KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

I checked every inch of the autopsy table. The entire skeleton. The gurney. The body bag. The floor. The counter. The sink. The plastic sheet I’d used to cover the remains.

I had no distal phalange from the right third finger and none of the three from the right fifth finger.

I checked again.

Nope.

Phalanges are small, often lost from corpses left out in the elements. Had the missing bones been carried from the grave by rodents? Wood rats are known to collect body parts in their nests. Had they been washed away by percolating ground water?

Or had I screwed up?

The skeleton had darkened to the same deep brown as the soil. Had I failed to spot the phalanges in the pit? Missed them in the screen? I’d dug an extra six inches below the skeleton. Had burrowing roots or insects dragged the little buggers deeper than that?

Was it something more sinister? Had Christelle’s little finger been severed before she was placed in the earth? If so, what had happened to her middle finger tip?

And, more important, why? Did removal of the pinky imply a killer who knew his victim, a killer savvy to the forensic value of a finger deformity?

Sweet Jesus, this couldn’t be happening. The camptodactyly was all I had. Hubert would be calling soon.

Wrong.

Hearing footsteps, I whirled.

Hubert’s belly was rolling through the door. The rest of the coroner was right behind.

“Dr. Brennan.” Cheek-popping grin. “What have you got for me?”

“Actually, I haven’t quite finished.”

Hubert retracted a cuff and checked his watch.

“I have no X-rays, dental records, or adequate medical history. With this other elderly lady gone missing-”

Hubert frowned. “What other elderly lady?”

I summarized Ryan’s account of Marilyn Keiser.

“ Eh, misère. ”

“But I may have found something.”

Hubert sighed through his nose. It whistled. “How long?”

“Soon.”

“I’ll be in my office.”

When Hubert had gone, I made another sweep of the autopsy room. The phalanges were definitely not there.

I stood a moment, arms wrapping my waist.

Skeletal inventory sheet?

I checked.

At graveside, I’d indicated recovery of fifty-six phalanges. Beyond that, the information was useless. After identifying carpals, metacarpals, tarsals, and metatarsals, I’d merely tallied phalange totals, then bagged the hands and feet. Had I miscounted? Mistaken twigs for middles? Pebbles for distals?

Joe?

Thinking the tech might remember what we’d gotten, I hurried down the hall. The large autopsy suite was deserted. I called upstairs, got Joe’s voice mail. Of course. Lunchtime.

Morgue photos?

It had been a Saturday. I’d worked alone. The bones had required no cleaning, so there’d been no risk of unintentional modification. Other than overview shots documenting condition upon arrival, I’d decided to delay photography until the skeleton was reassembled.

Scene photos?

Though a long shot, the right little finger might be visible in close-ups.

Climbing the back stairs to the main level, I exited to the lobby and took an unrestricted elevator to the second floor. A guy named Pellerin greeted me in the Service de l’identité judiciaire.

I requested the scene shots from the Oka recovery. Pellerin asked me to wait and disappeared into the back. After a short delay, he reappeared with a thick brown envelope. I thanked him and went back downstairs.

Sliding a spiral-bound album from the envelope, I started flipping through 5 by 7 color prints.

The opening sequence showed the usual terrain overviews, approach routes, and angles of a yellow-taped patch of earth. Only the tent was atypical.

I skipped quickly through those. My interest was in bones.

There were several photos of the skeleton lying in the pit, taken from a distance of at least six feet. Because the victim lay twisted to one side, the right hand and arm were difficult to see.

I tried a magnifying glass. It didn’t help much.

I continued flipping through prints.

There were excellent close-ups of the skull, rib cage, pelvis, and all four limbs. In the grave. Beside the grave, lying on plastic.

Sixty-two pictures. Not a single tight shot of the hands or feet.

I sat back, dismayed.

Had I failed to recover key bones? I’m always painstakingly careful when working a scene. Some call me anal. But I had to admit to the possibility. It was hot in the tent. Cramped. Lighting was poor.

Then why the full count on the inventory sheet?

Had I lost the phalanges here at the lab? I’d been tired on Saturday. Awash in self-pity. Pinky phalanges are tiny little buggers. Had I rinsed them down a drain while cleaning my hands? Carried them off on a hem or cuff? Crushed them under a heel or gurney wheel?

Did it really matter? The bones were clearly not present. The question was, now what?

Hubert would be miffed if I’d left the phalanges in the grave. A return to Oka would involve additional expense and effort. The tent. The heater. The van. The personnel.

If I’d lost them after recovery, forget miffed. Hubert would be furious.

Bury the camptodactyly? After all, the crooked finger had been a long shot for an ID. The condition wasn’t entered in Villejoin’s chart. Simply tell Hubert my lead had not panned out? That was true. Sort of.

A zillion cells in my brain tossed a flag on the field.

Foul .

Ethics .

Crap.

Knowing it was futile, I tore the autopsy room apart, rifling drawers, emptying cabinets, running my fingers along baseboards and under counter ledges. Finding only detritus I don’t want to describe, I gave up and walked every inch of the corridor, eyes to the tile.

No phalanges.

Hubert would want me to proceed with trauma analysis before reporting to him.

Delay of game .

Crap.

Moving slowly, I covered the bones. Removed my gloves. Washed my hands, carefully cleaning under the nails. Combed my hair. Recombed it into a ponytail.

Unable to stall any longer, I took the elevator up to ten.

The chief coroner was at his desk, jacketless now. His shirt was a coffee-stained pink that clashed badly with his red and green tie. Christmas trees with tiny banners screaming Joyeux Noël!

I tapped my knuckles on the door frame.

Hubert looked up. A cascade of chins disconnected.

“Ah, excellent.”

A pudgy hand flapped me into the office.

Flashback. Perry Schechter. I made a note to inquire about Rose Jurmain. Kill two birds and all.

“ Bonnes nouvelles? ” Hubert asked.

“Actually, the news isn’t so good.”

Hubert slumped back, pushing the pink polyester to its tensile limit. The hand now flapped at a chair.

I sat.

Brushed lint from the knee of my scrubs.

Inhaled deeply.

“Are you familiar with camptodactyly?” I began.

“No.” Coroners in Quebec are either doctors or lawyers. Hubert was among the latter.

I described the condition, then recapped my conversation with Sylvain Rayner.

“Sounds promising.”

“Except for one thing.”

Hubert waited.

“I don’t have the right little finger phalanges.”

“Why not?”

“Either they weren’t collected or they’ve been misplaced.”

“I don’t understand.”

I explained the tally I’d done on-site. And my fruitless search downstairs.

“Only those three are missing?”

“And the distal phalange from the right third digit.”

“An error in recovery, documentation, or processing. An error that could compromise an identification. And you’re uncertain which.”

“Yes.” I could feel my face flame.