Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

As I reached for toast I realized he'd said nothing about his stint undercover. Fair enough. Let him bring it up.

“Jam, please.”

He passed it.

Ryan had gotten me out of a nasty spot.

I spread blackberry preserves thicker than lava.

The wolves weren't Ryan's fault. Nor was the crash.

Ruby poured refills.

And the man has just lost his partner, for God's sake.

Compassion overrode irritation.

“Thanks for your help with the wolf thing.”

“They weren't wolves.”

“What?” Irritation boomeranged back.

“They weren't wolves.”

“I suppose it was a pack of cocker spaniels.”

“There are no wolves in North Carolina.”

“Crowe's deputy talked about wolves.”

“The guy probably wouldn't know a wombat from a caribou.”

“Wolves have been reintroduced into North Carolina.” I was sure I'd read that somewhere.

“Those are red wolves and they're on a reserve down east, not in the mountains.”

“I suppose you're an expert on North Carolina wildlife.”

“How did they hold their tails?”

“What?”

“Did the animals hold their tails up or down?”

I had to think.

“Down.”

“A wolf holds its tail straight out. A coyote keeps its tail low, raises it to horizontal when threatening.”

I pictured the animal sniffing, then raising its tail and locking me into its gaze.

“You're telling me those were coyotes?”

“Or wild dogs.”

“There are coyotes in Appalachia?”

“There are coyotes all over North America.”

“So what?” I made a mental vow to check.

“So nothing. I just thought you might want to know.”

“It was still terrifying.”

“Damn right. But it's not the worst thing you've ever been through.”

Ryan was right. Though frightening, the coyote incident was not my worst experience. But the days that followed were contenders. I spent every waking moment up to my elbows in shattered flesh, separating commingled remains and reassociating body parts. As part of a team of pathologists, dentists, and other anthropologists, I determined age, sex, race, and height, analyzed X rays, compared antemortem and postmortem skeletal features, and interpreted injury patterns. It was a gruesome task, made even grimmer by the youth of most of those being analyzed.

For many, the stress was too much. Some hung in, running on the rim until tremors, tears, or unbearable nightmares finally won out. These were the ones who would require extensive counseling. Others simply packed up and slipped back home.

But for most, the mind adjusted and the unthinkable became the ordinary. We mentally detached and did what needed doing. Each night as I lay in bed, lonely and exhausted, I was comforted by the day's progress. I thought of the families, and assured myself that the system was working. We would grant them closure of sorts.

Then specimen number 387 arrived at my station.

I'D FORGOTTEN THE FOOT UNTIL ABODY TRACKER BROUGHT IT TOME.

Ryan and I had rarely crossed paths since our first breakfast. I'd been up and gone each day before seven, returning to High Ridge House long after dark to shower and collapse into bed. We'd exchanged only “Good morning” or “Have a good one,” and we'd yet to discuss his time undercover or his role in the crash investigation. Because a Quebec law officer had been on the plane, the Canadian government had asked that Ryan be involved. All I knew was that the request had been granted.

Blocking thoughts of Ryan and coyotes, I emptied the body bag onto my table. In recent days I'd processed dozens of severed limbs and appendages, and the foot no longer seemed macabre. In fact, the frequency of lower leg and ankle trauma was so high it had been discussed at that morning's meeting. The pathologists and anthropologists agreed that the injury pattern was disturbing.

There is little one can say from eyeballing a foot. This one had thickened yellow nails, a large bunion, and lateral displacement of the big toe, indicating an older adult. The size suggested female gender. Though the skin was the color of toast, I knew this meant nothing since even short-term exposure can bleach or darken flesh.

I popped the X rays onto a light box. Unlike many of the films I'd viewed, these revealed no foreign objects embedded in the foot. I noted that on a form in the disaster victim packet.

The cortical bone was thin, and I could see remodeling at many of the phalangeal joints.

O.K. The lady was old. Arthritis and bone loss fit with the bunion.

Then I got my first surprise. The X ray showed tiny white clouds floating among the toe bones, and scooped-out lesions at the margins of the first and second metatarso-phalangeal joints. I recognized the symptoms immediately.

Gout results from inadequate uric acid metabolism, leading to the deposition of urate crystals, particularly in the hands and feet. Nodules form adjacent to joints, and, in chronic cases, the underlying bone is eroded. The condition is not life-threatening, but those affected experience intermittent periods of pain and swelling. Gout is relatively common, with 90 percent of all cases occurring in men.

So why was I seeing it in a female?

I returned to the table, picked up a scalpel, and got my second surprise.

Though refrigeration can cause drying and shrinkage, the foot looked different from the remains I'd been seeing. Even in the charred bodies and body parts I'd examined, the deep tissue remained firm and red. But the flesh inside the foot was soupy and discolored, as though something had accelerated its rate of decomposition. I made a note, planning to seek other opinions.

Using my scalpel, I teased back muscle and tendon until I could position my calipers directly against the largest bone, the calcaneus. I measured its length and breadth, then the length of a metatarsal, and jotted the figures onto a form in the disaster victim packet, and onto a page in a spiral pad.

Stripping off my gloves, I washed, then took the tablet to my laptop in the staff lounge. I called up a program called Fordisc 2.0, entered the data, and asked for a discriminant function analysis using the two calcaneal measurements.

The foot classified as that of a black male, though the typicality and posterior probabilities indicated the results were meaningless. I tried a male–female comparison, independent of ancestry, and the program again placed the foot in the male range.

O.K. Jockey shorts fit with gout. Maybe the guy was small. Atypical size could explain the weakness of the racial classification.

Returning for the packet, I crossed to the identification section, where a dozen computers sat on tables, and bundled wires snaked across the floor. A records specialist worked at each terminal, entering data obtained from the family assistance center and information provided by the forensic specialists, including fingerprint, X ray, anthropology, pathology, and dental details.

I spotted a familiar figure, half-moon glasses on the end of her nose, upper teeth nibbling her lower lip. Primrose Hobbs had been an ER nurse for over thirty years when she switched from defibrillators to data sets and moved to the medical records department at Presbyterian Hospital in Charlotte. But she hadn't severed herself completely from the world of traumatic injury. When I joined DMORT, Primrose was already a seasoned member of the Region Four team. Past sixty, she was patient, efficient, and shocked by absolutely nothing.

“Can we run one?” I asked, dragging a folding chair next to hers.