My father did not bury bodies for the mob. It only looked that way, every spring and summer, based on the contents of the trunk of his sedan.
The only DNA a forensics team would recover, though, would be from dad's sweat, blood and popped blisters.
These tools were not of his accounting trade. They were the ones that helped keep me and my teammates playing on the poorly draining baseball infields of my youth.
I don't carry these implements today, even though the minivan I drive could house half a Home Depot. This is because we have a storage shed full of tools and more at our Little League field. My fellow baseball parents and I used them often all this usually cold then usually rainy then usually hot season.