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
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
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