Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

“Yes.”

Returning to the first segment, I pointed to the external beveling adjacent to the oval defect.

“If the gun barrel is in tight contact with the skull, ectocranial beveling can be created by the blow-back of gases,” LaManche said.

“I don’t think that’s the case here. Notice the shape of the defect.”

LaManche leaned closer.

“A bullet entering perpendicular to a skull’s surface usually produces a circular defect,” I said. “A bullet entering tangentially produces an irregular perforation, often more oval in shape.”

“Mais, oui. A keyhole defect.”

“Exactly. A portion of the bullet actually sheared off and was lost outside the skull. Thus the external beveling at the entrance.”

LaManche looked up. “So the bullet entered behind the right ear and exited the left cheek.”

“Yes.”

LaManche considered that.

“Such a trajectory is uncommon but possible in suicide. Monsieur Ferris was right-handed.”

“There’s more. Take a closer look.”

I handed LaManche a magnifying lens. He raised and lowered it over the oval defect.

“The rounded end looks scalloped.” LaManche studied the oval for another thirty seconds. “As though the circle is superimposed on the oval.”

“Or the reverse. The border of the circular defect is clean on the skull’s external surface. But check inside.”

He rotated the segment.

“Endocranial beveling.” LaManche grasped it immediately. “It’s a double entrance.”

I nodded. “The first bullet hit Ferris’s skull straight on. Textbook. Outside border clean, inside border beveled. The second struck the same spot, but at an angle.”

“Producing a keyhole defect.”

I nodded. “Ferris’s head moved or the shooter’s hand twitched.”

Fatigue? Sadness? Resignation? LaManche sagged as I voiced my ugly conclusion.

“Avram Ferris was shot twice in the back of the head. Execution style.”

That night Ryan cooked at my place. Arctic char, asparagus, and what we from Dixie call smashed potatoes. The spuds he baked, peeled, then worked with a fork, adding green onions and olive oil as he mashed.

I watched in awe. I’ve been called insightful. Brilliant even. When it comes to cooking, I have the vision of a guppy. Given an eon to ponder, my brain would never conceive a road map to mashed potatoes that did not pass through boiling.

Birdie was immensely appreciative of Ryan’sfruits de mer, and spent the evening trawling for handouts. Later, he settled on the hearth. His purring said feline life didn’t get much better.

Over dinner, I shared my conclusion regarding manner of death in the Ferris case. Ryan already knew. The investigation was now officially homicide.

“The weapon’s a Jericho nine-millimeter,” he said.

“Where was it?”

“Way back in a corner of the closet, under a cart.”

“Did the gun belong to Ferris?”

“If so, no one knew about it.”

I reached for more salad.

“SIJ recovered one nine-millimeter bullet from the closet,” Ryan went on.

“Only one?” That didn’t fit with my double-entry scenario.

“In a ceiling panel.”

Nor did that.

“What was a bullet doing overhead?” I asked.

“Maybe Ferris went for the shooter, they struggled, the gun discharged.”

“Maybe the shooter placed the gun in Ferris’s hand and pulled the trigger.”

“Simulated suicide?” Ryan.

“Every TV viewer knows you gotta have gunshot residue.”

“LaManche didn’t find any.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

I munched and thought.

LaManche had recovered one bullet fragment from the victim’s head. SIJ had dug one bullet from the ceiling. Where was the rest of the ballistic evidence?

“You said Ferris may have been sitting on a stool when he took the shots?” I asked.

Ryan nodded.

“Facing the door?”

“Which was probably open. SIJ’s going over the office and hallways. You wouldn’t believe how much crap is stacked in this place.”

“What about casings?”

Ryan shook his head. “Shooter must have collected them.”

That didn’t make sense either.

“Why leave the gun, then turn around and collect the bullet casings?”

“An astute question, Dr. Brennan.”

I had no astute answer.

I offered salad to Ryan. He declined.

Ryan changed gears. “Dropped in on the widow again today.”

“And?”

“The lady won’t be topping my Miss Congeniality ballot.”

“She’s grieving.”

“So she says.”

“You don’t buy it?”

“My gut says there’s something to gnaw on there.”

“Bad metaphor.” I was thinking of the cats.

“Good point.”

“Any suspects?”

“A plethora.”

“Big word,” I said. “Sexy.”

“Tap pants,” Ryan said.

“Small words.”

Over dessert, I told Ryan what I’d learned about Kessler’s photo.

“Drum actually diverted to Paris?”

“Apparently.”

“He’s convinced the print shows this Masada skeleton?”

“And Jake’s not one to get worked up easily.”

Ryan gave me an odd look.

“How well do you know this Jake?”

“More than twenty years.”

“The query concerned depth, not length of acquaintance.”

“We’re colleagues.”

“Just colleagues?”

Eye roll. “Getting a little personal?”

“Mmm.”

“Mmm.”

“I’m thinking maybe we should pool our tips.”

I hadn’t a clue what that meant.

“I also had another chat with Courtney Purviance,” Ryan said. “Interesting lady.”

“Congenial?”

“Until the discussion turns to Ferris or details of the business. Then she slams shut like a bank vault.”

“Protecting the boss?”

“Or afraid she’s going to find herself out on the street. I picked up vibes she’s not all that fond of Miriam.”

“What did she say?”

“It’s not what she said.” Ryan thought a moment. “It was more her demeanor. Anyway, I did pry loose that Ferris dealt in artifacts from time to time.”

“Items from the Holy Land?” I guessed.

“Legally obtained and transported, of course.”

“There’s a huge black market in illegal antiquities,” I said.

“Colossal,” Ryan agreed.

Synapse.

“You think Ferris was involved with the Masada bones?”

Ryan shrugged.

“And that got him killed?”

“Kessler thought so.”

“Have you tracked Kessler down?”

“I will.”

“Could all be coincidence.”

“Could be.”

I didn’t think so.

RYAN WOKE ME SHORTLY AFTER SIX FOR SOME PRE-SUNRISE BONDING. Birdie slipped from the bedroom. Down the hall, Charlie squawked a line from Clarence Carter’s “Strokin’.”

While I showered, Ryan toasted bagels and made coffee. Over breakfast we discussed the cockatiel’s reeducation process.

Though unmentioned on the occasion of our Yuletide exchange, I’d quickly noted Charlie’s unorthodoxrépertoire noir. Upon questioning, Ryan had admitted that our feathered darling came to him via a vice squad raid on a female enterprise. The ladies’ taste had been lusty, and the bird had absorbed.

For months I’d been working to redirect Charlie’s musical and oratorical talents. With mixed results.

At eight, I popped in a cockatiel-training CD and Ryan and I rode together to L’édifice Wilfrid Derome. He headed to thecrimes contre la personne squad room on the first floor, and I took the LSJML elevator to the twelfth.

After shooting close-ups and composing a summary report, I told LaManche that the remains in my possession could be released to the Ferris family. Though burial had taken place while I was in New Orleans, arrangements had been made for placement of the cranial fragments in a coffin-side pit.