Black Joint Point

13

‘All right, here’s the skinny on your bones.’ Dr Parker sat across from David and Whit in a borrowed office at the morgue, where the forensic anthropology team had set up temporary shop. ‘When I’m looking at bones I can only tell you so much. I don’t have a way, from visual inspection, to tell you this man died in 1800 or 1900 or what have you unless maybe it was in the past three years. And these boys been dead way longer than three years. You want more specific, you call UT and get in the long line for carbon-14 dating, but that’s real expensive and you don’t need it.’

He cleared his throat, moved aside a stack of photos from the dig. ‘You got three skeletons at the site. Three skulls, three partial rib cages, six tibia, and an odd number of finger bones and teeth. All died of bullet wounds. Sam got shot between the eyes, Tom and Uriah got shot in the back of the head. The fracture patterns…’

‘You name them?’ David asked.

‘Sure, I name ’em,’ Parker said. ‘Helps me to remember they were once breathing people, happy, sad, hauling all the same baggage we carry around right now. Rotate through the alphabet like hurricanes. Up to S now. Let’s see.’ He shuffled papers. ‘Now I can look at the skeletal remains and tell quite a bit. But because the disarticulation was so severe, we’re making some guesses here. Sam was male, five six, European ancestry, about twenty-two at his death, right-handed. Tom was male, five five, European ancestry, about twenty-eight at his death, left-handed. Uriah was male, five eight, European ancestry, about thirty at his death, right-handed. I could be off, in that we might have matched the wrong long bones to the wrong skulls. But, hell, you got to start somewhere.’

‘So they weren’t Karankawas or Comanches,’ Whit said. His own voice sounded too quiet, still processing what David had told him about Lucy.

‘No.’ Parker opened another file. ‘Now, these other relics: the nails, iron latches, and locks. I sent those to my friend Iris Dominguez over at A amp;M-Corpus. She has books to help identify historical implements. Lots of latches were distinctive, being handmade back then, used to mark the work of a craftsman. Dr Dominguez says two of the latches come from a Spanish furniture-builder, Olivarez in Barcelona, active from 1770 until the late 1820s. The latches date from a design made around 1818. Another latch comes from a New Orleans furniture-making concern, LaBorde, active from 1800 until the American Civil War. The nails and the locks don’t offer so much, less room for distinction.’

‘This Olivarez and LaBorde, they made coffins?’ Whit said.

‘Not to our knowledge. They made chests, containers, furniture.’

Chests, Whit thought.

‘So some point after 1818 is a reasonable guess? If our three boys have been dead so long, no one should have known about them being there,’ David said.

‘Maybe not. We even found a smaller bone chip in the grass near the surface. The bones therefore have to have been dug up first, then dumped back into the hole, covered some, then your murder victims were dumped on top. It really is strange.’

‘What if… Sam and Tom and Uriah had been buried with something else?’ Whit said slowly. The latches. The locks, he thought.

Dr Parker was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You said these latches and locks could have come from chests. What do buried chests suggest to you?’

David gave a short little laugh. ‘What, buried treasure? That’s ridiculous.’

‘Dr Parker?’ Whit asked. ‘Is it?’

Parker gave a thin smile under his Yankees cap. ‘I don’t know if there’s a historical basis for it. I’m an anthropologist, not an archaeologist.’

‘Your Honor,’ David said, with great patience in his tone. ‘Don’t go off on a wild-goose-’

‘I’m just saying. How do you explain these relics? David, you grew up on the coast, too. You’ve heard the legends. Sunken treasures off the coasts from Spanish ships caught in storms. Or Jean Laffite. He pirated in the Gulf. Patch used to tell stories about him and buried treasure. That crazy old hermit, Black Jack, that lived out on the Point and claimed to be one of Laffite’s men.’ He thought then of the book Patch had borrowed from the library: Jean Laffite, Pirate King.

‘But they’re just stories,’ David said. ‘Nothing more. Maybe these guys got buried with their belongings. That seems far more reasonable to me.’

‘They weren’t pharaohs,’ Whit said. ‘If they were killed and robbed, the robbers would have taken the chests with them.’

David rubbed his face. ‘These men could have been buried in the chests themselves. We didn’t find anything that suggested buried treasure at the site. I mean, honestly, do you hear yourself?’

‘I’ll send you a complete report when I’m done,’ Dr Parker said. He seemed eager to be away from this argument. ‘What do you want done with the boys when I’m finished?’

‘The county will bury them properly,’ Whit said. ‘You can send them all back to my office.’

David stood, shook hands with Parker. Parker clapped a hand on Whit’s shoulder.

‘Buried treasure,’ Parker said. ‘Wouldn’t that be something?’

‘Wouldn’t it, though?’ Whit said.

‘I’ve got your autopsies.’ Dr Elizabeth Contreras gestured them to seats across from her metal-topped desk. She looked tired as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

‘Thanks for the fast turnaround,’ Whit said.

‘Their times of death were between midnight and four a.m. on Tuesday morning. Mr Gilbert’s wound patterns are consistent with your typical garden-use shovel.’

‘I thought as much,’ David said.

‘His nose, both cheekbones, and his jaw had multiple breaks, his collarbone and skull badly fractured. He would have died quickly. There are a number of postmortem injuries to the body, including four broken ribs and a hard, shovel-point blow to the forehead. The killer kept whaling on him after he was dead.’

‘Did he suffer?’ Whit asked.

‘I think not. Did you know him?’

‘Yes. He was a family friend. A good one.’

‘I’m so sorry, Judge.’

‘Thanks. Anything else of note with Mr Gilbert?’

‘No – just that it was a very brutal attack. Mrs Tran was shot to death, a 45-caliber. I think they shot her because the shovel broke, so she probably died after Mr Gilbert. She has defensive wounds on her hands and arms. Splinters from the handle. DPS can probably identify the handle manufacturer from the wood traces, the resins.’ She cleared her throat. ‘DPS also did fingernail swipes on them both – you may bear fruit with Mrs Tran. More likely that she scratched or grabbed at the killers during the assault.’

‘Killers? Plural?’

Liz Contreras steepled her fingers. ‘It just seems more likely. Let’s say Gilbert gets attacked first and it’s a surprise. Whoever killed him either didn’t have the gun or didn’t have time to draw before deciding to attack Mr Gilbert. Mrs Tran’s got bruising on her upper arms. Maybe one attacker held her while another attacker killed Mr Gilbert. Then, with the shovel broken and their composure regained, they shot her.’

‘So they were digging, one might assume’ – Whit gave David a stare – ‘and Patch and Thuy surprised them?’

‘Maybe the killers were camping?’ Liz said. ‘Camping illegally. Campers sometimes carry shovels.’

‘No signs of a campsite, but there were heavy truck tracks,’ Whit said. ‘So let’s say there’s noise from the truck, and they don’t hear Patch and Thuy approach until it’s too late. The two of them were supposed to be over in Port Aransas.’

‘But they weren’t. So maybe the killers knew their plans, expected them to be gone,’ Liz said.

Knew their plans. So who knew about them going to Port Aransas? Hell, Patch might have told any of a thousand people in town what his plans were. Not a shy man. Or maybe not. Assume not. So Whit knew. Lucy. Suzanne and therefore Roy. Thuy’s family. ‘If you’re right, the killers wouldn’t have been worried about making noise.’

‘Noise?’ Liz said. ‘I mean, you’re saying noise above and beyond a regular truck, right?’

‘Maybe the truck was doing more than revving its engines. Maybe it was loading something,’ Whit said.

‘Loading what? Out in the middle of nowhere?’ Liz asked.

‘Judge,’ David said.

Liz glanced at the two of them, gauging the tension. Whit stayed quiet. ‘I won’t ask. You’ve got my report. The families can have the bodies back tomorrow.’

They walked into the parking lot, got into David’s police cruiser. David started the engine but didn’t shift into drive. ‘The treasure idea. It’s interesting, but until I see something more it’s not relevant.’

‘You can’t ignore those relics.’

‘I’m more interested in modern-day motives.’

‘The killers had shovels and trucks, David. Do you think they were digging for oil?’

‘I’m not jumping to a whacked-out conclusion, Judge. The skeletons could be old Gilbert family members. That seems far more likely than buried treasure in my mind. Surely you see that.’ David eased out into Corpus Christi traffic, headed for the Harbor Bridge. ‘I mean, I understand this treasure idea’s interesting to you because it takes Lucy out of the equation. She’s got the prime motive for the murder. She benefits the most.’ He clicked his tongue against his teeth.

‘Lucy had nothing to do with this. She didn’t even know about the will.’

‘You one hundred percent sure she didn’t?’

‘I am.’

‘Certainty’s a nice thing. You don’t see it often. You want to grab dinner?’ The unexpected olive branch made Whit suspicious.

‘Why?’

‘Christ, that’s nice. We work together. I’m making an effort here.’

‘Make the effort by not accusing Lucy.’

‘We’ll talk about it. You eat barbecue?’

There was a nasty calculation, Whit thought, in the smile, and he wanted to know what was behind it. ‘Sure I do. Let’s go.’