KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

ML noted trauma to the vertebrae, ribs, and skull, caused by the victim’s fall into the quarry, and healed antemortem fractures of the right distal radius and ulna. ML ventured no opinion as to manner of death.

ML’s descriptors were entered into a database at the Chicago PD missing persons unit, one week later into NCIC, the FBI’s National Crime Information Center. Neither submission resulted in a positive ID.

287JUL05 went onto a shelf in the CCME storage room on September 4, 2005. He’d been there ever since.

OK, ML. Let’s see how you did.

First, I arranged the cranial fragments into what resembled an exploded skull. Then I aligned the postcranial bones anatomically.

I began my assessment with gender, viewing first the skull, then the pelvis.

The right frontal bone bulged into a large, rounded ridge at the bottom of the forehead, above the orbit. The occipital had a prominent muscle attachment site dead center at the skull’s back. The right mastoid, a hunk of bone projecting downward behind the ear opening, was impressive.

When articulated, the pelvis had a chunky pubic area, with an acute angle below the point where the two halves meet in front. Laterally, each side curved upward into a deep, narrow notch inferior to the hip blade.

OK. Agreed. 287JUL05 was male.

I made notes then turned to ancestry.

This was tougher, since little facial architecture remained, and the skull was too damaged to yield meaningful measurements. Nevertheless, I could see that the cranium had been moderate with regard to shape, not particularly long and narrow or short and globular. The cheekbones had been tight to the maxilla, the nasal bridge high, the nasal opening quite narrow.

Agreed again. 287JUL05 was white.

I made notes, then turned to age

On the left innominate, or hip bone, the pubic symphyseal face was badly eroded. Damage was less extensive on the right, and detail, though abraded, was observable. Taking the bone to a dissecting scope, I examined the surface under magnification.

And felt a tingle at the back of my neck.

Returning to the skeleton, I selected the fourth and fifth ribs and took them to the scope. At the sternal, or chest end, each rib terminated in a shallow indentation bordered by a smooth, wavy-rimmed wall.

Another tingle.

I made notes, then turned to stature.

After locating an osteometric board, I measured the right femur, tibia, and fibula. I was considering the estimates generated on my laptop with FORDISC 3.0 when Corcoran pushed through the door.

“Lord in heaven, girl. You’re still here?”

“I may have found him.”

“You’re kidding.”

I tipped my head at 287JUL05. “Someone with the initials ML examined this skeleton.”

Corcoran looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “Don’t recall an ML. I remember July of 2005, though. I was working a strange one, actually wrote it up for the JFS. ”

“I think …”

“Listen to this. A sixty-eight-year-old female is last seen alive at a family picnic on the Fourth of July. No one hears from her for two weeks. The daughter finally checks, finds a corpse on the living room floor. Needless to say, by this time Mama’s not looking too good.

“I do the autopsy, find nothing to suggest cause of death, so I sign her out as undetermined. Next thing I know, there’s a cop telling me one of the grandkids has admitted to shooting the old lady. Apparently the little creep needed drug money and Grandma wasn’t coughing up. I’m skeptical, because I’ve found no perforated organs, no nicked bones, no bullets or bullet fragments, no metallic trace on X-ray. Nothing.”

“Uh. Huh.” I didn’t want to appear rude, but the case held no interest for me.

“But old Sherlock here goes back in. And guess what?”

I prepared my “I’m impressed” face.

“She must have been moving when the kid pulled the trigger. I find a bullet track shooting straight down the muscles paralleling the spine. Even though no vital organ was hit, the vic probably bled out.” Corcoran beamed.

“You’re a genius.” I waited a respectful half second. “ML blew it.”

“What? Oh.”

I led Corcoran to the scope.

“Take a look at the pubic symphysis.” I spoke as Corcoran adjusted focus. “That surface undergoes change throughout adulthood. Part of that change involves the formation of a rim circling the perimeter. See that gap on the upper edge?”

“On the belly side?”

“Yes.”

“I see it.”

“In young adults a hiatus like that is normal. The ventral, or belly, side of the rim is still forming. As adults age, the ends of the circle connect and the rim is complete. Then the rim begins to deteriorate. That’s normal, too.”

“First the rim forms, then it breaks down.”

“Exactly. Those with little experience often confuse the two stages. Seeing that gap, ML misinterpreted formation as breakdown. He or she estimated age at thirty-five.”

Corcoran looked up at me.

“This guy was closer to twenty when he died. But that’s not the only problem.”

Corcoran crossed his arms high on his chest.

“ML used an antiquated system for height determination, took measurements incorrectly, and relied on too few bones. He or she then chose inappropriate formulae for performing regression equations, and misinterpreted the statistical significance of the estimates those equations generated. Shall I walk you through the errors one by one?”

“No.”

“ML put height at five-seven to five-nine. I put it somewhere between six feet and six-three.”

“Bottom line?”

“Twenty-eight-seven-July-oh-five was a six-foot white male who died at roughly twenty years of age.”

“Like Lassie.”

“You’ve got it. Did the navy send antemortems so you’d have them in case you got an unknown fitting Tot’s description?”

Corcoran hiked and dropped his shoulders, indicating he didn’t know. “I can check. It’s been less than five years. If we received Tot’s records, they’d still be here.”

There was a beat as we each thought about that.

“Any idea as to manner of death?” Corcoran asked.

“I saw nothing obvious.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Thornton is southwest of the city. Great Lakes is practically in Wisconsin. If this is your friend’s grandson, he either went or was taken on a fairly long ride, and I think you told me his car was found north of the city.”

Another beat passed. I pictured old Cukura Kundze, rheumy eyes eager behind the untrendy lenses. Deep down, I knew the victim in the box was Laszlo Tot.

Suddenly, I felt drained. I looked at my watch. Five fifty. I’d been at the morgue for almost eight hours. And mañana wouldn’t be a cookie and album day, either.

“I can sort the trauma tomorrow,” I said. “After I deal with Jurmain.”

“That would be good.”

Corcoran blushed.

I knew what was coming.

“Walczak won’t pay you.”

“No worries,” I said. “This one’s pro bono.”

Snow was falling when I left the CCME, covering the dark muck frozen in the gutters along Harrison Street. Driving west on the Eisenhower, I let my thoughts wander.

Where had Laszlo Tot gone his last hours on earth? What had he done? Had he invited death by some act of stupidity? Of carelessness? Of greed? What was the day of the baseball game he missed? Friday night, Saturday, Sunday? Where had he intended to sleep?

Again, I saw old Cukura Kundze. If I could stop the pain barreling her way, I would. If I could magically morph 287JUL05 into someone else’s sweetheart’s dead grandson, I would do that, too.

I could do neither. Instead, I would search for answers. For justice. For Cukura Kundze. For Mr. Tot. For Lassie. Every person deserves to be accounted for. Old Horton, again.