Michael Baden: Remains Silent

When he was finished, he went back to the car to get Pete. “You won’t believe it,” he told his friend. He knew it was up to them to restore some measure of what the skeletons had lost; it was a debt the living owed the dead. Since these people could no longer speak for themselves, it was their duty to speak for them.

They walked back to the field together and stared down at the skeletons. Pete had been silent since Jake awakened him; now he seemed in a distant place, transfixed by the evidence of so much death.

“Look,” Jake said, “the last bone I found was the mandible belonging to the woman. It matches the upper part of the skull the backhoe dug up originally.”

Pete stared, shuddered. The movement seemed to rouse him from his trance. “You’re right,” he said, as he stooped to examine it with the upper part of its skull. “We’d best get the bones to the morgue. Baxter Community Hospital’s five miles away. I’ll call the others from the trailer and tell them to meet us there.” Pete checked his pockets. “Left their numbers in your car. Be back in a bit.”

He’s sick, Jake realized. It would indeed be their last case together. He was sure of it.

By four that afternoon, the entire group had reassembled in a basement room next to the morgue. The four skeletons were laid out on four stretchers inside the morgue- not complete, Jake knew, but able to tell a partial story. One woman, three men. But there was so much more to be learned from the bones: height, age, race, cause of death, potentially identifying old fractures, and when they had died.

In life they had had names, faces, jobs, opinions, emotions. Now they were reduced to a series of numbers written on pieces of paper at the foot of each stretcher. The audience stood solemnly; even Sheriff Fisk seemed awed.

“How do you know Four’s a woman?” Miss Crespy asked.

Jake indicated the top edge of the socket where the left eye had been. “That’s called the glabella- the brow ridge. In a woman it’s smooth. In men, bumpy.” He saw that some in the audience were feeling their own eyebrows and stifled a grin. Happened every time. “Same with the external occipital protuberance on the back of the skull.” He turned the skull around and ran a finger along its gently curved rear surface. “It’s more prominent in males, smoother in females.” He took a closer look at the upper jaw. “And she was young. Third molars haven’t erupted.”

Harrington set about taking measurements and dictating notes into a tape recorder. Jake could tell by the expression on his face that he was deeply emotional. “Skeleton Four, most bones present, female. In addition to the unerupted third molars, the lack of fusing of both clavicles medially indicates her age to be under twenty-two. Some clumps of dark hair up to six inches long adjacent to the vertex of the skull. All long bones of the upper and lower extremities are present. Right ribs eight and nine posteriorly show fractures. The amount of healing suggests these injuries were sustained approximately two weeks before death. The pitting pattern of the pubic symphysis indicates vaginal childbirth.” Pete paused, taking in great gulps of air. “Sheriff, this young woman may have a child out there.” His pallor seemed unearthly.

“Maybe you should get some air,” Jake said.

Harrigan shook his head. “Let’s finish. That scotch is beginning to sound awful good.” He put the recorder to his mouth. “Skeleton Three. Here, too, most bones are present. Calcification of cartilage of first and second ribs, osteophytes in the thoracic and lumbar spine, and fused skull sutures mean he was at least thirty-five.”

Jake turned to the group. “Those osteophytes are bony protuberances on the spinal column. They happen as you get older.”

Harrington picked up the skull. “Here again some dark hair is present; this time it measures two inches in length. Notice the oval-shaped hole at the vertex through the parietal bones at the top of the skull. Looks to be about four by three inches. It’s not postmortem deterioration.”

“You mean somebody bashed his head in?” Fisk asked.

“Not precisely. If it were a fresh fracture, the edges would be rough. I’d say he lived long enough for healing to occur, between two and six months, I’d estimate.” He proffered the skull. “Care to feel it? Smooth.”

Fisk recoiled. “No, thanks.”

Jake had learned a long time ago that machismo was no indication of whether a person would lose his cool in an autopsy room. He knew burly police detectives who couldn’t watch him wield a scalpel and petite female MEs who could finish two autopsies and go out and eat sushi.

“That looks like a surgical procedure,” Jake said. “There probably was a replacement with a metal plate but, if so, we didn’t find it.”

“Maybe it’s still in the ground,” Harrigan said. “Somebody’s going to have to go back and look.”

Fisk made a note. “Why would a doctor cut a piece out of someone’s head?”

“War wound,” Jake said. “It’ll help if you can find the plate.”

Harrington turned the skull around so it faced them. “Notice the dental fillings. Proof positive that these aren’t settlers. The probable cause of death is this displaced fracture of the second cervical vertebra- the axis- which would have damaged the spinal cord.”

Amazing, Jake thought. He saw more than I did. Always pay attention to the body. It’s telling you its secrets. “Broken neck,” he translated for the group.

Harrigan pointed to a dirty band of elastic that encircled the skeleton’s pelvic bones.

“Is that… what’s left of his clothes?” Miss Crespy asked.

“Looks like it.” Harrigan gently removed the elastic remnant and handed it to Jake, who had put on new surgical gloves. Jake placed it on a clean paper catch cloth to avoid the loss of any trace evidence.

“Came from a pair of men’s briefs,” Jake noted. “There’s some writing on it.” He took the elastic to the sink and slowly washed off the dirt into a plastic container. “Could be a laundry mark.” He leaned over it with a magnifying glass. “Can’t quite make it out. Anybody have a flashlight?”

Fisk handed him his Maglite.

“It’s hard to read, but I think it’s… T.M.H. 631217. Do you recognize the initials, Pete?”

There was no answer. Pete was bent over, arms around his stomach; his breathing was ragged, his face white. A word flashed unbidden into Jake’s mind: cancer.

Pete straightened. “His own initials?” he answered. “Maybe he had monogrammed underpants, like they do for kids at camp.”

“Maybe,” Jake said. “It’s something to go on.” All he wanted was to get Pete home and in bed, find out if his diagnosis was right, and see what he could do about it. But Pete pressed on.

“Skeleton Two is less complete than Four or Three. Skull sutures aren’t fused and there’s a lack of rib calcification. Puts him close to thirty.” He picked up the skull. “Eye sockets look Caucasian. The pelvis confirms it’s male. Left humerus present. A little clump of hair is still attached to a small amount of grave wax formed from the fat on the front of the pubic bone.”

He moved on. “Skeleton One. Defleshed bones of left arm and hand. Not much to work with.” He eyed the group.

Sheriff Fisk’s face was red. It was obvious he was finding the facts uncomfortable. Funny. You’d think he’d be fascinated. For him, it’s the case of a lifetime. But all Fisk asked was, “What’s this going to mean for the mall?”

“It means,” Jake said, “your construction site’s a crime scene.”

Back at the cottage at last, Jake made them a dinner of bacon and eggs. They had eaten the same meal countless late nights in the lab, whipped up on a hot plate in their office’s tiny kitchen, and he was feeling nostalgic.