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

I’m good with the square footage. It’s mine. No one encroaches. Mostly I use it for writing reports or examining files. Like the one lying on my blotter.

I sat down and opened the cover. On top was a form requesting an anthropology consult. I skimmed the contents.

Case number. Morgue number. Police incident number. Investigating officer, agency. Larabee was the requesting pathologist.

I skipped to the Summary of Known Facts. The brief, hand-scrawled paragraph contained nothing I hadn’t heard from Slidell. Suspicion of smuggled antiquities, objects confiscated at Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. Dominick Rockett.

I moved on to Description of Specimens. The items in question were identified as mummy bundles. Four in number. Peruvian in origin. Possibly Inca. Likely obtained from a cemetery.

My eyes dropped to the final section: Expertise Requested. The boxes beside “Exhumation,” “Biological Profile,” and “Trauma Analysis” had been left unchecked. Beside the category “Other” were six scribbled words: Analysis and written report. Human remains?

I set the form aside and thumbed through the stack of paper-clipped photos.

In the first three, the bundles lay side by side, wrappings intact. Though desiccated and discolored with age, each seemed in pretty good shape. Fair enough. The Peruvian desert would have provided a reasonably dry environment, a burial context kind to preservation.

The next several photos showed one of the bundles partially unwrapped. I could see what appeared to be a shriveled dog’s head, eyelids closed, fur still covering one flattened ear.

I dug back to my grad-school days, to a course on South American archaeology. And came up with little beyond the basics. Fifteenth century. The Andes Mountains. Machu Pichu. The Quechua language. Inti, the sun god.

I lined up the photos. Stared. A gaggle of brain cells coughed up an article I’d read maybe five years earlier. National Geographic? The Chiribaya, a pre-Inca population living in the Osmore River valley, some five hundred miles southeast of Lima. The Chiribaya had interred their dogs along with their dead.

I booted my laptop, opened Google, and entered a few key words. Peru. Canines. Mummies.

Yep. The Chiribaya buried their dogs between the graves of their dearly departed. Some with blankets and food for the long journey onward.

Now I understood my involvement in the case. I was to make sure there were no human bones caught up in those bundles.

According to the case board, the dogs were here. I could walk across the hall and unpack them.

I didn’t.

My thoughts kept drifting back to the hit-and-run victim, now under Larabee’s scalpel.

My gaze fell on the photo closest to me, on a slash of white visible below the rolled gum of the unwrapped dog. A tooth. Perfect after centuries.

Unlike the teeth of our young Jane Doe.

I reclipped the photos and closed the file.

Sat a moment.

Reopened the file.

Checked a name.

Picked up and dialed the phone.

“UNITED STATES IMMIGRATION AND CUSTOMS Enforcement. How may I direct your call?”

I asked for Luther Dew, the agent working the mummified-dog case.

ICE does not offer music to callers placed on hold. Bored and agitated, my mind started playing What Songs Would Suit? Ricky Nelson’s “Travelin’ Man”? Neil Diamond’s “Coming to America”? Merle Haggard’s “Movin’ On”?

A recorded voice cut the game short.

“Special Agent Dew is not available to take your call. Please leave a message after the beep.”

I left a message.

Glanced at my watch. The time was movin’ on to 5:30 P.M. To be a travelin’ woman I’d need my car.

I opened the file again and stared at the photo of the unwrapped dog. What were they called? Chiribayan shepherds? Looked like a snoozing spaniel to me.

My eyes shifted to the phone, willing it to ring.

It didn’t. Of course.

My mind looped back to the Jane Doe who’d recently left Larabee’s table.

Had I missed something?

Before I could consider the possibility, the landline shrilled its after-hours ring.

“Dr. Brennan?”

“Speaking.”

“Due here.”

Confused, I looked at my watch again. Had I forgotten an appointment?

“Luther Dew. Returning your call.” The voice was high and somewhat effeminate. I pictured Truman Capote in bow tie and fedora.

“Thanks for calling back so quickly.”

Noncommittal silence.

“I’m with the medical examiner’s office.”

“Yes. I just phoned you at this number.”

“I’m working on the Peruvian mummy bundles.”

“You’re the anthropologist?”

“I am.” Matching Dew’s prim with prim. “I wondered if I might have some background on the case. On Dominick Rockett, the importer.”

Dew gave an annoyed little click of his tongue.

“Sir?”

“Importers are legal and adhere to U.S. Customs regulations. They file proper paperwork. They bring in only what is allowed. None of that applies to Mr. Rockett in the matter of these artifacts.”

Of these artifacts?

“Has your agency had other interactions with Rockett?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Alrighty, then.

But I hadn’t called Dew to talk about smuggling. His Peruvian dogs were simply my lead-in, a means to schmooze him for what I really wanted to know.

“Can you share anything on Rockett?”

“I cannot divulge the specifics of an open file.”

And I don’t give a rat’s ass about Dominick Rockett.

“I understand, sir. But mummified dogs are unusual for this facility. I assume you got a peek at the one that was partially unwrapped?”

More noncommittal silence. But a hitch in Dew’s breathing suggested he might be thawing.

“If that pooch opened its eyes and asked for Alpo, it wouldn’t surprise me.” I chuckled, congenial as hell. “He’s that well preserved.”

“Is he.”

“These dogs were quite a score for your department.”

“You wouldn’t believe the items we confiscate.” Did the prig actually sniff?

“I’m sure the array is impressive.”

“Take rhinoceros horns. Traditionally, smugglers would grind them and hide the powder inside statues or other hollow objects. Now they’re importing whole heads, declaring them as legal antiques. They sever the horns, replace them with synthetics, and think they’re in business. How dumb do they think we are?”

“The Peruvian dogs came through Charlotte-Douglas, right?”

“Smuggling isn’t limited to big cities. Contraband can arrive at any port of entry.” Dew was opening up, though revealing only what was public knowledge. I knew the ploy. Had used it myself. “Did you read about the Tyrannosaurus bones seized up north?”

“Sir?”

“A semicomplete skeleton from the Gobi Desert. The imbeciles listed it on two different importation documents. As if we wouldn’t check.” Yep. Dew actually sniffed in disdain. “They declared reptile heads, broken fossil bones, and a couple of lizards.”

“What was the tip-off?” I picked up and started flipping a pen on my blotter.

“The materials were wildly undervalued. But the flashing red was the information entered as country of origin.”

“Which was?”

“England.”

“Tyrannosaurus-on-Thames?”

“Yes. The Mongolians had a giggle over that.” Delivered without a hint of a laugh.

“Good work.”

“The American people don’t fully appreciate what ICE does for international relations.”