ambushed Kit before his morning coffee. No choice. It was already seven o’clock. The others would be waiting.

Kit sat speechless, Frosted Flakes forgotten. When I’d finished he tried to process my words. After many long seconds, he found his tongue.

“Someone shot at you, last night? On Loggerhead Island?”

I nodded.

“You found a dead body?” Incredulous. “You dug it up?”

Nod number two.

Another pause. Then Kit rubbed his eyes. “Tory, if this is about me not spending enough time with you, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been the best—”

“I’m not making this up! We uncovered a skeleton. Then thugs stormed in shooting. Maybe to kill us, maybe to chase us away. I don’t know. But it happened.”

“Okay. Okay.” Kit scratched his temple, thinking hard. “Did you see who they were?”

“No. They wore black and it was pitch-dark.”

“And the body you found, you think it’s this missing Keaton girl?”

“Heaton. Katherine Heaton. I know it’s her.” I didn’t say how. First I needed to recover the incriminating dog tag.

A third interlude while Kit’s mind fought to catch up.

“So we go to the police,” Kit finally decided. “Right now. You get ready; I’ll go talk to the other parents. Then we’ll drive down to Folly Beach. You’ll explain everything to me on the way.”

The next hour was a blur.

Kit started with the Stolowitskis. Ruth didn’t take the news well. After grilling Hi, she was convinced that masked executioners would soon be storming Morris Island.

Shelton had already told Mr. and Mrs. Devers. Lorelei agreed to accompany Kit and Ruth to the Folly Beach station.

Kit caught Ben’s father on the dock, preparing his boat for the day. When informed, Tom Blue looked askance at Ben, but agreed to meet the group on Loggerhead after his morning ferry run.

Folly Beach stretches for six miles along a barrier island fifteen minutes from downtown Charleston. Far from high end, the area is a haven for young hipsters seeking good surf and cheap flats by the sea.

Since Morris Island’s sole road runs through the tiny community, the FBPD is responsible for law enforcement out our way. Loggerhead Island is private property, so jurisdiction there is less clear. But Folly seemed the best place to file our report.

We found FBPD headquarters on the first floor of City Hall, a pink stucco building with blue-and-white shutters. The place looked more vacation rental office than government epicenter.

The department takes up very little space. In the offseason things are quiet, but come summer, tourists roll in and the phones start ringing. There are only a handful of full-time officers.

Eight in the morning. Wednesday. Late spring. We were the only citizens present.

If Tom Blue had been skeptical, Sergeant Carmine Corcoran was downright suspicious. And far from happy to see us.

Corcoran was a big man, probably in his mid-forties, with mutton-chop sideburns and a bristly black moustache. His large frame wore his bulk like a sack of wet hay.

Kit and Corcoran shook hands. The sergeant gestured to a metal chair facing his desk, then unfolded two more for Lorelei and Ruth. The three adults took their seats.

The boys and I lined up by the back wall. To an observer it would have been unclear whether we’d reported a crime or been accused of one.

As concisely as possible, Kit explained our adventure of the last few days and the bones we’d discovered.

Sergeant Corcoran glanced at his half-eaten Egg McMuffin, sighed, and shook his head.

“Mr. Howard,” he drawled. “That’s one incredible tale.”

“Doctor Howard,” I blurted. “And it’s not a tale. It’s the truth.”

Kit hand-shushed me. “Sergeant, we didn’t come to waste your time. These kids found something, and someone fired a weapon at them.”

“So they claim.” Corcoran settled his considerable derriere into his too-small chair. “Doctor Howard.”

Okay. My input hadn’t moved this along.

“Children are often mistaken.” Corcoran said. “We get crazy calls like this all the time. They never pan out.”

“All four tell the same story,” Kit said. “Question them if you like.”

Corcoran gave a half smirk. “Don’t take this personally, but I’ve found academics and their kids to be particularly unreliable. Prone to exaggeration, shall we say.”

“No, we shall not.” Kit’s tone was glacial.

Corcoran ignored him. “While this office is technically responsible for policing Morris Island, we don’t have the funding or the personnel for goose chases on Loggerhead. That’s Charleston University property. Campus security should deal with the situation.”

Kit opened his mouth, closed it. Changed tack. “I’m reporting a possible murder. Are you refusing to investigate?

“Don’t twist my meaning, Dr. Howard.” For the first time I noted hesitation in Corcoran’s manner. “Covering Morris strains departmental resources enough. It drains my time and manpower. Policing Loggerhead is out of the question.”

“Strains your department!?” Ruth’s voice cut the air like a cleaver. “Your people never set foot in our neighborhood! Our own community watch is the only protection we have!”

Shooting to her feet, Ruth grasped the edge of Corcoran’s desk. The sergeant flinched, regretted it, squared his shoulders.

“My bubby says a man shot at him.” Ruth’s voice was shrill. “You will move your tuchus and investigate, or, so help me, I’ll be down at the mayor’s office faster than you can say Deputy Dawg.”

We were cruising on a police boat ten minutes later.