Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

I closed my eyes and did some Yogic breathing, Slowly, my anger dissipated. When I opened them, I felt—what?

Flattened.

Confused.

Death investigations are complex enough. Why was it always doubly difficult with Claudel? Why couldn’t he and I enjoy the easy exchange that characterized my professional interactions with other homicide investigators? With Ryan?

Ryan.

Doris tapped on my shoulder for a few frames of Pillow Talk.

Some things were clear. Claudel’s mind was made up. He didn’t like rats. He didn’t like the pizza parlor. He didn’t think these bones were worth his attention. Whatever investigative support I needed I would have to find through other sources.

“OK, you supercilious, knee-jerk skeptic. Scoff at my analysis without trying to understand it. We’ll do this without you.”

Grabbing my clipboard, I headed back downstairs.

Three hours later I’d finished a skeletal inventory on LSJML-38426. The remains were complete save for the hyoid, a tiny U-shaped bone suspended in the soft tissue of the throat, and several of the smaller hand and foot bones.

Long bones continue to increase in length as long as their epiphyses, the small caps at each end, remain separate from the bone itself. Growth stops when a bone’s epiphyses unite with its shaft. Luckily for the anthropologist, each set of epiphyses marches to its own clock.

By observing the state of development of the arm, leg, and collarbones, I was able to narrow my age estimate. I’d requested dental X-rays so I could observe molar root development, but already I had no doubt. The girl in the crate had died between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.

My case form had a dozen checks in the column indicating European ancestry. Narrow nasal opening. Sharply projecting lower nasal border. Highly angled nasal bridge. Prominent nasal spine. Cheekbones tight to the face. Every feature and measurement placed the skull squarely in the Caucasoid category. I was certain the girl was white.

And tiny. Leg bone measurements indicated she stood approximately five feet two inches tall.

Though I’d examined every bone and bone fragment, I’d found not a single mark of violence. A few scratches in the vicinity of the right auditory canal looked superficial and V-shaped under magnification. I suspected the marks were a postmortem artifact, caused by abrasion with the ground surface, or careless handling during removal to the crate.

The teeth showed evidence of poor hygiene and no dental restorations.

Now I was turning to postmortem interval. How long had she been dead? With just dry bone, PMI was going to be a bitch.

The human body is a Copernican microcosm composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. The heart is the daystar, providing life source to every metabolic system in the galaxy.

When the heart stops pumping, it’s cytoplasmic chaos. Cellular enzymes begin a cannibalistic feast on the body’s own carbohydrates and proteins. Cell membranes rupture, releasing food for armies of microorganisms. Bacteria in the gut start munching outward. Environmental bacteria, carrion insects, and scavenging animals start munching inward.

Burial, submersion, or embalming retards the process of decomposition. Certain mechanical and chemical agents boost it.

So how long are we talking for dust to dust?

With extreme heat and humidity, loss of soft tissue can occur in as little as three days. But that’s a land record. Under normal conditions, with shallow burial, a body takes six months to a year to go skeletal.

Enclosure in a basement might slow that. Enclosure in a basement in the subarctic might slow that a lot.

What facts did I have?

The bodies were found in shallow graves. Was that the original place of burial? How soon after death had they been placed there?

At least two had been flexed, knees drawn tight to the chest. At least one had been bundled, wrapped in an outer covering of leather. Beyond that, I knew squat. Moisture. Soil acidity. Temperature fluctuation.

What could I say?

The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel’s buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.

Best estimate: more than a year and less than a millennium. Claudel would have a field day with that.

Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions.

I was rolling out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel’s arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.

“Brennan.”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” A female voice, quavery and uncertain.

“Oui.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rolled over to the night service.

“I didn’t expect you to actually answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat—”

“Is there something I can help you with?” I matched her English.

There was a pause, as if the caller was actually considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.

“Well, I don’t know. Actually, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you.”

Great. Another citizen volunteer.

Members of crime scene recovery units are typically not scientists. They are technicians. They collect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit’s involvement is over. No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveillance. No hot lead shoot-outs. Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.

But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hollywood myth needs a kick in the pants.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process.”

“Oh.” I heard a sharp intake of air.

“If you stop in the personnel office, I’m certain that printed material exists giving job descript—”

“No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in Le Journal yesterday. I phoned your office.”

Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.

Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The call was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.

“This may sound crazy.” Nervous throat clearing. “And I know how very busy you must be.”

“Actually, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.—?”

The name was distorted by static. Gallant? Ballant? Talent?

“—bones you dug up.”

Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.

“What about them?”

The voice became stronger.

“I feel it is my moral responsibility.”

I said nothing, staring at the bones on the gurney and thinking about moral responsibilities.

“My moral duty to follow through. At least with a telephone call. Before I leave. It’s the least I can do. People just don’t take time anymore. No one bothers. No one wants to get involved.”

In the hall, I heard voices, doors slamming, then quiet. The autopsy techs had left for the day. I leaned back, tired, but anxious to finish the conversation and get back to work.

“What is it you would like to tell me?”