A Skeleton in the Family (9 page)

“No idea. There's no standard system for marking bones—every school and museum has its own conventions. All I can say for sure is that he's not from McQuaid.” She reached into one of the storage boxes, pulled out a skull, and turned it upside down so I could look inside to see its series of numbers and letters. “We mark our GRAIDs with Sharpies.”

“Grades?”

“G-R-A-ID. Gender dash race dash age dash file ID.” She went back to Sid's skull. “This looks like India ink, but I don't know what the code means.”

“What about JTU? Could this have been one of their skeletons?” After all, Kirkland had taught at JTU, though I didn't know what a zooarchaeologist would be doing with a human skeleton.

But Yo said, “Can't be. I worked with some loaner specimens from them last year, and though I don't remember all their codes offhand, I do know the third one was for gender. F for female, M for male, X for undetermined. Your guy is definitely a guy—even Ayers admits I rock at sexing skeletons.”

Sid snickered, and I coughed to cover it up. “Maybe it came from a school that was throwing it away.”

“The term is deaccessioned,” Yo said, “and nobody just throws a skeleton away. Especially not a relatively rare specimen like this.”

“Why is it rare? Because of the dental work?”

“Because with that particular kind of dental work it's almost certainly American, and we don't get many American skeletons. There's no established bone trade in this country, and donated bodies usually end up as dissection material. So this is definitely unusual.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Hang on. Sexing is easy—it gets harder from here.”

Sid snickered again, I coughed again, and Yo ignored us both while she went to work.

After thirty minutes of her looking at, weighing, and measuring bones—with the odd excitement of consulting charts, making cryptic notes, and entering numbers into a computer—I realized that there was more to the process than was typically shown on TV. I wandered off to look at the other bones in the room, wondering if Sid could communicate with any of them. When I got bored with that, I found a stool and pulled out my phone to check e-mail and play Angry Birds. I was trying to get that third star on level twenty-three when Yo said, “I'm done.”

“Excellent!” I said. “What did you find out?”

“The palate shape says Caucasoid—as opposed to Negroid or Asian. Six foot tall, plus or minus an inch. No sign of being overly heavy or overly thin. Adequate nutrition. Teeth in good shape and, as I mentioned before, he had fillings. Four, in fact.”

“If he had dental work, maybe I could identify him.”

“You'd have to have the right dental records to compare the teeth to. It's not like there's a database.”

“Right,” I said, deflated.

“Anyway, from looking at the teeth, he was in his mid-twenties.”

I'd have guessed younger, given Sid's sense of humor, but then again, I laughed at most of his jokes and I was a whole lot older. “Anything else?”

“There are two fractures. The right wrist was broken antemortem but completely healed long before he died, and one rib was broken postmortem and glued back together.”

I'd cracked that rib myself when tackling Sid, and had felt horrible about it, but he'd insisted that it hadn't hurt.

Yo went on. “There are also two perimortem injuries.”

“
Postmortem
is after death, and
antemortem
would be before death. What's
perimortem
?”

“At the time of death.” She held up Sid's skull again. “See this dent? Something hit him hard enough to make that mark while the bone was still living.”

“Is that what killed him?” I said, oddly upset by the idea. Of course Sid had to have died at some point, but like Sid, I'd never liked thinking about the process. It was like hot dogs—I didn't want to know how they came to be in the form with which I was most familiar.

“Possibly,” Yo said. “Dr. Ayers would know for sure, but I'd put my money on this.” She picked up a piece of the rib cage. “See this groove here? That's the mark from some kind of sharp instrument, like a knife. And this is right over the heart.”

“You're saying he was stabbed?”

“That's what it looks like to me. You've got yourself a murdered skeleton.”

Y
o showed me a few other marks on Sid, but she thought they were from when the meat had been removed from the bones or something like that. I wasn't paying strict attention because I was pretty much fixated on the “murder” thing. Even though Sid had been dead since before I'd known him, finding out that he was a murder victim was disturbing.

“That's the express service,” Yo concluded. “Any questions?”

“Is there any way to tell what he looked like? I've heard about facial reconstruction.”

“There's software to do computer imaging, and some people are trained to sculpt or sketch based on the skull, but nobody here can do it. You'd need a place that's more about the forensics than the anthropology, and you sure couldn't get anybody to do a job like that for a hang tag.”

“Just a thought.” If need be, maybe I could finagle some connections from my parents. In the meantime, at least I had more information to work with.

I reached for Sid's suitcase, but Yo said, “Have you thought about selling this thing? You could get a few grand for it.”

“Seriously?”

“Easy. You know how I said skeletons come from India? I should have said they used to. They changed the laws over there back in the eighties, and now it's a lot harder to get them. Last week a guy called from a school that's starting up a new anthro department wanting to know if we had any spares, which we don't. You want his number?”

Sid's skull shifted, probably in indignation that he could no longer restrain, and I reached for it before Yo noticed. “No, thank you.”

“Whatever,” she said, and helped me pack Sid back into his suitcase. As soon as I had the bag zipped up, she stuck out her hand.

“One faculty hang tag, expiration date August thirty-first,” I said, pulling it out. “Once in a blue moon security will call to verify that it's actually me using it, so what kind of car should I tell them I drive?”

“A black Toyota Corolla.”

“Good enough. Thanks for your help.”

“Thanks for the tag.”

I headed for the parking lot, noticing that Sid didn't squeak on the way. Once in the van, I put the suitcase on the floor of the front seat, then unzipped it to allow conversation.

“You okay?” I asked him.

“Kind of weirded out.”

“Me, too.”

“I mean, that girl's hands were
cold
.”

“Silly me. I thought you meant about the other stuff.”

“Yeah, that, too. Mid-twenties . . . So I'm younger than you are.”

“Sid, you were in your mid-twenties when I was six. That makes you fifteen to twenty years older than I am.”

“But I haven't aged.”

“You certainly haven't matured.”

“Hey, I stayed still all the time Yo was pawing at me. I think that shows that I've grown as a person.”

“Might I remind you of the snickering?”

“Two snickers, and I couldn't help it. I haven't been sexed in a
long
time.”

“Mid-twenties? You may never have been sexed.”

“Please. I was a stud.”

“Is that a memory or wishful thinking?”

“A logical deduction from my manly skeletal structure and irresistible personality.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She said I'm robust—that's a scientific fact. Of course, my charm goes without saying.”

“Nothing about you goes without saying. So shall we talk about the elephant in the room now?”

“She had an elephant skeleton in there? I thought only Tufts had one of those.”

“Sid.”

There was a long pause. “So I was murdered.”

“So it seems. Are you okay?”

“I don't know what to feel. How about you?”

“I'm mad. No, I'm beyond mad. I'm furious.”

“Patella, I'm sorry, Georgia. If I hadn't made you take me to the con—”

“Don't be an idiot. I'm not mad at you—I'm mad at the person who hurt you. Some bastard murdered my best friend!”

“I wasn't your best friend when—”

“I don't care!” I took a deep breath. “I don't think I ever told you this, but do you remember Jean Shannon?”

“Your college roommate? I thought you two lost touch.”

“We did, and I wish it had stayed that way. A while back she got religion and decided she needed to confess to the sins committed during her heathen past, so she started hunting people down on Facebook. When she found me, she asked for my phone number, and I figured it would be nice to talk to her.”

“Not so nice?”

“Very not nice. We spent a few minutes comparing notes, and then she started with the confessions.”

“Plural?”

“She had a hefty list. First off, she used to help herself to my change jar to do her laundry. Plus, she took money from my wallet that she ‘forgot' to replace—more than once, mind you. And there was this one guy we met at a party who told me he'd call, but never did. It turns out he did call—she told him I had a boyfriend, thinking she could get him for herself. Except he wasn't interested in her anyway!”

“Serves her right.”

“But here's the biggie: You remember the sapphire earrings Mom and Phil gave me for high school graduation, the ones that had been Grandmother's? Jean ‘borrowed' them for a date and dropped one somewhere. So she threw out the other one and let me think I'd been the one to lose them.”

“That ossifying piece of sacrum! I remember how pissed your parents were when you told them.”

“So do I! Even worse—they were
disappointed
in me. God, I hate it when they're disappointed in me. Anyway, after all that, Jean had the nerve to ask me to forgive her. She thought we could be friends again. After all, it was so many years ago.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. I was too busy hanging up. I had to hang up five more times before Jean got the hint that I didn't want to talk to her anymore. Maybe it was old news to her, but it was hot off the presses to me!”

“I don't blame you.”

“Then you should understand how I feel now. So what if you were killed thirty years ago, and so what if it was before I met you? As far as my feelings go, I just found your body. I'm going to find out what happened, Sid. If Yo was right and it was murder, I'm going to find out who it was!”

Of course, I didn't know how I was going to go about solving a thirty-year-plus-old murder, but I didn't see any reason to bring that up. Instead I said, “I take it that Yo's results didn't shake any more memories lose.”

“Not a one,” Sid said. “I'm not sure I want any more memories, anyway.”

“I don't suppose you do. Who wants to remember being hit or stabbed?”

“It's not just that. I mean I don't want to remember being the kind of person who gets murdered.”

“Blaming the victim much? Do you think you were dressed in a provocative way and incited your killer?”

“I know perfectly innocent people get murdered every day, but we both read the papers enough to know that most murder victims put themselves in harm's way. Think about it: a young guy with a stab wound. What if I was a gang member or a dope dealer? A carjacker or a bank robber?”

“What if you were a nice guy stabbed while trying to save a basket of puppies? Which, I might add, fits your personality a whole lot better than grand theft auto.”

“Come on, Georgia, we don't have any clue as to what my personality was like before.”

We were discussing topics we'd spent years avoiding, but it was obvious that we couldn't avoid them any longer. “What's the first thing you remember?”

“You know that.”

“Tell me again.”

“I heard a little girl crying.”

“And what did you do?”

“I got myself loose and went to help her. Help you, I mean.”

“What kind of carjacker's first action in the afterlife would be to help a crying child?”

“You think?”

“I
know
. If we ever find out who you were, I don't think it'll be anything to be ashamed of.”

“Thanks, Georgia, but . . . I'm still worried.”

I took a deep breath. This was Sid's story—not mine. I couldn't barrel through if he didn't want me to. “If you'd rather stop, we will.”

There was an extra-long pause, ending only when I parked in the driveway at home. That's when he said, “I want to know who I am.”

“Then we'll keep going. We'll just be careful.”

“
You
be careful. I don't really have anything to lose. Except you.”

W
e didn't have any time to discuss the next steps. I got Sid's suitcase inside the house and opened it so he could get himself up to the attic, and grabbed an apple on my way back out the door. It wasn't much of a lunch, but I had an afternoon class to teach. I made it back to McQuaid with minutes to spare and thought I was doing a good job forgetting about skeletons until I referred to
The Nightmare Before Christmas
twice during class.

My darling daughter was already home, and if she'd been as hungry as she claimed to be, would have had a figure similar to Sid's. Since I had plans for the evening, I made her a veggie pizza and, in a burst of optimism, put some salad into a bowl for her. She could handle dessert herself—hunting for my Oreo stash was one of her favorite games. While she was digging in, I went to shower and primp for my date.

Since Fletcher had said dinner and a movie, I thought jeans would be appropriate as long as they weren't mom jeans, and fortunately the one pair I had that fit that description was clean. The peacock blue sweater I wore with them was cut just low enough to look hot without being slutty—or so Madison informed me—and I wore short boots instead of my teacher sneakers. A little jewelry, a little makeup, and a lot of second-guessing, and I was good to go.

As I came through the living room, I had a suspicion. I tapped on the armoire, and there was an answering tap from inside. Sid was either hoping to get a peek at Fletcher or planning to keep an eye socket on Madison while I was gone. More likely, both.

I didn't mind. When it came to men, Sid's snooping had saved me a world of hurt in the past, and though my daughter was perfectly able to stay by herself, I didn't mind having somebody around in case of emergency.

Madison was planted on the couch, clearly intending to inspect Fletcher. When she was four, she'd decided that if it was okay for me to vet her friends, it should be acceptable for her to do the same to mine. Her logic was impeccable, so I allowed it. Though I didn't promise not to go out with a guy she didn't like, I did take her feelings into account. Introducing Madison to my dates also gave me a chance to see how they acted with her—I had zero interest in going out with a guy who didn't like her.

Fletcher's initial scores were solid. He arrived right on time, and his outfit was a masculine counterpart to mine, though he lost half a point for the sneakers. Then he got massive extra credit for sitting down next to Madison when I introduced them rather than rushing us out the door.

They made polite small talk for a minute, then Fletcher said, “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Excuse me?” Madison said.

“My sister is a single mother, and my niece and nephews always have questions for the men she goes out with. I'll see if I can remember what they usually want to know.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “I've never been married. I have a steady job, even if it doesn't pay as much as I'd like it to. I don't drink to excess often, but if I do get overly festive I know not to drive. I don't do recreational drugs. And I've liked all pets I've been introduced to except a tarantula.” He smiled as if sure he'd covered all the bases, but if he'd thought he'd taken Madison by surprise, he was mistaken.

She said, “Political leanings? Religious affiliation?”

He blinked, but went with it. “Liberal and Democrat, though I have voted for one Republican because I knew her personally. Raised Episcopalian, but not a regular churchgoer since high school.”

Before she could ask “Boxers or briefs?” I said, “Now it's your turn, Madison.”

She grinned. “Never married, full-time student, don't drink other than one half glass of champagne on New Year's Eve, don't drive, and I'm a dog person. I intend to vote Democrat as soon as I can, and I'm nominally Christian in that I celebrate Christmas and Easter, but I'm not a churchgoer.”

“Are you both satisfied?” I asked.

They nodded, and Madison added, “You kids have a good time. Don't stay out too late.”

“Oh, that's a new one,” I said drily. “I haven't heard it since the last time I went out. Do you need me to write down the number for 911?”

She sighed, which was hardly fair since she'd started it, and Fletcher and I left. The door clicked behind us, too, so she'd remembered to lock up. My maternal instincts satisfied, I was ready to turn my attention to my date.

I know a lot of people detest first dates, but I rather enjoy them. The guys are usually on their best behavior, there are no simmering disagreements, and the expectations of all involved are low, which makes it all the more special if things go well. If things don't go well, it's easy to bow out of the relationship without acrimony.

The night with Fletcher was definitely in the top ten. We had dinner at a cozy Italian place I'd never been to, and having had the ice broken by Madison's interrogation, conversation was relaxed. While we were enjoying our lasagna, the subject of single motherhood came up, but I'd expected that—I like to know if my dates have ties to other women, so I can't blame them for wondering about me. Besides, I find a man's reaction to be an excellent litmus test of his character.

I explained, “Reggie and I started dating in grad school—I think we spent half of our so-called dates working on our dissertations. We were just starting to plan out which universities we could both get jobs at when I got pregnant. I was all for adding a baby to the plan, but Reggie freaked. He never actually asked me to pick him or the baby, but he might as well have, so we went our separate ways.” It was an overly simplified version, but it was plenty enough information for a first date.

At that point in the conversation, I'd had previous escorts ask me why I hadn't aborted or, almost as infuriatingly, wax poetic about my nobility in keeping my daughter. None of those had made it to a second date. Fletcher simply said, “His loss,” which shot his score way up.

After that, we talked about being adjuncts, but it was more shop talk than interview, so I didn't feel that he was multitasking in order to write off our dinner bill on his taxes.

As it turned out, I was the one multitasking. Though I was trying to keep Sid's murder out of my mind, when Fletcher told me about some of the more interesting stories he'd covered, I asked, “Have you ever done anything with a murder? Like a cold-case murder?”

“Only a piece about Charles Manson's effect on society back in college. Why do you ask?”

“Just morbid curiosity. Somebody I know had a friend who was murdered years ago, but the murderer was never caught. She'd always wanted to find out what really happened, and I wondered how one would go about investigating something like that.”

He swirled the wine around in his glass. “First off, I'd check the police files. Then I'd research the victim—his friends and family, his job and coworkers.”

“That makes sense,” I said, though I couldn't quite see how to apply it to Sid. Since I didn't want him to ask more about my cold case than I was willing to answer, I changed the subject to the choice of a movie. By the time the check came, we'd agreed on a spy thriller. I don't like romance movies on a first date. There's no better way to scare a guy off than have him think you're eager for a happily-ever-after.

We enjoyed our selection, though Fletcher had some critiques of the way the reporter love interest covered a story. Apparently wild sex with the subject of an investigation was frowned upon in journalistic circles.

At the end of the evening, Fletcher walked me to the door but turned down my invitation to come inside. It wasn't because he wasn't interested in more dates—he just had to be up early the next morning to supervise his students at the soccer tournament.

Madison pounced as soon as I came in. First she quizzed me on the date, and when I'd told her as much as I intended to, she asked if she could spend the afternoon at Samantha's the next day for an anime marathon. After making sure she'd already done her homework for the weekend, I agreed.

I checked out the armoire while Madison was on her way up to bed, but apparently Sid had managed to sneak upstairs at some point during the evening. He hadn't even left a note in my room, which should have alerted me that he had a plan swirling around his empty skull.