he kidnapped the boy, so fortunately he couldn’t carry out his plan. He made a full confession, quite proud of his idea, so you can see my point about rocks.”
“Yep, I do. Sure sounds like a sociopath.”
“So what we shall we do next?” said Tosca.
Thatch was silent for a few moments, then said, “You know, I have a local FBI friend. I’ll ask him if he can get this thing tested at the FBI lab at Quantico. They’re usually really jammed up, but maybe there’s a forensic anthropologist who’ll be interested enough to do me a favor.”
“Really? Excellent. How long will it take?”
“Couple of weeks, if I lean on him.”
“Two weeks! The killer could be out there murdering more people!”
“Now don’t jump the gun here. We don’t know anything about a possible murder.” Before she could voice a protest he added, “I’ll see what I can do to hasten the result. Good day, ma’am, umm, Tosca.”
Thatch stood up to leave. Wanting to kick himself for calling her ma’am, he retrieved his hat, put the rock back in the paper bag and left, promising to keep her informed of any developments. He got into his pickup, realizing he faced a dilemma. How am I going to convince my FBI buddies to give the test priority? As he considered the problem he also realized guiltily that in his absorption with Tosca he’d forgotten to check in with Christine. She’d be waiting impatiently for his call.
Chapter Eight
As soon as he finished talking to Christine, Thatch’s cell phone rang again. Straining to hear, he pressed it tightly against his ear. Aging sucks, he thought, remembering his annual eye checkup when the doctor told him that it was normal for “our eyesight to degenerate as we age.” He’d had to up the strength of his reading glasses to 250 from 175. Damn, is my hearing going, too?
“Andy, speak up, son. Repeat what you just said.”
“Sorry, there’s background noise here. Okay, I just wanted to check in with you about the weird rock and that eccentric woman on Isabel Island. I’m interested in what you think of her and her theory about a murder. Sounded like a real kook to me. My partner agrees.”
“She’s not a kook. I think there could be something to her story, and I’m going to help her check it out. Unofficially, of course.”
“Really, Dad? Why? There wasn’t much about her that caught my interest, unofficially or not.” Andy’s laugh sounded dismissive to Thatch, and he was quick to respond.
“You might be just as bad jumping to that conclusion, son, as Mrs. Trevant might be to hers. What’s happened to your police training? If there is the possibility that a crime has been committed, if someone has been killed, there needs to be an investigation. There could be victims involved.”
At Andy’s silence Thatch continued, “There needs to be a passion from decent human beings to catch the perpetrator, to bring justice to bear. I know I sound like I’m lecturing you, but I thought you had that same sense of outrage as I do when I hear about teens shooting their parents, of little kids being kidnapped, raped and murdered. That’s why you joined the police force, Andy, right? To respect law and order?”
“Dad, I thought you’d left all those emotions behind when you retired, and yeah, I did become a cop because of what you just said. But still, let’s keep this in perspective. That woman’s story sounds too far-fetched. It’s Isabel Island, for God’s sake. A music professor? Give me a break.”
Thatch sighed audibly. “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ll get back to that subject in ten years after you’ve got more experience under your belt and understand death and how the loss affects those left behind.”
“Okay, okay, but there’s no death here. What got me was the way she sounded so eager about the possibility of there being real fingers inside that rock. That’s pretty heartless, isn’t it?”
Thatch thought back to the most
“Yep, I do. Sure sounds like a sociopath.”
“So what we shall we do next?” said Tosca.
Thatch was silent for a few moments, then said, “You know, I have a local FBI friend. I’ll ask him if he can get this thing tested at the FBI lab at Quantico. They’re usually really jammed up, but maybe there’s a forensic anthropologist who’ll be interested enough to do me a favor.”
“Really? Excellent. How long will it take?”
“Couple of weeks, if I lean on him.”
“Two weeks! The killer could be out there murdering more people!”
“Now don’t jump the gun here. We don’t know anything about a possible murder.” Before she could voice a protest he added, “I’ll see what I can do to hasten the result. Good day, ma’am, umm, Tosca.”
Thatch stood up to leave. Wanting to kick himself for calling her ma’am, he retrieved his hat, put the rock back in the paper bag and left, promising to keep her informed of any developments. He got into his pickup, realizing he faced a dilemma. How am I going to convince my FBI buddies to give the test priority? As he considered the problem he also realized guiltily that in his absorption with Tosca he’d forgotten to check in with Christine. She’d be waiting impatiently for his call.
Chapter Eight
As soon as he finished talking to Christine, Thatch’s cell phone rang again. Straining to hear, he pressed it tightly against his ear. Aging sucks, he thought, remembering his annual eye checkup when the doctor told him that it was normal for “our eyesight to degenerate as we age.” He’d had to up the strength of his reading glasses to 250 from 175. Damn, is my hearing going, too?
“Andy, speak up, son. Repeat what you just said.”
“Sorry, there’s background noise here. Okay, I just wanted to check in with you about the weird rock and that eccentric woman on Isabel Island. I’m interested in what you think of her and her theory about a murder. Sounded like a real kook to me. My partner agrees.”
“She’s not a kook. I think there could be something to her story, and I’m going to help her check it out. Unofficially, of course.”
“Really, Dad? Why? There wasn’t much about her that caught my interest, unofficially or not.” Andy’s laugh sounded dismissive to Thatch, and he was quick to respond.
“You might be just as bad jumping to that conclusion, son, as Mrs. Trevant might be to hers. What’s happened to your police training? If there is the possibility that a crime has been committed, if someone has been killed, there needs to be an investigation. There could be victims involved.”
At Andy’s silence Thatch continued, “There needs to be a passion from decent human beings to catch the perpetrator, to bring justice to bear. I know I sound like I’m lecturing you, but I thought you had that same sense of outrage as I do when I hear about teens shooting their parents, of little kids being kidnapped, raped and murdered. That’s why you joined the police force, Andy, right? To respect law and order?”
“Dad, I thought you’d left all those emotions behind when you retired, and yeah, I did become a cop because of what you just said. But still, let’s keep this in perspective. That woman’s story sounds too far-fetched. It’s Isabel Island, for God’s sake. A music professor? Give me a break.”
Thatch sighed audibly. “I’m not going to argue with you. We’ll get back to that subject in ten years after you’ve got more experience under your belt and understand death and how the loss affects those left behind.”
“Okay, okay, but there’s no death here. What got me was the way she sounded so eager about the possibility of there being real fingers inside that rock. That’s pretty heartless, isn’t it?”
Thatch thought back to the most
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