Page 115 of Buried Too Deep

“From when I was twenty-two until I was twenty-six,” Cora said. “They started back up two years ago.”

When she’d started looking for her father in earnest.

“Exactly. The signer’s signature has grown a little more cramped, suggesting he’s experiencing some mild arthritis. Since osteoarthritis is most commonly seen starting at about age fifty, we’re estimating that the writer is now in his mid to late fifties or early sixties.”

“He would have been in his early to midthirties when my father was killed, then,” Cora said. “That’s helpful. I guess.”

“Your attorney’s about the right age,” Phin said.

Cora frowned at him. “Harry is not involved. I can’t believe it.”

“Harry Fulton?” Goddard asked. “Clancy told me that he accompanied you to the police station on Tuesday. Next time, hire a defense attorney,” he added. “Clancy said the man was in way over his head.”

“He’s been my family’s attorney since before I was born.” She glared at Phin. “It’s not him.”

“Okay,” Phin said.

“Do not patronize me, Phin,” she said quietly.

“I’m not. Honestly. It doesn’t matter what either of us thinks right now with respect to Harry Fulton. It matters what the evidence shows.”

Goddard nodded. “He’s right, Miss Winslow. For what it’s worth, Clancy doesn’t believe he’s involved, either. He sent me a sample of the man’s handwriting—from when he signed in at the station. His handwriting doesn’t match the letters. But please, don’t go anywhere with him alone until either Clancy—or your PIs, of course—have cleared him.”

Cora gave a frustrated huff. “So the letter writer is a man in his mid to late fifties, early sixties right now. What else does the analysis tell you?”

“There’s now a slight tremble in the r in ‘your.’ ” Goddard put two more pieces of paper on the table and turned them toward Cora, handing her a magnifying glass. “Here’s a pre-gap letter and this one is the last letter you received. All of the post-gap letters have that tremble.”

Cora squinted at the two pages, then nodded. “I see what you mean.”

Burke leaned over to take a look, his admiration reluctant. “I didn’t catch that when I read the letters. Your analyst has some expertise.”

“Yes, he does,” Goddard said. He pulled back the copies of the two letters and returned them to his folder. “He’s very good. What else can I do for you?”

Burke frowned. “That’s it? Seriously?”

Phin agreed with his boss, but it didn’t look like Goddard was going to give them anything more unless they asked the right questions. “We’d also like to know about the burial site,” Phin said. “Who knew they’d be pouring concrete that day?”

Goddard nodded. “Good question. I found the foreman who oversaw that building project. He’s retired now. Very helpful fella. He said that when the body was recovered, he was stunned. He got two of the workers on that part of the project on a Zoom call the day the body was found. They figured the cops would be asking questions and they wanted to remember how that day went. But twenty-three years is a long time, so they didn’t remember a whole lot. They did remember that it had been raining in the days before the day they poured, so their schedule was delayed. The foundation area was prepped and ready to go. One of the guys remembered covering the area with a tarp when the rain started, but it wasn’t a tight fit, just enough to keep the rain out. Anyone could have lifted it and lowered the body into the hole they’d dug.”

“Someone had to have known that,” Phin said. “You don’t just show up with a body if you don’t know that you’ll have a place to hide it.”

“That’s what I thought,” Goddard agreed. “Unfortunately, the foreman said he’d been rescheduling the next steps, so all the contractors knew. He also said that all the business owners in the area would come by to check the progress. Nothing nefarious, just curious. They had to keep repairing the fences around the job site because kids would sneak in to look. It was their biggest construction project up until then—and since—so some of the details stood out.”

“So a lot of people knew about the foundation,” Phin said glumly. “Dammit.”

Cora squared her shoulders. “What about the photos of my father’s remains?”

Goddard handed an envelope to Burke. “Don’t look at them, Miss Winslow. Please.”

Burke took the folder. “Val and I will do that for you. Phin, are you okay to look at them?”

“Check them first. If there’s no blood or body parts, I’ll be okay.” Bones he could deal with.

Burke opened the envelope and examined the photos, his expression neutral. He then handed them over to Val.

Val looked through them, then passed them to Phin. “Just bones.”

Phin studied each one, stopping at the final photo. It was a picture of the clothing Jack had been wearing, specifically his pants, dark in color. But there was a darker patch on one of the pants legs. Phin held it closer, focusing in on that dark patch.

---