Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

“A year in the ground. No caskets. I’d expect advanced decomp, if not full skeletonization.”

“U.S. experts will only get one shot at these bodies. If base personnel aren’t top-notch, John could be screwed.”

“Determining bullet trajectory is not rocket science.”

“You know that. Will they? According to Hunter, this is John’s best hope to clear himself. The defense wants a say in who will exhume and examine, and the prosecution has told them to propose someone who might be mutually acceptable.”

“You want me to go to Afghanistan.” Said with the enthusiasm I reserve for boils and sties.

“Yes. Your prosecution background will satisfy the government and the defense will go along with Hunter’s recommendation.”

Pete leaned back, eyes intense on mine. He’d presented his case. Now he waited.

Deep breath.

“Don’t get me wrong, Pete. I feel for John and his family. But military physicians have a lot of experience—too much—with traumatic injury. Any doctor in Afghanistan will have seen hundreds of gunshot wounds.”

“In fresh tissue. You just said it. The only thing left will probably be bone. That’s you. That’s your thing. You’re the best. Plus, the Article 32 hearing is in North Carolina.”

“I have commitments. I can’t just take off for the other side of the world.”

“You do it all the time.”

“No, I don’t.”

“JPAC?”

Pete was referring to my role as a civilian consultant to the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command, the military’s central identification laboratory in Honolulu.

“That’s different. Those visits are scheduled.”

“That’s another reason it has to be you. You know how the military functions, and your JPAC connection is another big reason the government will agree to you as the forensic expert.”

“Pete—”

He reached across and took both my hands in his.

“I’m asking this as a personal favor. Please. Oversee the exhumation. Do the analysis.”

“This is ridiculous. The logistics would be a nightmare.”

He smiled. “You’ve already been cleared.”

“By whom?”

“The DOD, the Pentagon, the friggin’ White House.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Pete pantomimed crossing his heart. “Digging up corpses on foreign soil is serious business, especially when they’re evidence in the investigation of an American soldier.”

“No way.” I pulled my hands free. “I’ve got a teenage Jane Doe in my cooler and no one gives a flip. If I don’t press her case, who will?”

“How’s that going?” Not full-out sarcastic, but close.

“It’s going.” Clipped. Why was I even discussing this?

“It’s your choice, of course. Stay here and keep pressing. Go to Afghanistan and help an American who’s maybe getting screwed. An American who risked his life serving his country.”

Pete paused to allow the unspoken implication its full impact. Katy.

“You can do either, buttercup. But ask yourself. Will staying here really help your Jane Doe?”

Annoying as it was, Pete had a point. Slidell would keep chipping away at the hit and run. Not as fast without me nagging, but he’d do the work. Luther Dew? No nagging needed there. The DNA? I could fly around the world and still beat the results to my inbox.

“John Gross needs one person he can trust to be impartial and competent. He needs the best.”

“What if I find that these men were shot in the back?”

“Then I will have fulfilled a commitment to a friend, and you will have found the truth, wherever it leads.”

Then Pete the litigator brought his argument home.

“The incident took place at a village called Sheyn Bagh. You’ll go there to oversee the exhumation. You’ll do the analysis at Bagram.”

Where Katy is stationed. Again, it didn’t need saying.

“I’ll think about it.”

Dear God, was I really considering this?

Pete passed me the donuts. I shook my head. He placed one on his plate, collected both mugs, and disappeared into the kitchen.

On the sideboard, Gran’s clock tapped out its quiet metronome. Curled on his chair, Birdie snored softly. Out the window, a mockingbird trilled a Saturday-morning air.

Pete returned and set coffee before me. Took his chair. Waited.

At length, he asked, “Finished thinking?”

“No.” I was.

“You’ll go, right?”

“When?”

He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans, removed two papers, and laid them on the table.

I glanced at each.

Invitational travel orders.

An e-ticket on Turkish Airlines. Charlotte-Douglas to Dulles International. Dulles to Istanbul.

Leaving the next day.

THE REST OF THAT DAY was a nightmare of errands, packing, and last-minute arrangements. Ditto Sunday morning.

Larabee had to be notified. Slidell. Dew. LaManche in Montreal. Katy.

I tried Ryan, got voicemail. Big surprise there. Message: Gone to Afghanistan. Let him think about that.

Not wanting an inquisition, I sent Harry an e-mail. An extremely vague one.

I asked a neighbor to bring in the mail and papers. Dropped Birdie with Pete. Filled a prescription. Bought socks.

You get the picture.

Packing was a challenge. The Weather Channel said it might be hot, might be cold. Terrific. Figuring I could peel down, I erred in the direction of the latter.

In addition to jeans, tees, and sweaters, I tossed in my usual crime-scene duds: khaki BDUs, khaki cap, desert boots, gloves. Saucy. I figured my hosts could supply any specialty gear needed.

Sunday morning I also loaded files onto my MacBook Air. A template for an evidence transfer form. A template for a forensic anthropology case form. The latest version of Fordisc 3.0, a program for the metric analysis of unknown remains. A number of online osteology manuals. All probably unneeded, but I wanted to be fully armed.

Last, I copied an article I was preparing for the Journal of Forensic Sciences . Unlikely I’d do any writing on this trip, but what the hell.

The taxi rolled up at four. I was at Charlotte-Douglas in thirty minutes, through security in thirty more.

Aviation miracle, the flight was on time. Three hours after leaving the annex, I was walking up a Jetway at Dulles.

After locating the Turkish Airlines gate, I found the Virgin Atlantic lounge and burrowed in for my three-hour wait.

Again, the gods were smiling. At 10:20 a voice announced my flight was boarding for an on-time departure.

Thinking international travel wasn’t so bad, I queued up with my fellow business-class passengers, found my seat, stowed my belongings, and buckled my belt.

I do not sleep well in flight.

For the next ten hours I read, ate a reasonably good meal, tried a movie or two. Donned earplugs and eyeshades, reclined my seat, and tucked under the blanket. Sought positions in which all of my limbs enjoyed blood flow. Reoriented again and again. Raised the seat and turned on the light to read. Lowered the seat. Dialed up white noise on my phone. Tried another movie.

Again and again I thought about Jane Doe. Assured myself I hadn’t abandoned her.

Deplaning in Istanbul, I felt like I’d rowed the entire fifty-five hundred miles.

The Turkish Airlines lounge was all gold and white, with circular arches separating bars, seating clusters, and food stations. The chairs and sofas would have looked stylish in any posh L.A. hotel. Wi-Fi. A pianist. Even a masseur. I could’ve lived in the place.

I snagged a few hors d’oeuvres, then checked my e-mail.