The estimated time of death was irrelevant.
It was the estimated date of death that was turning a knife in my head.
When the forest ranger had found him, Simon Burke had been dead for ten days.
Ten.
“No way,” I said.
Church said nothing.
“Burke called the AIC on the thirteenth.”
Church nodded.
“I spoke to him on the sixteenth.”
Church nodded.
“It was him, damn it.”
Church selected a vanilla wafer from the plate, looked at it, and set it down.
The date of death written on the report was August 11.
Mr. Church closed the folder, sighed, stood and left the room.
I sat there.
“God,” I said.
My heartbeat was like summer thunder in my head.
THE END