“How about if we pick up the lock from the floor and stow it in the paper evidence bag. Just perhaps there is a crime scene involved and maybe the lock has a fingerprint. And as luck would have it, I just happen to have a few bags in my pocket.” Decker handed him a small paper bag. “Or would you prefer that I pick it up, boss?”

McAdams swore, but he bent down and picked it up with his gloved hand.

Decker said, “Place it in the bag. Then you write your name, the date, the time, and the location.”

McAdams did as he was told then gave the bag back to Decker. “Only because your wife fed me.”

“And fed you well.” Decker took out a flashlight and a magnifying glass. He peered through the lens and studied the door. “No pry marks.” He pushed the door open and swept the beam across the crypt. There were a number of horizontal marble headstones in the ground, but no bodies that weren’t six feet under. Decker counted the marble tombstones. At current, the crypt was hosting ten graves with room for more. Decker handed McAdams an extra flashlight. “In case you didn’t bring one. Keep it.” He turned to Pellman. “Could I borrow your light? It’s stronger than mine.”

“You betcha.” The watchman handed him his battery pack.

“Thanks.” Decker crossed over the threshold and stepped inside. The temperature wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be. Thick walls kept out the sunlight and heat but they also kept out the extreme cold. Decker swept the beam around to get the lay of the land.

The space was as big as his current living room, around two hundred square feet, and beautifully adorned. There was carved molding on the ceiling, and jeweled stripes of iridescent colored glass tiles were inset into the walls. Each gravestone was marked by the inhabitant inside—name, beloved husband/wife father/mother, grandfather/grandmother/date of birth/date of death. Nothing unusual except that the headstones of the matriarch and the patriarch were inset with tile work—two different pastoral scenes elegantly laid out in tiny pieces of glass mosaic. He squatted down to study the artwork. McAdams kneeled next to him. Decker whispered, “Doesn’t matter now, but for the record, don’t kneel. It might mess up something. You want as little contact with the ground as possible.”

McAdams squatted. “Not only am I a solid chunk of ice, I’m gonna be sore.”

Decker ignored him. “Nice tile work, no?”

“It’s okay . . . actually more than okay. It’s done well.”