The Bones She Buried

Fifty-Three

By seven the next morning, Josie, Noah, Gretchen, Chitwood, Mettner and Hummel were all assembled outside of Noah’s childhood home. It was only a few blocks away from Denton’s city park—a two-story Cape Cod with gray siding and bright blue trim. It was larger than the home Colette had been living in at the time of her death, but Noah had told Josie that after her husband left, she had had to downsize.

While the rest of them stood on the sidewalk, Noah sat in the passenger’s seat of Josie’s vehicle, his cast dangling out the open door. “You sure about this?” he asked Josie.

She wasn’t, but it was worth a shot. They could bring in Ivan and Zachary Sutton and question them relentlessly, but without some actual evidence or knowledge of what it was that Colette was hiding, they were likely to get nowhere. Both men could ask for attorneys and without being able to tie them to any crimes, they’d be out of reach permanently. While they had a little bit of leverage on Ivan Ulrich since Earl Butler could identify him, Josie didn’t think it was enough for Ivan to give them a full confession accounting of all his crimes.

“Yes,” Josie said. “I’m sure.”

Chitwood squinted against the morning sun as he turned to look at her. “You sure it’s not at the other house? She was digging at the other house.”

“No,” Josie said firmly. “It’s here. Laura said she’d been burying rosaries since they were kids. Whatever Colette found, she found when her children were young. This is where they were living. What better way to keep it out of the wrong person’s hands than to leave it buried here when she moved?”

“Then why was she digging when she died?” Noah asked.

Josie grimaced. “I think she may have been confused, because of the dementia.”

Chitwood sighed. “You better be right about this, Quinn. I’m about to knock on this family’s door and ask to dig up their backyard, and we don’t even know what the hell we’re looking for. By the way, I’m going to call on Laura Fraley-Hall, you and Gretchen are picking up Ivan Ulrich, and Mettner and Hummel are going to round up Zachary Sutton before they serve the warrant. I don’t really have the manpower for this nonsense.”

As if on cue, an old Toyota Camry rolled down the street, stopping behind Josie’s vehicle. “Don’t worry,” Josie said as Sergeant Dan Lamay stepped out. To Lamay she called, “Did you bring it?”

“Sure did, boss.” Lamay limped along on his bad knee to the trunk which he popped open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a metal detector.

Gretchen gave Josie a smile of admiration. Chitwood said, “What if she didn’t hide this thing—whatever the hell it is—in something metal? You ever think of that, Quinn?”

“Sir,” Josie answered. “If she didn’t then we’ll have to dig up the whole yard, but if she did bury it in something metal, and Lamay can locate it, then we only have to dig up one spot.”

Chitwood shook his head but ambled up the walkway. “Let’s hope they let us do this,” he mumbled. “Cause I don’t think I can get a warrant for something this goddamn vague.”

In the fifteen minutes that Bob Chitwood was inside the house, Josie had a barrage of second thoughts about sending him in to ask the homeowner to let them dig in their yard. Chitwood was the least personable of them all. He even chafed easygoing Noah. But he emerged with a grin on his face, waving to Lamay and telling him to “hurry the hell up.” To the rest of them, he said, “Get your asses moving. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.”