Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

Wally was summarizing in speech as he might have on paper. Or perhaps he was reading from notes he’d jotted during the call with his student.

“Male. Thirty years old, plus or minus five years. Age based on ribs and pubic symphyses. Or at least on what was left of them.”

Pause.

“Caucasoid.”

Pause.

“Height seventy-three inches, plus or minus. Can’t remember that exactly. Muscle attachments slight.”

“Any evidence of trauma?” I asked.

“Just postmortem. Animal damage. Cut marks on the third cervical vertebra suggestive of decapitation by a sharp instrument with a nonserrated blade. That’s about it.”

“Did you have any feel for the case at the time?”

“A tall white boy pissed somebody off. That somebody killed him and whacked off his head and hands. That in accord with what you’re seeing?”

“Pretty much.”

I looked out my window. The trees around my patio shimmered in the heat. My heartbeat had returned to normal. Concentrating on Cagle’s narrative, I’d nearly forgotten the prior call.

“I had a tough time determining sex with this skull. Didn’t fall on either side of the line,” I said.

“I had the same problem,” Cagle said. “Sheriff’s deputies recovered no clothes or personal effects. Dogs and raccoons used the body as carryout for a goodly period of time. Pelvis was badly chewed, so were the ends of the long bones. Had to calculate stature from one relatively complete fibula. Except for that height estimate, I saw zilch with regard to sex.”

“There are tall women,” I said.

“Look at professional basketball,” Cagle agreed. “Anyway, I thought I had a tall male, but wasn’t one hundred percent sure. So when I sent a femoral sample off for DNA profiling, I requested an amelogenin test.”

“And?”

“Two bands.”

“Male.” I said it more to myself than to Cagle.

“X and a Y, holding hands.”

“The state lab agreed to do a blind DNA?”

“Of course not. The sheriff’s query turned up a missing person as a possible match. DNA said otherwise.”

“What happened to the skeleton?”

“I shipped it back to Lancaster when I mailed my report. Coroner sent me a receipt.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“Snow. Murray P. Snow. Probably held the bones a week then torched them.”

“Did you take pictures?” I asked.

“They’re on file in my lab at the university.”

I thought a moment.

“Is there any way you could scan the images and transmit them to me electronically?”

“No problem, princess. I’ll be back in Columbia by late this afternoon. I’ll do it toot sweet, and fax you a copy of the report.”

I thanked him, disconnected, and went straight to my computer. Though Cagle’s call had distracted me for a time, I was anxious to see what kind of e-mail stalker wanted to be my chat buddy.

What kind of psychopath knew my home phone number.

The flag on my inbox was straight up. A cheery voice told me I had mail.

Barely breathing, I double-clicked the icon.

Forty-three e-mails.

I scrolled downward.

And my heartbeat ratcheted up.

Twenty-four messages had been sent by someone using the screen name Grim Reaper. Each file carried an attachment. Each subject line held the same message in bold caps: BACK OFF!

I recoiled from the monitor.

Breathe in.

Out.

In.

My hand shook as I double-clicked one of the Grim Reaper subject bars.

The message window was blank. The attachment was a numbered graphics file, 1.jpg. Download time was estimated at less than a minute.

I hit “download.”

AOL asked if I knew the sender.

Good point.

I went to the member directory. No profile on Grim Reaper.

Back to the e-mail.

A moment of hesitation.

I had to know.

I clicked “yes,” told the download manager to save.

Slowly, an image unfolded down the screen. My face, a hash-marked circle superimposed.

My subconscious knew instantly as my conscious mind moved toward comprehension.

My left hand flew to my mouth.

I was viewing myself through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

For a moment I could only stare.

Seriously frightened now, I closed that e-mail and opened another.

2.jpg.

Myself, leaving a Starbucks. This time the scope was trained on my back.

3.jpg.

Myself, leaving the MCME facility, bull’s-eye on my forehead.

Morbidly fascinated, I had to see more.

8.jpg.

A picture of Ryan and me leaving the McEniry Building at UNCC.

12.jpg.

Boyd, exiting my kitchen door.

18.jpg.

Myself, entering Pike’s Soda Shop.

Breathing hard and starting to sweat, I opened another.

22.jpg.

The sweat went cold on my skin and I shivered.

Katy sat reading on what I guessed to be Lija’s front porch swing. She was wearing shorts and a tank top I’d purchased at the Gap. One bare foot was lazily pushing against the railing.

A rifle was aimed at her head.

20

AT THE SOUND OF THE DOOR, I FLEW TO THE KITCHEN.

Boyd was guzzling from his bowl.

Ryan was digging water from the refrigerator. I watched him straighten, uncap the bottle, throw back his head, and drink. His skin glistened. Strong, ropy muscles rippled in his arm, neck, and back.

Seeing him calmed me.

Needing a male presence to calm me annoyed me.

I shoved both feelings aside.

“Good run?” I asked, attempting a conversational tone.

Ryan turned.

One look told him all was not well.

“What’s up?”

“When you’ve showered I’d like you to look at something.” Though I tried for steady, my voice shook.

“What’s happened, babe?”

“I’d rather show you.”

Ryan set down the water, crossed to me, and took both my hands in his.

“You OK?”

“I’m OK.”

Long, probing look.

“Hold on to that thought.”

While Ryan was upstairs I viewed the rest of the e-mails. The settings varied. The theme did not. Every one was a threat.

Ryan was back in ten minutes, smelling of Irish Spring and Mennen Speed Stick. Kissing the top of my head, he took the chair beside mine.

I described the phone call, took him through the e-mails.

Ryan’s face hardened as he viewed the images. Now and then a jaw muscle bulged, relaxed.

After we’d finished, he held me close. When he spoke, his voice sounded strange, harder, somehow.

“As long as I’m drawing breath no one will ever hurt you or your daughter, Tempe. I promise you that.” His tone grew softer, his words more clipped. “I swear. For you. And for me.” He stroked my hair. “I want you in my life, Tempe Brennan.”

I did not trust myself to answer. Confusion, delight, and surprise were now tangoing with the anger and fear.

Ryan squeezed, then released me, and asked to see the images again.

Having no desire for a third run-through, I yielded my place and went to replenish Boyd’s bowl. When I returned, Ryan fixed me with fierce blue eyes.

“There was a multicar wreck here recently?”

“Last Friday night.”

“One of the injured just died?”

“No idea.” I hadn’t expected a current events quiz.

“Do you have this week’s papers?”

“In the pantry.”

“Get them.”

“Are you going to let me in on your Black Dahlia moment, or am I going to have to guess?”

I was feeling anxious. Anxious makes me churlish.

“Please get the papers.” Ryan’s voice held no trace of humor.

I dug the week’s Observers from the recycle box and returned to the study.

The wreck victim died Tuesday night at Mercy Hospital. She was headmistress at a private high school, so her death made Wednesday’s headline.