Page 15 of Skin and Bones

“Accidental my foot,” Walt snorted. “Girl was a champion swimmer. Won state titles three years running.”

“Which was her father’s argument and why he insisted foul play was involved,” Dottie added.

Beckett nodded. “That’s one of numerous inconsistencies I’ve found. The official cause of death was drowning, but the report contains several troubling details.” He pulled out a photocopy of what appeared to be the autopsy report. “Bruising on both wrists, consistent with restraint. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, which the ME claimed happened postmortem when the body struck rocks in the harbor.”

“Defensive wounds?” Hank asked, leaning forward.

“None documented,” he replied. “But the photos tell a different story than the written report.” He pointed to another image. “Look at her hands. Those are clearly defensive injuries on her knuckles. They’re mentioned in the initial examiner’s notes but omitted from the final report.”

The knowledge that we were looking at a dead girl’s hands made my skin prickle with unease. My tea suddenly tasted too sweet in my mouth as I tried to reconcile the clinical terminology with the horror of what actually happened to this young woman.

“Toxicology?” Dottie asked.

“Showed alcohol in her system, but not enough to cause impairment for someone her size. No other substances.” Beckett tapped another document. “The timeline is perhaps the most problematic element. Elizabeth was last seen leaving the library around six o’clock. According to witnesses, she appeared agitated but not intoxicated. The ME placed time of death between midnight and 2 a.m.”

“So what happened in those six hours?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

“Exactly,” he said, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “Her car was found in the library parking lot, suggesting she never made it home. But her purse and belongings were missing and never recovered.”

“There’s got to be someone who saw her in those six hours,” I said. “This is a small island.”

“That’s where you come in,” he said. “People on this island have long memories. If the medical examiner’s report has holes, we can assume the police report has holes too. There are just a handful of witness statements in the case file, and they’re not well documented. Milton stated over and over again in the report that she must have been drinking, hit her head and drowned. He didn’t bother too much with gathering facts.”

“Makes sense,” Hank said. “Milton wouldn’t know the truth if it hit him in the face.”

“Her father never accepted the ruling,” Beckett said. “He insisted Elizabeth was a strong swimmer who knew the harbor currents. He believed she’d stumbled onto something related to her research.”

“What was she researching?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

“Officially, she was working on a summer internship with the Observer,” Beckett replied.

“Ooh,” Bea said. “A journalist. Digging into people’s secrets is a good way to get dead.”

Dash nodded. “She’d been accepted into the master’s journalism program at Duke. I found notes indicating she was specifically looking into financial irregularities related to several development projects in the area.

“The case was closed after three weeks, despite the father’s objections, despite the inconsistencies in the physical evidence, despite the fact that Elizabeth’s research materials were never found.” He looked around the table, eyes settling on each of us. “Milton buried this case.”

“Cover-up,” Walt said grimly. “Classic Milton.”

“There’s more,” Beckett said, pulling out another file. “I’ve been having our newly hired deputies going through old boxes of evidence. It’s a mess. Deputy Harris found these notes shoved into another case box.” Beckett opened the file folder and produced several yellowed papers. “Witness statements that never made it into the official report. Statements that contradict the accidental drowning theory.”

“Why now?” I asked. “Why reopen this after all these years?”

The sheriff’s eyes met mine, and something in them made my stomach tighten.

“I’ve worked a lot of homicides,” he said. “And I know when I look at a case file and two and two don’t add up to four. I need people who know this island’s history, who understand its dynamics, and who aren’t afraid to ask uncomfortable questions.”

“People who aren’t on the official payroll,” Walt added shrewdly.

Sheriff Beckett didn’t deny it. “I’m new here. There are connections I might miss, histories I don’t know.”

“And if it turns out a former sheriff was involved in a cover-up, it could reflect badly on the current department,” Bea concluded.

“There’s more,” Sheriff Beckett said quietly. “Elizabeth Calvert’s father is still alive. Cancer. Doctors give him weeks at best. His last wish is to know what really happened to his daughter.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. This wasn’t just about solving a case—it was about giving a dying man peace.

“So what exactly are you asking us to do?” I questioned, gesturing at the file. “We’re not detectives.”

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