The Bone Field by Debra Bokur (the best ebook reader for android .txt) 📗

through, since it’s an accident.” He hesitated. “And that old fisherman who called it in is waiting for you at the top of the hill path.”

“Okay. Tell him to stay put until I’ve had a chance to talk to him. Surfboard’s just past the entrance to the cove, washed up in some kiawe roots,” said Walter. “I’ll stay here with the body. Be sure they get photos of the board.”

The tip of an orange surfboard jutted from a clump of thick brush about fifty feet away. Walter’s eyes locked on the board, and he calculated the facts at hand. The entire scene clearly implied the savage results of a wave gone wrong—an innocent surfing expedition turned fatal. Walter shook his head. It was not the first surfing death he’d seen over the years, and he was fully aware that it was unlikely to be the last.

He braced for the next wave as Hara scrambled past him, using the snarl of roots and branches to pull himself onto higher ground. The current from the receding wave tugged at the body. From the shore, there was the sound of movement, then voices. The branches were pushed aside, and hands reached out. Walter kept his hold on one ankle as the police photographer recorded the morning’s unfortunate discovery, not letting go until the medics had taken over and had hauled both the sodden body and Walter from the sea.

The sky above was regrettably blue, given the events occurring below. The boy was wearing swim trunks, and his brown, tanned torso and feet were bare. Walter watched, dejected, as the slender remains were maneuvered onto a stretcher waiting on a patch of thick grass, then covered over with a thin sheet.

Along the water’s edge, the police photographer moved away from the spot where the surfboard had been jammed. He paused briefly as he passed Walter. “All yours, brah.”

Walter grumbled. He looked back to where Hara was waiting next to the stretcher, then to the spot where the medics stood. They had walked away, down the beach, and Walter was aware that they were deliberately avoiding making eye contact with him. “You expect me to pull that damn thing out of the water?”

The photographer shrugged. “Not like you’re going to get any wetter, you know? Give the rest of us a break.”

Walter sighed. It was true. There wasn’t a dry inch of him to be found. He edged himself back into the sea, then took a deep breath and ducked beneath the surface and came up with the board resting on one shoulder. He struggled over the sharp rocks, scraping his arms and legs, his bulky frame not designed for this much physical activity, especially not this early in the day.

He carried the board to where Hara stood, shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Walter ignored him, doing his best not to be bothered by Hara’s persistent discomfort in his presence. Every junior officer who had ever worked for him had exhibited the same nervous response, and though Hara had been under Walter’s supervision for nearly four months, he was clearly not going to be an exception.

No practical experience, but clearly eager to learn, thought Walter. Maybe too eager. At twenty-three, Hara was an absolute pain in the ass. And, in Walter’s estimation, he was far too good-looking to be a cop. Wherever he went, it seemed that a small parade of women magically appeared in his wake. Walter had just enough sense of self to admit that he found this to be more exasperating than anything else.

“Captain, there’s something . . . well, something you should take a look at in here. What I mean is, sir, I think you might want to—”

Walter held up an impatient hand. “What is it, Hara?”

“The body, sir.”

Walter sighed. “Just spit it out, please.”

“Well,” Hara began, confused. “The head wound . . .”

Walter walked past him without saying anything more.

The body lay silent, the legs slightly splayed out, permanently stilled. Hara moved to the top of the stretcher, then pulled the sheet aside and pointed to the wound. “Looks like the bone around the cut is crushed, sir.”

Walter frowned. He stared in silence, considering the inference. “And? He hit those lava rocks and split his skull open with the impact of coming off the board, most likely.”

“Except for this, sir.” Hara stepped to the side, pointed at the gash. Walter bent closer and peered at the wound. There was something there, embedded in the edge—something shiny and white caught in the flesh.

Walter glanced at the medics, now standing at the edge of the water engaged in conversation, their sensitivity dulled through necessity and long years of recovering drowning victims. He pulled a pair of wet gloves from deep in his back pocket and slipped them on.

“Flashlight,” he said, his voice terse.

Hara fumbled at his belt and removed a small, powerful penlight.

“Angle it right here . . . no, more to the left.”

Walter studied the uneven opening in the skin, probing gently at the edges, speaking to himself. Hara stood beside him, still fidgeting.

Walter shook his head in confusion. “Well, I’ll be damned. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a man tooth.”

“That’s what I thought, too, sir. But what’s a shark’s tooth doing in his head? That wound isn’t a bite. If he cracked his head open on the lava rocks while he was surfing, why would there be a tooth in the flesh? And wouldn’t a shark have, well, eaten some of him? Wasn’t—”

Walter held up his hand again, muting a vexed Hara. “Calm down, Hara.” Walter peered off toward the distant haze of horizon. “That’s all true, but it makes no sense.”

Hara took a deep breath, then gestured to the surfboard lying nearby. “And the surf leash is still connected to the board but not fastened to his ankle.”

Frowning, Walter squinted more closely at the wound. Were his powers of observation slipping? Hara had made a good point about the surf leash, not that