Father By Choice. M.J. Rodgers
heritage that she and all the residents of Courage Bay shared. She found herself caught up in the favorite tale.
“When the Indian chief invited the shipwrecked crew to stay, they readily agreed,” the mayor continued. “Protected by this steep mountain range rising on three sides, our quiet community of Courage Bay remained virtually isolated from the outside world until the late nineteenth century when a road was cut through from the north. Even so, it wasn’t until 1904 when the citizens filed their town map with the county recorder’s office that Courage Bay was officially founded.”
Mayor O’Shea paused as he turned toward the large stone sundial to the right of the platform.
“As a marker of that historic event, the leaders of Courage Bay buried a time capsule beneath this enormous sundial they set in the heart of their community park, a park which has grown over the years to become our beautiful Botanical Gardens.”
He faced the crowd. “Today, exactly one hundred years later, we will remove the cover and open that time capsule. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to see what our city’s founders have preserved for us.”
Emily nodded to the man sitting in the seat of the crane. He turned on the engine and swung the telescoping crane arm over the sundial.
Earlier that morning she’d supervised the operator and his rigger as they’d dug around the eight-foot-diameter stone they would have to lift. After inserting wedges in several spots, they’d slid a metal plate beneath the sundial to protect it from cracking when it was raised. Slipping three sets of straps beneath the plate, they’d tied them together above the stone.
Lifting it now was a simple task. The rigger on the ground grabbed the steel hook at the end of the crane’s telescoping arm and fixed it beneath the sturdy straps. He then signaled the crane operator to hoist the stone away.
As Emily watched the progress, she’d found herself wondering what it was the founders of Courage Bay had bequeathed them. The sundial had been chiseled when the time capsule had been buried beneath it, specifying when it was to be opened. On the Roman numerals marking the twenty-four-hour segments were the initials of the men who had been selected to set the stone in place.
But nothing on the sundial gave a hint as to what was to be found in the chamber below. If she were to bury a time capsule today, what would she put inside?
Emily’s musings came to a quick close as the stone sundial was lifted and set aside on the cushioned platform prepared for it. The TV camera crew changed position to get a better angle, shining bright lights into the dark chamber below. The big moment had arrived.
Mayor O’Shea and the city council members were the first to reach the sides of the exposed pit and look within. Emily waited in anticipation on the adjacent platform with the other members of the Historical Society.
For a long moment, no one moved or said anything. And then one of the city council members muttered an oath. Another one straightened and stepped back.
Mayor O’Shea calmly turned to face the camera lens. “Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a skeleton in our time capsule’s closet.”
CHIEF OF POLICE MAX ZIRINSKY stood over the pit, instructing the Historical Society’s photographer on what angles he wanted him to shoot to get the best pictures of the skeleton that was lying beside the time capsule.
Ed beckoned Brad through the milling crowd—being held back by a line of plainclothes officers—to stand beside them. After introducing Brad to the police chief, Ed got to the reason he’d summoned his friend.
“We need your expertise. If we’re at the scene of a murder, no time capsule gets opened today. All of these very important people are going to be asked to leave so a crime team can get in here.”
“You want me to take a look at this skeleton and hopefully tell you that death was by natural causes,” Brad guessed.
“Can you?”
“I’m not a forensic anthropologist.”
“But you studied to be one,” Ed persisted.
“Even so, I have to warn you the kind of evaluation you’re asking for might not be possible. And even if it is, getting an answer could take a lot of time.”
“If we had a lot of time, we’d get a real forensic anthropologist,” Max said bluntly.
“How much time do you have?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops,” Max answered. “These are not people who are used to being kept waiting.”
No, Brad supposed they weren’t. Nothing he could do but his best. “I’m going to have to get down in the pit to get a closer look. If this is a crime scene—”
“Don’t worry,” Ed said, interrupting. “We’ll take your clothes and process them along with any dirt or whatever else you may pick up if this turns out to be a murder. Here, take these gloves and put them on. I’ll hold your sport coat.”
Brad nodded as he slipped out of his jacket and snapped on the thin evidence gloves Ed had handed him. There was only a three-foot drop to the top of the time capsule. Brad carefully slid down on the side opposite both it and the skeleton.
Bright lights followed his progress, as did a TV camera. Since Max was directing the camera, Brad assumed he’d commandeered the crew for the purposes of chronicling the scene and Brad’s initial examination of it.
His first glance at the fully articulated skeleton from above had already told him something. Decomposition followed a predictable course. The body had to have been placed here soon after death to leave an anatomically correct and intact skeleton like this.
It was also obvious that the bones had been thoroughly cleaned by insects over time and a couple stained a yellowish brown—most likely by some mineral leached from the soil on which they lay.
Brad went down on a knee and bent his head to get a ventral view of the pelvis, noting the relative narrowness of its opening and that of the sciatic notch on the edge of each hip bone. That gave him a pretty good idea about the skeleton’s sex. A cursory look at the leg and arm bones revealed a coarsening, no doubt the result of temperature changes occurring over an extensive period of time.
Then a shift in the overhead light picked up a glint of something near the right pelvic bone. He gently dipped his fingers into the earth, and, to his surprise, pulled out a gold coin.
It proved to be a twenty-dollar Liberty piece bearing the date of 1900. After rooting around in the dirt some more, he came up with something even more unexpected—a mud-encrusted dagger.
Brad’s eyes traveled up the skeleton’s rib cage and vertebral column. The bright light from above revealed no obvious knife marks on the bones. When he got to the skull, there were none there, either. But there was a round hole over one of the brow ridges. He was leaning forward to study it when he saw a dark lump inside the skull. He reached in and pulled out a spent bullet.
As Brad stood, he found Ed bending toward him, holding out an evidence bag. After slipping the dagger, coin and slug inside it, Brad climbed out of the pit.
“I take it we have a homicide,” Ed said as he stared at the dagger, his expression as ill-humored as a man suffering from a toothache.
Brad nodded as he dusted off the knees of his slacks. “Judging by the angle of the entry wound, I doubt that the guy shot himself.”
“Shot? He’s got a bullet wound?”
“My degree isn’t on the forensic side. But I’ve treated enough live shooting victims to recognize one when I see it.”
Brad paused to point at the evidence bag. “Plus which I found that slug inside his skull. The hole in the bone didn’t show any signs of healing, which also leads me to the logical conclusion that the wound was inflicted at the time of death.”
“Bullet must have lodged in his brain,” Max Zirinsky said as he came to stand