Jefferson Bass - The Devil's Bones

I dialed the extension for the bone lab, tucked beneath the other end of the stadium, a five-minute walk through curving hallways along the base of the enormous ellipse. “Osteology lab, this is Miranda. Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so,” I said.

“Oh, it’s just you.”

“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” I said.

“Oh, ex- cuse me,” she gushed. “Dr. Brockton, how may I be of assistance?”

“That’s more like it,” I said. “Soon as you finish genuflecting, could I trouble you to dig up the melting point of titanium?”

“I live to serve,” she said. “Elemental or alloy?”

“I’m not sure.”

I heard the rapid clatter of keystrokes. “Well, if you’re talking pure titanium metal,” she said, “the melting point is a toasty nineteen hundred and thirty-three. That’s on the Kelvin scale, which is”- clatterclatterCLATTERclatter- “three thousand and change, Fahrenheit.”

“How’d you find that so fast?”

“The wonders of Google,” she said. “Google also lives to serve.”

“Damn,” I said. “Google, YouTube, MySpace-I feel like a dinosaur, Miranda.”

“Well, admitting you have a problem is the first step toward change,” she said. “So is that it? You just got curious about the properties of titanium?”

“No, actually, what I’m wondering about is the melting point of artificial knees.”

I heard another flurry of keystrokes. “Looks like most orthopedic implants are made of titanium alloy, cobalt chromium steel, or stainless steel. Also oxidized zirconium-sort of a cross between a metal and ceramic-which is harder than metal but tougher than ceramic.” More keystrokes. “The most common material seems to be titanium-662, though, an alloy of titanium, aluminum, and vanadium, plus a pinch of this and a dash of that.”

“Vanadium? Is that really an element, or are you just making that up?”

“Making it up? Moi? You cut me to the quick. That would be a violation of the Research Slave Code of Ethics. Besides, if I were going to make up an element, don’t you think I could come up with something better than ‘vanadium’? I think ‘mirandium’ has a nice ring, don’t you? And ‘loveladium’ rolls trippingly off the tongue, too.”

“What was I thinking? You’re right,” I said. “The periodic table really should revolve around you.”

“I’ll let the implication that I’m egocentric pass for the moment, because I’m so delighted to be doing your grunt work. Let’s see, titanium-662…. Melting point is… durn it…a closely guarded military secret, it would appear. Not really, but I’m not getting any Google hits that look like the answer. You want me to call some equally downtrodden peon in Engineering?”

“Nah, hold off for now,” I said. “I wouldn’t think the alloy’s melting point would be a whole lot lower.”

“You know what I think?”

“More often than I’d like,” I said.

“Ha, ha. I think if you’re running a high enough fever to melt your knees, you’re long since toasted.”

“Toasted is right,” I said. “The question is, could a cremation furnace melt a pair of knee implants?”

“I’d say it depends how hot the furnace gets.”

“Really? Amazing. Do the folks who give out the MacArthur genius grants know about you?”

“Don’t get smart with me, boss.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I’ll hang up.”

“ Ooh, ” I said, “now you’re really scaring me.”

I laughed when the line went dead. I was pretty sure she was laughing, too.

My next call was to Norman Witherspoon, a Knoxville funeral director who’d sent me a half dozen or so corpses during the past decade-people who’d wanted their bodies donated to science but who hadn’t made the arrangements before dying. “Norm, what do you do when somebody asks to be cremated?”

“I say, ‘Sorry, I have to wait until you’re dead.’”

“Everybody’s a comedian,” I said. “Let me rephrase the question. Norm, where do you send bodies to be cremated?”

“East Tennessee Cremation Services,” he said. “Out near the airport. In the Rockford industrial park, off Alcoa Highway.”

“I’ve got a case involving cremated remains. You reckon East Tennessee Cremation would let me come look at their equipment and ask a few questions?”

“Long as the case doesn’t involve them. Does it?”

“No,” I said. “A place down in the northwest part of Georgia-Trinity Crematorium.”

“Oh, that place.”

“Why do you say ‘that place’?”

“Well, that’s where funeral homes send cremations if they want to save a few bucks or a little time.”

“How many bucks is ‘a few’?”

“Not too many-about a hundred per cremation. We handle about sixty cremation requests a year, so we’d save about six thousand dollars if we switched. But if you factor in Trinity’s pickup and drop-off, the savings would be bigger.”

“How so?”

“We have to take the bodies out to East Tennessee Cremation, and then we have to go pick them up, either at the end of the day or sometime the next day. So that’s a hundred and twenty roundtrips. We’re only about fifteen miles from there, so it’s not a huge problem, but it can get complicated, especially if we have several burials going on at the same time, too. Trinity picks up the bodies and then returns the cremains, and that can save a lot of time. They courted us pretty hard, and we thought about switching, but in the end we decided to stick with East Tennessee Cremation.”

“Because?”

“I’ve known the folks there for twenty years. They do a good job, they keep their facility spotless, and they’re extremely professional.”

“Unlike the folks at that Georgia place?”

He laughed. “You sound like some fast-talking courtroom lawyer now. You’ve been spending way too much time being cross-examined. Look, I don’t know anything bad about them. But I don’t know anything great about them either. What it comes down to is, I don’t want to stop doing business with people I know and like, just for the sake of a hundred bucks here and there.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “No further questions at this time. Oh, except the name and number of the person I should call at the place over in Alcoa?”

“EAST TENNESSEE CREMATION.”The woman who answered sounded slightly out of breath, as if she’d had to dash for the phone.

“Is this Helen Taylor?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

I introduced myself and began a convoluted explanation of why I was calling.

“Norm Witherspoon told me you’d probably be calling,” she said, as soon as I gave her an opening. “I heard you lecture a few years ago at the Tennessee Association of Funeral Directors. You were showing pictures of how a body decays if the embalming job’s not good. You’re welcome to come out anytime.”

I wasn’t sure if she was extending the welcome in spite of my criticisms or because of them. Either way, I was quick to accept the invitation. “When would be a good time to visit?”

“Up to you. I’m here Monday through Friday, eight A.M. to five P.M. We’ve got three cremations scheduled today, so pretty much anytime you come, I’ll be putting somebody in, taking ’em out, or running them through the processor.”

“Sounds like they’re getting their money’s worth from you,” I said. “No wonder you sounded winded when you answered the phone.”

“There’s not a lot of downtime, that’s for sure,” she said. “I’m just finishing one now, and I thought I’d start the next one right after lunch.”

I checked my watch; I’d just eaten a sandwich at my desk, but I tended to eat early. It was not quite eleven-thirty.