” He started to rub his temples with both hands. “I remember Stevie asking if any of us smelled something burning. None of us did, and at first I thought he was just trying to scare me, but when I saw the look on his face I knew he wasn’t