had studied for her doctorate.
Boyd yelled back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make you a deal, Chan. The guy falls out, treat me like your ancestors would.”
“How’s that?”
“Throw me in a pot of boiling water and serve me as soup.”
Chantelle laughed. “You can eat me, too, Boyd.”
Summer envied how easily she got along with men.
Chantelle plucked at her blouse, fanning her chest with the material. “I can’t believe how fucking hot it is, and it’s only dawn.”
“Isn’t West Africa hot?” Summer asked.
“Not this hot,” Chantelle said. “How did you keep the press away?”
“The last thing Raines wants is a media shower. Did you bring breakfast?”
“Like I promised.” Chantelle reached into a paper bag and handed Summer a bagel. “What does this exhumation have to do with the demise of Mr. Gundy?”
Summer unwrapped the bagel, licked the cream cheese oozing out of the side, and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “Everything, nothing. I’ll let you know after you tell me what you find out. For now, I just want to know if the guy in that coffin really is Sean Strickland.”
“You think it’s possible it’s not?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here on my day off.”
Boyd finished wrapping up the coffin and grunted his way out of the pit.
Chantelle edged off the tombstone. “Come on.”
Summer joined Chantelle, their toes brushing the grave’s edge. The other digger cranked up the crane.
“Wait!” Chantelle skimmed the side of her hand against her throat. When the crane stopped, she said, “Boyd? Where’s the tarp? If this coffin breaks apart, I want to make sure that we catch all of whatever is left of the dearly departed.”
Boyd threw up his hands like he was curling dumbbells. He took off for the parking lot.
“While we’re waiting, can I ask you some questions?” Summer asked.
Watching Boyd, Chantelle said, “It’s a free country.”
“If the killer hadn’t smashed Gundy with the bottle, would he have died anyway from the fall?”
“Oh, those kinds of questions. Hard to say. You want my opinion?”
“Is anybody else around here qualified to answer?”
“No one alive.” Chantelle’s expression soured as Boyd returned, dragging a tarp. “Boyd,” she yelled, “what the hell are you doing, man? I’ve got to run tests on the body. I don’t want to chance excess contamination.”
Even from 50 feet away, Summer could hear Boyd sigh. “I’ve been digging graves and digging up bodies for twenty years, missy,” he yelled back. “The guy ain’t coming out of no coffin. It’s pine. Solid.”
“He’d better not,” Chantelle mumbled.
Boyd gathered up the tarp in his arms, made sure no ends trailed on the ground, and continued toward Strickland’s grave.
“Would he have?” Summer asked. “And keep it sub-Ph.D.”
“You don’t want to know all the science, right? Just the stuff that will either help or hurt your client,” Chantelle said, staring down Boyd.
“Of course,” Summer said.
“Typical lawyer.” Chantelle cupped her hands in a makeshift megaphone. “Boyd, already dirt has rolled onto the tarp. We can’t have old dirt mixing with new dirt.”
Boyd muttered, audible but indecipherable. He shook off the tarp and lowered it into the hole; the tarp roll ended up kissing the coffin.
“I’m not sure whether the victim died before being hit on the head or not. But he would have died from the fall no matter what, unless he’d received prompt medical care,” Chantelle said.
Summer nodded. “In the ME report, it says the time of death was between ten and twelve. How do you know?”
“Gundy was stiff from the waist down when he was found. Rigor mortis travels from head to foot and exits the same way.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“The lack level of swelling around his injuries, including several broken bones, indicates he died in perhaps as little as a few seconds, perhaps as much as a ten minutes, after suffering these
Boyd yelled back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make you a deal, Chan. The guy falls out, treat me like your ancestors would.”
“How’s that?”
“Throw me in a pot of boiling water and serve me as soup.”
Chantelle laughed. “You can eat me, too, Boyd.”
Summer envied how easily she got along with men.
Chantelle plucked at her blouse, fanning her chest with the material. “I can’t believe how fucking hot it is, and it’s only dawn.”
“Isn’t West Africa hot?” Summer asked.
“Not this hot,” Chantelle said. “How did you keep the press away?”
“The last thing Raines wants is a media shower. Did you bring breakfast?”
“Like I promised.” Chantelle reached into a paper bag and handed Summer a bagel. “What does this exhumation have to do with the demise of Mr. Gundy?”
Summer unwrapped the bagel, licked the cream cheese oozing out of the side, and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “Everything, nothing. I’ll let you know after you tell me what you find out. For now, I just want to know if the guy in that coffin really is Sean Strickland.”
“You think it’s possible it’s not?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here on my day off.”
Boyd finished wrapping up the coffin and grunted his way out of the pit.
Chantelle edged off the tombstone. “Come on.”
Summer joined Chantelle, their toes brushing the grave’s edge. The other digger cranked up the crane.
“Wait!” Chantelle skimmed the side of her hand against her throat. When the crane stopped, she said, “Boyd? Where’s the tarp? If this coffin breaks apart, I want to make sure that we catch all of whatever is left of the dearly departed.”
Boyd threw up his hands like he was curling dumbbells. He took off for the parking lot.
“While we’re waiting, can I ask you some questions?” Summer asked.
Watching Boyd, Chantelle said, “It’s a free country.”
“If the killer hadn’t smashed Gundy with the bottle, would he have died anyway from the fall?”
“Oh, those kinds of questions. Hard to say. You want my opinion?”
“Is anybody else around here qualified to answer?”
“No one alive.” Chantelle’s expression soured as Boyd returned, dragging a tarp. “Boyd,” she yelled, “what the hell are you doing, man? I’ve got to run tests on the body. I don’t want to chance excess contamination.”
Even from 50 feet away, Summer could hear Boyd sigh. “I’ve been digging graves and digging up bodies for twenty years, missy,” he yelled back. “The guy ain’t coming out of no coffin. It’s pine. Solid.”
“He’d better not,” Chantelle mumbled.
Boyd gathered up the tarp in his arms, made sure no ends trailed on the ground, and continued toward Strickland’s grave.
“Would he have?” Summer asked. “And keep it sub-Ph.D.”
“You don’t want to know all the science, right? Just the stuff that will either help or hurt your client,” Chantelle said, staring down Boyd.
“Of course,” Summer said.
“Typical lawyer.” Chantelle cupped her hands in a makeshift megaphone. “Boyd, already dirt has rolled onto the tarp. We can’t have old dirt mixing with new dirt.”
Boyd muttered, audible but indecipherable. He shook off the tarp and lowered it into the hole; the tarp roll ended up kissing the coffin.
“I’m not sure whether the victim died before being hit on the head or not. But he would have died from the fall no matter what, unless he’d received prompt medical care,” Chantelle said.
Summer nodded. “In the ME report, it says the time of death was between ten and twelve. How do you know?”
“Gundy was stiff from the waist down when he was found. Rigor mortis travels from head to foot and exits the same way.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“The lack level of swelling around his injuries, including several broken bones, indicates he died in perhaps as little as a few seconds, perhaps as much as a ten minutes, after suffering these
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