Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

His finger moved to the maze of streets making up the old city.

“Both of Chantale’s arrests took place in Zone One.”

“Some kids go through a rebellious phase,” I said. “She probably got back home, went at it with Daddy, and took off.”

“For four months?”

“It’s probably coincidence. Chantale doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“Lucy Gerardi disappeared January fifth. Ten days later, it was Chantale Specter.”

Galiano turned to me.

“According to some, Lucy and Chantale were close friends.”

6

CRIME SCENE PICTURES PROVIDE A CHEAP PEEK INTO THE SECRETSof strangers. Unlike photographic art in which lighting and subjects are chosen or positioned to enhance moments of beauty, scene photos are shot to capture stark, unadorned reality in vivid detail. Viewing them is a jarring and dispiriting task.

A shattered window. A blood-spattered kitchen. A woman spread-eagled in bed, torn panties covering her face. The bloated body of a child in a trunk. Horror revisited, moments, hours, or days later.

Or even months.

At nine-forty Xicay delivered the Paraíso prints. With no bones to examine, these shots offered my only hope of constructing an accurate victim profile, of perhaps linking the septic tank skeleton to one of the missing girls.

I opened the first envelope, afraid, but anxious to know how much anatomical detail had been saved.

Or lost.

The alley.

The Paraíso.

The dilapidated little oasis out back.

I studied multiple views of the septic tank before and after uncapping, before, during, and after draining. In the last, shadows crossed the empty chambers like long, bony fingers.

I replaced the first set and switched to another envelope.

The top print featured my ass pointed skyward at the edge of the tank. The second showed a lower arm bone lying on a sheet in a body bag. Even with my magnifier, I could make out no detail. I laid down the lens and continued.

Seven shots down I found a close-up of the ulna. Inching my glass along the shaft, I scrutinized every bump and crest. I was about to give up when I spotted a hair-thin line at the wrist end.

“Look at this.”

Galiano took the lens and bent over the print. I pointed with the tip of a pen.

“That’s a remnant epiphyseal line.”

“Ay, Dios.” He spoke without raising his eyes. “And that means?”

“The growth cap is fusing to the end of the shaft.”

“And that means?”

“It means young.”

“How young?”

“Probably late teens.”

He straightened.

“Muy bueno, Dr. Brennan.”

The cranial series began halfway down the third stack. As I viewed image after image, my gut curled tighter than it had in the septic tank. Xicay had shot down on the skull from at least six feet away. Mud, shadow, and distance obscured every feature. Even the magnifier didn’t help.

Discouraged, I finished envelope three and moved on. One by one, body parts spread across the sheet. Fusing growth caps on several long bones supported the age range suggested by the ulna.

Xicay had taken at least a half dozen shots of the pelvis. Soft tissue held the three parts together, allowing me to note a heart-shaped inlet. The pubic bones were long, and met above an obtuse sub-pubic angle.

I flipped to the side views.

Broad, shallow sciatic notch.

“Female,” I said to no one in particular.

“Show me.” Galiano returned to my desk.

Spreading the photos, I explained each feature. Galiano listened in silence.

As I was gathering the prints, my eye picked out several oddshaped flecks on the belly side of the right iliac blade. I pulled the image to me and raised and lowered my lens above it. Galiano watched.

Tooth fragments? Vegetation? Gravel? The tiny particles looked familiar, but try as I might, I couldn’t identify them.

“What is it?” Galiano.

“I’m not sure. Maybe just debris.”

I returned the photos to their envelope, and shook out another set.

Foot bones. Hand bones. Ribs.

Galiano was paged to his office. The two detectives plugged away at their boards.

Sternum. Vertebrae.

Galiano returned.

“Where the hell is Hernández?”

No answer. I imagined two shrugs behind me.

My spine ached. I raised my arms, stretched backward, then to each side.

When I resumed my perusal, a miracle.

While I was overseeing evacuation of the tank, Xicay had returned to the skull. The last series of photographs showed top, bottom, side, and front views, taken from approximately one foot away. Despite the muck, I could see plenty.

“These are good.”

Galiano was immediately at my elbow. I pointed out features on the facial view.

“Rounded orbits, broad cheeks.”

I shifted to a shot of the skull base, and indicated the zygomatics.

“See how the cheekbones flare out?”

Galiano nodded.

“The skull is short from front to back, broad from side to side.”

“Sort of globular.”

“Well put.” I tapped the upper palate. “Parabolic shape. Too bad the front teeth are missing.”

“Why?”

“Shoveled incisors can indicate race.”

“Shoveled?”

“Scooped-out enamel on the tongue side, with a raised border around the edge. Kind of like a shovel.”

I exchanged the basal view for a side view, and noted a low nasal bridge and straight facial profile.

“What’s your thinking?” Galiano asked.

“Mongoloid,” I said, thinking back to my last fleeting view at the scene and correlating that impression with the photos in front of me.

He looked blank.

“Asian.”

“Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese?”

“All of the above. Or someone whose ancestors came from Asia. Native American—”

“You talking old Indian bones?”

“Definitely not. This stuff ’s recent.”

He considered a moment, then, “Were the front teeth knocked out?”

I knew what he was thinking. Teeth are often destroyed to hamper identification. That was not the case here. I shook my head.

“Incisors have only one root. When the soft tissue decomposes, there’s nothing to hold them. Most likely, hers just fell out.”

“And went where?”

“They could have filtered through the septic system. Or they could still be wedged in the tank.”

“Would they be useful?”

“Sure. These features are only suggestive.” I waved a hand at the photo.

“So who’s the stranger in the septic tank?”

“Female, probably late teens, possibly Mongoloid ancestry.”

I could sense neurons firing behind the Guernsey eyes.

“Most Guatemalans would have Mongoloid traits?”

“Many would,” I agreed.

“And mighty few Canadians.”

“Native peoples, Asian immigrants, their descendants.”

Galiano said nothing for a long time. Then, “Odds are we’re not looking at Chantale Specter.”

I was about to answer when Hernández rolled his dolly into the room. The large boxes had been replaced by two trash bags and a black canvas case.

“Where the hell have you been?” Galiano asked his partner.

“Assholes didn’t want to loan out their precious light. Acted like it’s the crown jewels.” Hernández’s voice sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. “Where do you want this stuff?”

Galiano indicated two folding tables by the right-hand wall. Hernández offloaded his cargo, then parked the dolly by the remaining boxes.

“Next stuff gets moved, it won’t be me.” Pulling a swatch of yellow from his pocket, he wiped his face. “Goddamn stuff ’s heavy.”

Hernández shoved the hankie into his back pocket. I watched a corner of yellow swatch storm from the room.