Before I close my computer, I click on the zip folder and take one last look at Craig’s fractured thigh. “The femur,” I say aloud, “is a big bone, the largest human bone.” I realize I’m not actually speaking to anyone. However, talking aloud helps me think. “Accident. Sure, Sheriff Manes. Craig Gilbert’s cause of death was an accident. He didn’t trip and break the strongest bone in his body, unless it was compromised.”
Then, I do what I do, playing devil’s advocate, searching for all plausible possibilities.
There’s the real possibility that most to all of the injuries occurred postmortem.
It’s then I notice an attached PDF, I hadn’t seen earlier. My concentration has been on the pictures. Taking another sip of my wine, I click on the PDF. As is common, the title is redacted, obscuring Craig’s name. The date is present.
Not all medical examiners include written data. I almost missed this. As I begin reading, I find my answer to the question I posed to Austin: one hundred percent identity match with dental records.
Reading further, I conclude that the examiner’s findings correspond to my observations. The data is just that, observations and clinical findings. It’s not meant to conclude, only to inform.
Lacerations, contusions, abrasions, and fractured bones. Vertebrae C-6 and L-12 were crushed. The rest of the report discusses observations during the autopsy,what isn’t visible from the pictures. Bite marks consistent with a small carnivore and birds were located on the intestine. Maggot infiltration within the exposed cavities.
I read the next paragraph twice, taken aback by what I see.
Cerebral hypoxia.
Pulmonary edema—alveolar spaces fluid-filled.
Metabolic acidosis.
Flipping open my notebook, I write the findings in my notes. As I do, I’m hit with a revelation. Going to the bedroom, I gather my work notes, the ones Liam and I worked on a few days ago. I turn the pages until I find what I wrote regarding drowning: loss of oxygen to the brain and lungs filled with fluid resulting in metabolic acidosis.
My pulse kicks up a notch.
Shit, could it be possible that Craig didn’t die from whatever landed him in the swale, but from the water?
He drowned.
If that’s the case, how long was he there? Why couldn’t he get out?
My stomach twists as the turkey sandwich I ate threatens to reappear.
I scan the rest of the report looking for toxicology findings. Craig Gilbert tested positive for multiple vitamins, creatine, and fish oil, as well as a low-dose diuretic. I write those down for further research.
No trace of poison or illegal substances.
Biting my lower lip, I stare at my notes. This information has given me more questions, not fewer. I quicklyclose the notebook and push down the computer screen. I’m not ready to discuss this information with anyone, especially my sister.
I want to share it with Keith.
As I take another drink of the wine, the pieces of the puzzle move around in my head.
I look up at the ceiling and speak, “Okay, God, I’ll add six months sober as a judge if you can help me find the answers to what happened.” I’m not certain God is in the dealmaking business. Maybe I should be happy I ended up with a gentleman two nights ago, and my sister has her eyeballs. Perhaps that should be my incentive to avoid alcohol. I ask for another favor. “Can you show me how Craig’s information is connected to Marty and Julie?”
There is no audible response. No bolt of lightning.
Taking my glass, I walk to the front of the cottage and stand at the screen door, feeling the breeze on my face. I step momentarily onto the porch. Out on the water are two fishing boats. For a moment I think about how peaceful it would be to do nothing but watch a bobber for endless hours. What must that be like, to let the cares of the world disappear while waiting for a fish to bite?
As I mill that thought around, a knock comes from the back door.
Entering the front door, I’m able to see all the way through the cottage. I left the sheer curtain pushed to the side of the window. Liv peers back at me. My sister hasn’t changed, looking the same as she did the last time I saw her and the day before that. We Thornes look similar,shades of red hair, and blue eyes. Even our builds are similar, except for Ollie because, well, he’s a man and doesn’t have the curves we girls do.
I hurry toward her.
“Liv,” I greet as I open the back door, “come in.”
She takes a step in. “Wow, the Harrisons really fixed up this place.”
