My name is Roddy Post. If anyone ever asks, what was the strangest thing that ever happened

to me in the relatively uneventful decade I spent as a private investigator? I have an

easy answer. Year after year of tediously gathering evidence for court cases, looking

for missing people, conducting surveillance on unfaithful spouses, and then came August

4th, 2017. This small pale woman of about 40, named Angela MacRail, walked into my office.

She sat down and she asked me almost first thing if I was permitted to carry a weapon. She

wasn't quite sure who to turn to for what she needed and she was afraid that if she asked

the wrong person, she would get into very deep trouble. She folded her hands calmly on

the lap of her suit, very expensive looking business suit, and she looked at me intently

with these cold green eyes. The name MacRail gave me an association right off the bat. It

was true. This Angela was the estranged daughter of Wilhoid MacRail. It was grieving grandfather

back in 1917. It took a $3,000 settlement in the maritime negligence lawsuit against the

white star line, the company that operated the Titanic, and started a gourmet chocolate

business that eventually grew into a multi-million dollar operation. I'd write about Wilhoid's

death in the paper the night before. Age 71 no cause of death given.

I want to pay you three times your normal fee to do one simple thing for me with no questions

asked. That's what his daughter said to me that morning in August. After my father's

funeral, I want you to stay the night outside his crypt and make sure he doesn't come out

of it. If he does, I want you to shoot him and confirm to me that you did. I am not prepared

to answer any questions about my reasons for this request, not a single one.

Now, 11 years in the business had taught me to expect bizarre cases. So you shouldn't

be surprised that I agreed immediately to Ms. MacRail's terms. About once every three

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