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

At the DFAC, I scored eggs and hash browns, poured coffee, and found an empty table. I’d barely started eating when Blanton slumped into the chair opposite, a dark crescent under each of his eyes.

“Another day in paradise.”

Bits of bacon clung to the stubble above Blanton’s lip. I considered telling him. Didn’t.

“Sleep well?”

Blanton pulled down a lower lid to expose the bloodshot sclera. “Like a baby.”

“That going to be a problem, Mr. Blanton? Lots of detail work today.”

“By you, not me.”

“I’ll need everything documented.”

“This ain’t my first rodeo, my dear.” Blanton smiled, saluted, and headed off.

As I finished my coffee, I considered. Did this jerk actually make Slidell look good? My mug hit the tray. No. But the gap was closing.

Welsted and the village delegates were already at the hospital when I arrived.

“The remains have been X-rayed.” Welsted filled me in as we walked to the room we’d been assigned. “Shall I have them brought here?”

“Please. Where are the films?”

“On one of the gurneys.”

When she’d gone I looked around.

White tiles, two spare gurneys, a floor-stand surgical light, portable illuminator boxes, two deep-basin steel sinks with counter, a small collection of cutting tools, calipers, and a magnifying lens. Not what I had in Charlotte or Montreal, but it would do.

Blanton joined us as an orderly wheeled the remains through the door and, without comment, began setting up his camera equipment. The two villagers observed, bodies tense, eyes never resting. Each looked jumpy enough to need pharmaceuticals.

I crossed to Welsted and spoke in a whisper. “It might be better if they watched from next door.” I tipped my head toward an observation window in the wall above the sinks.

“I’ll go with them,” Welsted offered.

Moments later a light went on and the three appeared on the far side of the glass.

Nodding encouragement to them, I slipped Rasekh’s X-rays from their envelope and popped them onto light boxes.

As I moved from plate to plate, flicking switches, my heart sank.

Rasekh had been aboveground when the mortar hit. We’d spent close to an hour re-excavating the body bag from under fallen soil and rock. All night I’d worried that the avalanche had damaged the bones.

I studied the remains glowing white inside the shroud. The long bones looked reasonably intact, but the torso was a jumble and the skull was crushed. Nothing was articulated. Rasekh was in much worse shape than I’d feared.

I sent a confident smile toward the faces in the window. Confidence I didn’t feel.

“You ready?” To Blanton, as I blew into a latex glove.

“All systems go.”

Blanton started the camcorder. I pulled out my iPhone and dictated the time, date, place, and names of those present. Then I masked.

As I unzipped Rasekh’s bag, a musty, earthy smell wafted out. With cautious fingers, I unwound the shroud.

In a year, Mother Nature had worked her inevitable magic. Some remnants of ligament remained, the odd band that had once connected phalanges, a swatch that had once covered a joint capsule. Otherwise, the flesh was gone.

But what time and the desert had left, the landslide had demolished in seconds.

No part of Abdul Khalik Rasekh’s skull or lower jaw measured more then five square centimeters, six max. I recognized an orbital ridge, a sliver of zygomatic arch, a mastoid process, a mandibular condyle, isolated teeth.

The postcranial skeleton had fared little better. While the femora and tibiae were whole, the rest of the leg bones were badly fractured. The pelvis was shattered.

The chest and upper limbs had taken the worst beating. The arm bones, clavicles, scapulae, sternum, vertebrae, and ribs were virtually pulverized.

Which wasn’t good.

Marines are taught to aim for the center of mass on a target. Picture a human torso. Draw a line nipple to nipple, then another from each nipple to the throat. Any round striking this area will cause incapacitation due to paralysis, shock, or death.

The Triangle of Death.

Due either to the impact of the bullets or to the barrage of falling debris, Rasekh’s triangle had been turned into hamburger.

Deep breath. Nod at the observers.

I began picking out recognizable elements and arranging them in a macabre sort of skeleton. As I positioned each fragment, I checked for evidence of gunshot trauma.

To keep focused, I ran through some basics in my head.

Gunshot wounds are categorized according to the distance between the shooter and the victim. A contact GSW, in which the gun is pressed to the flesh, can leave soot, a muzzle imprint, or even a laceration due to the effect of the bullet’s propulsive gases. An intermediate GSW, in which the gun is fired at close range, can leave a zone of stippling, called a powder tattoo. A distance GSW is one in which the range of powder tattooing is exceeded.

But all that was irrelevant. There was no flesh. And witness statements already placed Gross approximately ten to fifteen meters from Aqsaee and Rasekh.

And I was seeing zip.

“What kind of weapon did Gross fire?” I asked. I remembered the NCIS file, but was confirming essential facts.

“An M16. Standard Marine artillery.”

“How many shots?” I was also talking to mask my anxiety.

“The M16’s got a thirty-round clip. Gross emptied his.”

That was overkill, even for two targets.

“What kind of rounds?”

“NATO-standard five-point-five-six millimeter.”

“Velocity?”

“Nine hundred and forty MPS. Anything under a thousand, popcorn!”

In his not so graceful way, Blanton was referring to a sequence of events that occurs with certain types of projectiles. If the bullet tumbles, or yaws, it can fragment, sending metal into the surrounding flesh. This type of wound can be much more damaging than a clean through-and-through shot.

“Do witness statements say anything about the sequence of fire?” I asked.

Blanton checked his notes.

“Witnesses reported hearing a burst, a pause, then another burst. But everyone says the same thing. The scene was chaos.”

I glanced up at the delegates. Their faces were still at the glass, grim and resolute. I imagined mine looked the same.

When I’d sorted the entire contents of Rasekh’s body bag, I began a running commentary on what I was seeing. As was my habit, I worked from the head toward the feet.

“Identifiable cranial features indicate a middle-aged male.” I listed them. “Dentition fragmented and incomplete, but consistent in age and gender with the subject, Abdul Khalik Rasekh.”

“That really necessary?” Blanton sounded impatient.

“Things get confused, memories fade. Identification is always a first step in any exhumation.”

I continued through the wreckage, noting features relevant to Rasekh’s biological profile. A fragment of pubic symphysis confirmed my age estimate. Pubic bone shape said the remains were those of a male.

But the slivers, bits, and chunks that represented the torso were too shattered and abraded to yield any information as to cause of death.

Despite my resolve to stay calm, agitation crept into my voice. Blanton noticed.

“You okay, doc?”

“Peachy.”

Backhanding hair from my forehead, I rechecked every fragment from Rasekh’s midsection, this time using the magnifying lens. It was like viewing cookie crumbs smoothed by a tumbler.

As I worked, the morning’s headache crept back. A tight feeling built in my chest. I’d said bullet trajectory was easy to analyze. They’d brought me seven thousand miles to do that. So far I was failing.

I was examining a sixty-centimeter segment of humerus when I noticed an almost invisible spray crosscutting the surface.