The dog came to the graveyard every single day.
No leash, no collarjust a determined stride, as if she knew the route by heart. The regulars at St. Michaels Churchyard had grown used to the sight: a sleek Belgian Malinois with perked ears and sharp, knowing eyes.
Once, shed been a police dog, partnered with Officer Clive Thornton. Years of chases, arrests, and endless training drills had bound them together. To her, he wasnt just a handlerhe was her other half, sharing every danger, every exhaustion, every hard-won victory.
A year ago, Clive had passed during a routine operation. The funeral had been solemn, well-attended. Since then, the dog had visited his grave daily, digging a shallow hollow in front of the headstone before curling up, nose pressed to the earth as if catching a fading scent.
People tried to take her awaykindhearted volunteers, well-meaning strangers, even Clives old colleagues. But shed always slip free, returning to her spot by the grave. Some days shed sit quietly; others, shed whimper under her breath.
Most assumed it was griefthat she missed him, longed to reach him somehow. But the awful truth came out when one of Clives former teammates spotted her. He knew this dog. If she was digging, there was a reason.
He watched closely and noticed she wasnt pawing at the headstone but just beside it, near the edge. The next day, he returned with a shovel. The caretaker protested, but the man just said, If Im wrong, Ill fill it back in.
The soil was softer than it shouldve been for an old grave. Within half an hour, the edge of fabric appeared. Unwrapping it, they froze: inside was a mans bodyno coffin, just bound hands, a gag, and ligature marks around his neck.
Police arrived swiftly. The victim, it turned out, had been a witness in one of Clives cases. After his death, someone had used the funeral as cover to hide the body, betting no one would ever think to look.
No one, except the dog. Once again, shed done what shed been trained forunearthing the truth.
