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

Pete’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t disagree.

“I mean it. The Marine Corps dealt with Gross’s actions in Sheyn Bagh in a straightforward way. As did I in looking at the bones of his victims. Eventually Gross’s involvement in trafficking would have come to light. And the same impartial process would have kicked into gear.”

“Hopefully with better results.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?”

Pete tipped his head.

“Rockett and Gross. The man who seemed a monster was the one with a conscience. The man who seemed a patriot warrior had venom in his veins.”

We talked about Katy. About the fact that the military had reversed its traditional stance and was now opening frontline combat positions to women.

Seeing I found the subject less than calming, Pete changed tack.

“So this troll Blanton was actually harmless?”

“Just one weird dude.”

“What was Blanton’s beef with Welsted?”

“Just didn’t like each other.”

“What’s with the cockatiel?”

“He’s visiting.”

“Where’s the birdcat?”

“Holler ‘lo mein.’ He’ll be here in the flick of a whisker.”

Thursday night, I’d closed Birdie in the closet when digging out the erasable board. Consumed by the firestorm swirling in my brain, I’d mistaken his scratching for sounds outside the annex. By the time I got home, the cat had been captive for hours. Since that distressing misadventure, he’d ventured downstairs only to eat.

Or maybe it was Charlie. The two had never really bonded.

Pete shouted. In seconds Birdie padded through the door.

Pete placed noodles and shrimp on a saucer, smiled as he watched the feline scarf it up. Then the smile faded. When Pete spoke again, his voice carried a tone I hadn’t heard before.

“That night.” Pete stopped to regroup. “I came here Thursday night. You were outside on the walk.”

Ryan. The embrace. Headlights sweeping the drive, continuing past.

“That was you?”

Pete nodded.

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“You were with someone.”

I said nothing.

Pete studied his napkin as though he’d never seen one before. Then his eyes rolled up to mine.

“I’ve called off the wedding.”

I chuckled. “As I predicted. Wait a few—”

“I’ve broken our engagement.”

“What?” I hadn’t expected that.

“The marriage wouldn’t have worked. I’ve known that for a while. When I saw you with—” Pete raised a hand. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Where’s Summer?”

“Gone back to her place.”

“How is she?”

“Not happy.”

“Oh, Pete. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s better this way.”

Pete dropped the upraised hand onto my good one. Our eyes locked. His thumb began stroking my skin.

The moment became embarrassingly long.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Slipping free of Pete’s grasp.

“You already have.”

Pete left me sitting in my chair, staring at half-empty cartons of my Chinese favorites.

As I got up to clear the table, a sudden thought struck me. Had Pete filed the divorce papers? Was he at long last officially my ex?

When finished with the dishes, I went up to my room. Lying in bed with Birdie, I thought about loss.

Aqsaee and Rasekh.

Ara and Rosalie.

Lily.

ICE agents would care for Gross’s victims. Find out who they are, where they came from, what happened to them. They would return the girls to their homes. Or set them on the road to better lives.

La Police Nationale would track Jean Pruet and the girls he had trafficked into France.

Canadian authorities would probe Lily’s death. They would shut down the shooting gallery where she died. Arrest the dealers who led her to that time and place.

All three investigations would involve grim, gut-wrenching tasks.

Cuddling with my cat, I resolved one thing.

The world is rife with evil and misfortune, but it is also full of good people determined to right wrongs. I would not sink into sadness. I would celebrate those who refuse to give up. Those who battle to make things better.

But who, I wondered, would battle for Ryan in his agony?

Ryan.

Pete.

I needed to be alone.

Needed time to consider and digest all that had happened.

FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS

OF BONES, BODIES, BULLETS, BLACK HAWKS, AND BONDAGE

Spoiler alert! If you haven’t yet finished Bones of the Lost ,

you might want to read this later.

As with each Temperance Brennan novel, the ideas for Bones of the Lost came from both the professional and personal parts of my life.

My professional background offers no shortage of inspiring material. Most everyone knows what forensic anthropologists do. In the opening chapter Tempe explains the job while being questioned for jury duty. Forensic anthropology is all about bones and compromised bodies.

Here’s a surprise: Now and then my colleagues and I examine fleshed individuals, sometimes even living, breathing people.

Occasionally the subject is an adolescent whose exact age is unclear. Should he or she be tried as an adult? Granted asylum? Allowed to make his or her own medical decisions? In such cases anthropological analysis focuses on whether the individual is above or below an age significant for legal reasons.

Occasionally the subject has died recently but remains unidentified, and age or ethnicity is uncertain. Or the fracture patterning due to trauma is complicated. In such cases, skeletal analysis can add valuable information to the soft-tissue autopsy.

A real-life situation inspired Tempe’s involvement with the hit-and-run Jane Doe. A driver was found dead on the floor of a large truck depot. One story had him accidentally struck by a vehicle while standing upright. Another had him intentionally run over while lying facedown, following a fistfight.

The pathologist wanted to know if analysis of the cranial trauma could resolve the question. It did. A skull subjected to enormous weight loading while compressed against concrete fractures differently from one striking concrete as a result of a fall.

So. Change the trucker to a young girl on a lonely two-lane.

And what of the bullet trajectory dilemma?

Some years ago I was asked to serve as an expert adviser for a public inquiry into the 1969 death of a police detective. The man was found in his car, dead of a gunshot wound to the chest. When the manner of death was ruled suicide, the family cried foul, insisting their father/husband had been murdered for testifying about police corruption. They claimed he’d been shot in the back and that the wound on his chest was from a bullet exiting, not entering, as stated by the coroner. Twenty-seven years postmortem they found a pathologist who agreed with their version of events, based on his viewing of the old black-and-white autopsy and scene photos.

A government commission formed and a team was assembled to exhume the deceased. Michael Baden was the pathologist. I was the forensic anthropologist.

Though three decades underground had reduced the remains to bone, the fracture patterning on the sternum was classic. The bullet had entered anteriorly and exited posteriorly, taking breakaway fragments with it. Dr. Baden and I were in agreement concerning a front-to-back trajectory.

Suicide? Homicide? Not our call. But the man had not been shot in the back.

Desperate, the family’s pathologist then argued that the defect was a developmental anomaly called a sternal foramen, and, later still, that the damage was produced not by a projectile at all but by our analysis.

To no avail. The original finding of suicide stood.

So. Change the police detective to an Afghan man and boy. Change the question of suicide versus homicide to one of murder versus self-defense.