Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

“Hang on, baby.” Primrose continued to type, her face illuminated by the screen's glow. Then she closed a folder and turned to me.

“What have you got?”

“A left foot. Definitely old. Probably male. Possibly black.”

“Let's see who needs a foot.”

DMORT relies on a software package called VIP, which tracks the progress of remains, stores all data, and facilitates the comparison of antemortem and postmortem information. The program handles more than 750 unique identifiers for each victim, and stores digital records such as photographs and radiographs. For each positive identification, VIP creates a document containing all parameters used.

Primrose worked the keys and a postmortem grid appeared. The first column showed a list of case numbers. She moved sideways through the grid to a column headed “Body Parts Not Recovered” and scrolled down. To date, four bodies had been logged without a left foot. Primrose moved through the grid, highlighting each.

Number 19 was a white male with an estimated age of thirty. Number 38 was a white female, with an estimated age of twenty. Number 41 was an African-American female with an estimated age of twenty-five. Number 52 was a male lower torso, African American, with an estimated age of forty-five.

“It could be fifty-two,” I said.

Primrose scrolled to the height and weight columns. The gentleman tagged as number 52 was estimated to have stood six feet two inches and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds.

“No way,” I corrected myself. “This is not a sumo tootsie.”

Primrose leaned back and removed her glasses. Frizzy gray hairs spiraled out at her forehead and temples, escapees from the bun atop her head.

“This event is more dental than DNA, but I've logged quite a few isolated body parts.” She let the glasses drop onto a chain around her neck. “So far we've had few matches. That will improve as more bodies flow through, but you may have to wait for DNA.”

“I know. I hoped we might get lucky.”

“You're sure it's male?”

I explained the discriminant function analysis.

“So the program takes your unknown and compares it to groups for whom measurements have been recorded.”

“Exactly.”

“And this foot fell in with the boys.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe the computer got it wrong.”

“That's very possible since I'm not sure about the race.”

“That matters?”

“Sure. Some populations are smaller than others. Look at the Mbuti.”

She raised gray eyebrows.

“The pygmies of the Ituri rain forest,” I explained.

“We've got no pygmies here, sugar.”

“No. But there might have been Asians on board. Some Asian populations are smaller than Westerners, so they'd tend to have smaller feet.”

“Not like my dainty size tens.” She lifted a booted foot and laughed.

“What I do feel certain about is the age. This person was over fifty. Quite a bit over, I think.”

“Let's check the passenger list.”

She replaced the glasses, hit keys, and an antemortem grid appeared on the screen. This spread sheet was similar to the postmortem grid except that most of its cells contained information. There were columns for first name, last name, date of birth, blood type, sex, race, weight, height, and myriad other variables. Primrose clicked to the age column and asked the program to sort by that criterion.

Air TransSouth 228 had carried only six passengers over the age of fifty.

“So young for the good Lord to be callin' 'em home.”

“Yeah,” I said, staring at the screen.

We were silent a moment, then Primrose moved the cursor and we both leaned in.

Four males. Two females. All white.

“Let's sort by race.”

The antemortem grid showed sixty-eight whites, ten African Americans, two Hispanics, and two Asians among the passengers. The entire cabin crew and both pilots were white. None of the blacks was over forty. Both Asians were in their early twenties, probably students. Masako Takaguchi had been lucky. She'd died in one piece and was already identified.

“I guess I'd better try another approach. For now you can enter an age estimate of fifty plus. And the victim had gout.”

“My ex has gout. Only human thing about that man.” Another laugh, straight from the belly.

“Mmm. Could I ask one other favor?”

“Sure, baby.”

“Check Jean Bertrand.”

She found the row and moved the cursor to the status column.

To date, Bertrand's body had not been identified.

“I'll be back when I know more on this one,” I said, collecting the packet for number 387.

Returning to the foot, I removed and tagged a small plug of bone. If a reference sample could be found, an old gallstone, a Pap smear, hair or dandruff from a brush or comb, DNA might prove useful in establishing identity. If not, DNA testing could determine gender, or could link the foot to other body parts, and a tattoo or dental crown might send the victim home.

As I sealed the specimen bag and made notes in the file, something bothered me. Was the computer in error? Could I have been right in my initial impression that the foot belonged to a woman? Very possible. It happened all the time. But what about age? I was certain these were the bones of an older person, yet no one on the plane fit that profile. Could some pathology other than gout be skewing my assessment?

And what about the advanced putrefaction?

I cut a second slice of bone from the highest intact point on the tibia, tagged and sealed it. If the foot remained unidentified, I would attempt a more precise age estimate using histological features. But microscopic analysis would have to wait. Slides were being made at the ME facility in Charlotte, and the backlog was monumental.

I rebagged the foot, returned it to the body tracker in charge of the case, and moved on, continuing with a day identical to the previous four. Hour after hour I sorted bodies and body parts, probing their most intimate details. I didn't notice when others came and went, or when daylight dimmed in the windows high above our heads.

I'd lost all track of time when I glanced up to see Ryan rounding a stack of pine caskets at the far end of the fire station. He walked to my table, his face as tense as I'd ever seen it.

“How's it going?” I asked, lowering my mask.

“It'll be a bloody decade before this is sorted out.”

His eyes were dark and shadowed, his face as pale as the flesh that lay between us. I was shocked by the change. Then, realization. While my grief was for strangers, Ryan's pain was personal. He and Bertrand had partnered for almost a decade.

I wanted to say something comforting, but all I could think of was “I'm so sorry about Jean.”

He nodded.

“Are you all right?” I asked gently.

His jaw muscles bulged, relaxed.

I reached across the table, wanting to take his hand, and we both looked at my bloody glove.

“Whoa, Quincy, no gestures of sympathy.”

The comment broke the tension.

“I was afraid you'd pocket the scalpel,” I said, snatching up the implement.

“Tyrell says you're done for the day.”

“But I—”

“It's eight o'clock. You've been here thirteen hours.”

I looked at my watch.

“Meet me back at the temple of love and I'll update you on the investigation.”

My back and neck ached, and my eyelids felt like they'd been lined with sand. I placed both hands on my hips and arched backward.

“Or I could help you”—When I returned to vertical Ryan's eyes locked onto mine and his brows flicked up and down—“relax.”

“I'll be asleep before I hit the pillow.”

“You've got to eat.”

“Jesus, Ryan, what is this concern with my nutrition? You're worse than my mother.”