Break No Bones (5 page)

I returned to the pelvis. Again, I was interested in the bely side, this time the face that had kissed the face of the other pelvic half during life. In young adults, these faces have topography like the Shenandoah, al mountains and valeys. With age, the mountains wear down and the valeys fil in.

"Pubic symphysis is smooth," I said. "With a raised rim around the perimeter. Let's look at the dental X-rays."

Emma flipped the switch on a light box, then dumped ten black rectangles from a smal brown envelope. I arranged the films into two rows, uppers and lowers, with each Emma flipped the switch on a light box, then dumped ten black rectangles from a smal brown envelope. I arranged the films into two rows, uppers and lowers, with each tooth in proper alignment.

Throughout life, pulp chambers and root canals fil with secondary dentin. The older a tooth, the more opaque its image on X-ray. These babies shouted young to middle-aged adult. In addition, al molar roots were complete to their tips, and crown wear was minimal.

"The teeth are consistent with the bones," I said.

"Meaning?"

"Forties. But keep in mind, males are variable."

"That's being generous," Emma said. "Race?"

I returned to the skul.

Evaluating racial identifiers is usualy a bitch. Not with this guy.

The lower face showed no forward projection when viewed from the side. The nasal bones met at a church-steeple angle along the midline. The nasal opening was constricted, with a sharp lower border sporting a bony spike at its center.

"Narrow, prominent nose. Flat facial profile."

Emma watched as I shined a flashlight into the ear canal.

"Oval opening to the inner ear is visible."

When I looked up, Emma's eyes were closed and she was rubbing slow circles on her temples.

"I'l run measurements through Fordisc 3.0. But this guy looks like a page from the Caucasoid picture book."

"A forty-something white male."

"To be safe, I'd go with thirty-five to fifty."

"Time frame?"

I indicated the plastic vials on the counter. "Lots of empty puparial cases, some dead beetles and shed beetle skins. Your entomologist should be able to provide a solid PMI."

"Bugs take time. I want to shoot this right into NCIC."

Emma was referring to the FBI's National Crime Information Center, a computerized index of information on criminal records, fugitives, stolen properties, and missing and unidentified persons. With such a huge database, the narrower the time frame the better.

"I originaly said two to five, but to be certain you don't exclude any possibles, I'd broaden the interval to one to five years."

Emma nodded. "If nothing pops with NCIC, I'l start working local missing persons reports."

"The dentals wil help," I said. "This guy had some metal in his mouth."

"Our odontologist wil chart him on Monday." Again Emma rubbed her temples. Though trying hard, she was fading.

"I'l measure the leg bones and calculate height," I said.

Weak nod. "Any other identifiers?"

I shook my head. I'd seen no healed trauma, no congenital anomaly, not a single unique skeletal feature.

"Cause of death?"

"Nothing obvious. No fractures, no bulet entrances or exits, no sharp instrument cuts. I'd like to view the bones under magnification when they've been fuly cleaned, but for now, nada."

"Ful-body X-rays?"

"Can't hurt."

As I began measuring a femur, Emma's mobile sounded. I heard her walk to the counter and flip the cover.

"Emma Rousseau."

She listened.

"I can live with it." Guarded.

Pause.

"How bad?"

Longer pause.

"Now what?" Taut.

I looked up.

Emma had turned her back to me. Though her face was hidden, her voice told me something was very wrong.

5

EMMA TOSSED HER MOBILE ONTO THE COUNTER, CLOSED HER eyes, and went stil. I watched, knowing she was trying to quel the pounding in her head.

I've traveled the migraine trail. I'm familiar with the pain. I knew, even for Emma, sheer wilpower wouldn't prevail. Nothing pacifies dilating cranial vessels but time and sleep. And drugs.

I refocused on my measurements. Best to finish estimating stature so Emma could go home and crash. If she wanted to discuss the phone cal, she would.

I heard the door open, click shut.

I'd moved from the osteometric board to my laptop when the door opened again. Footsteps crossed the tile as I entered the last figure and asked the program to calculate.

"I went over the clothes." Emma was at my shoulder. "No belt, no shoes, no jewelry or personal effects. Nothing in the pockets. Fabric's rotten and the labels are barely legible, but I think the pants were a thirty-eight long. Assuming they're his, the guy wasn't short."

"Five-ten to six-one." I shifted to alow her a better view of the screen.

Emma eyebaled the height estimate, then stepped to the table. Reaching out, she stroked the skul.

"Who are you, tal white man in your forties?" Emma's voice was soft, as intimate as the caress. "We need a name, big guy."

The moment was so personal, I felt like a voyeur.

But I knew what Emma meant.

Thanks to some less than meticulously researched TV crime shows, the public now views DNA as the shining Excalibur of modern justice. Holywood has spawned the myth that the double helix solves al riddles, unlocks al doors, rights al wrongs. Got bones? No problem. Extract and let the little molecule do its magic.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way in the nameless-body business. A Jane or John Doe exists in a vacuum, stripped of everything that links it to life. Anonymity means no family, no dentist, no home to search for a toothbrush or chewing gum.

No name.

With our profile, Emma could now send CCC-2006020277 into the system, looking for missing persons matches. If the matches produced a manageable number of names, she could request medical and dental records, and contact relatives for DNA comparison samples.

Roling the edge of a glove, I checked my watch. Four forty-five.

"We've been at this eight hours," I said. "Here's a plan. We reconvene Monday. You order ful-body X-rays. I view the films and scope the bones while your dentist charts the teeth. Then you shoot the whole enchilada through NCIC."

Emma turned. The fluorescents made her face look like autopsy flesh.

"I'm perky as a helcat," she said duly.

"What's a helcat?" I asked.

"Not sure."

"You're going home."

She didn't argue.

Outside, the afternoon felt heavy and damp. Rush hour was in ful swing, and exhaust rode the salt-air cocktail coming off the harbor. Though it was May, the city already smeled like summer.

Emma and I walked side by side down the ramp. Before parting, she hesitated, then opened her lips to speak. I thought she was going to explain the phone cal. Instead, she wished me a pleasant weekend, and trudged off down the sidewalk.

The car was an oven. Lowering the windows, I popped in a Sam Fisher CD.
People Living.
Melancholy. Volatile. A perfect fit for my mood.

Crossing the Cooper River, I could see thunderheads elbowing for position on the eastern horizon. A storm was gathering. I decided on a quick stop at Simmons's Seafood, then dinner chez moi.

The store was deserted. Steel cases offered the remains of the day's catch on crushed ice.

Every cel in my hypothalamus sat up at the sight of the swordfish.

So did the conscience guys.
Overfishing! Population decline! Noncompliance!

Fine. Wasn't swordfish supposed to be mercury-laden, anyway?

I looked at the mahimahi.

No protest from the buly pulpit in my forebrain.

As usual, I dined al fresco, watching nature perform a light show in three acts. I imagined the playbil.

Scene I, sunlight dissolves and night slowly edges out day. Scene II, veined lightning sparks a fandango in black-green clouds. Scene III, fade to gray as rain pounds the dunes and wind thrashes the palms.

I slept like a baby.

And awoke to sun lighting the blinds. And banging.

I sat up, trying to pinpoint the noise. Had one of the hurricane shutters torn loose in the storm? Was someone in the house?

I looked at the clock. Eight forty.

Slipping on a robe, I tiptoed to the stairs, descended three treads, and crouched so I could see the front door. A head and shoulders were silhouetted in the frosted oval window.

As I watched, the head pressed its nose to the glass, then drew back. The banging resumed.

Eschewing theatrics, I reverse-tiptoed up the stairs, padded to a front bedroom, brushed the curtain aside, and looked down onto the driveway. Sure enough, Pete's latest road toy was nosed up to my Mazda.

Returning to the bedroom, I yanked on yesterday's outfit and hurried downstairs.

As I approached the door, the banging gave way to scratching.

I flipped the dead bolt. The scratching grew frenzied.

I turned the knob.

The door flew in. Boyd went upright and landed two paws on my chest. As I struggled for balance, the chow dropped and raced circles around my ankles, tangling us both in his leash.

Unnerved by the commotion, Birdie shot from Pete's chest. Paws spread and ears aerodynamicaly flat, the cat cleared the foyer and streaked toward the back of the house.

Confused, or just wildly happy to be out of the car, Boyd took chase, leash fishtailing behind as he skidded through the foyer, the dining room, then the kitchen doors.

"Good morning, Charleston!" Pete crushed me with a hug as he did his Robin Wiliams imitation.

I did a two-palm chest push. "Jesus, Pete, how early did you leave Charlotte?"

"Time waits for no man, sugar britches."

"Don't cal me that."

"Butter bean."

Something crashed somewhere out of sight.

"Close the door." I headed for the kitchen.

Pete folowed.

Boyd was investigating the contents of a shattered cookie jar. Bird was watching from the safety of the refrigerator top.

"That's the first item you're buying for Anne," I said.

"It's on the list."

Boyd looked up, snout speckled with crumbs, then went back to licking broken Lorna Doones.

"You couldn't find a kennel?" I asked, filing a water bowl.

"Boyd loves the beach," Pete said.

"Boyd would love the Gulag if they fed him."

I set the bowl on the floor. Boyd began lapping, tongue darting like a long, purple eel.

While I made breakfast, Pete unloaded his car. Cat pan and litter, canine and feline chow, eleven supermarket sacks, a large briefcase, one garment bag, and one smal duffel.

Typical Pete. Big league on cuisine, bush league on wardrobe.

With a neck two sizes too large for his torso, my estranged husband can never find shirts to fit. No worries. Pete's three-tiered fashion system hadn't changed since I met him in the seventies. Shorts or jeans when possible; sport jacket when styling; suit and tie when going to court.

Today Pete wore an argyle Rosasen golf shirt, knee-length khakis, loafers, no socks.

"Think you bought enough groceries?" I asked, extracting a carton of eggs from a bag.

"So much food. So little time."

"You're doing your best."

"I am." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons grin. "I figured you might not be expecting me for breakfast."

I'd been expecting him in the evening.

"Almost kept motoring when I saw the other car." Big Janis "Pete" Petersons wink.

I stopped cracking eggs and turned. "What other car?"

"Parked out front. Puled away, so I came on in."

"What kind of car?"

Pete shrugged. "Dark. Large. Four-door. Where do you want the Birdster?"

I flapped an arm toward the utility room. Pete disappeared with the cat pan.

Puzzled, I started scrambling the eggs. Who would have been here so early on a Sunday morning?

"Probably some tourist looking for his beach house." Pete was back and ladling ground coffee. "A lot of places rent Sunday to Sunday."

"But check-in is never before noon." I removed bread from the toaster, put two more in.

"OK. Someone leaving. Stopped to program his OnStar before motoring to Toledo."

I handed Pete mats and utensils. He distributed them, then settled at the table.

Boyd walked over and laid his chin on Pete's knee. Pete reached down and scratched the chow's ear.

"So the field school's history. Planning to hit the beach today?"

I told him about the Dewees skeleton.

"No shit."

I filed coffee mugs, handed Pete a plate, and took the chair opposite his. Boyd switched from Pete's knee to mine.

"White male in his forties. No signs of foul play."

"Except that the guy was in a clandestine grave."

"Except for that. You remember Emma Rousseau?"

Pete's chewing slowed. He raised a fork. "Long brown hair. Tits that could—"

"She's the Charleston County coroner. A dentist is going to chart the unknown's teeth on Monday, then Emma wil send the descriptors through NCIC."

Boyd snorted, chin-tapped my knee to let me know he was stil there. And interested in eggs.

"How long are you staying down here?" Pete asked.

"As long as it takes to help Emma out with these bones. The local forensic anthropologist is away. Tel me about this Herron thing."

"Client came in Wednesday. Patrick Bertolds Flynn. Friends cal him Buck."

Pete finished his eggs.

"Tight-assed little wanker. I offer coffee, Flynn tels me he doesn't use stimulants. Acts as though I've suggested we snort a few lines."

Pete pushed his plate away. Hearing the scrape, Boyd recircled the table. Pete gave the chow a triangle of toast.

"Posture to make a dril sergeant proud, though. Good eye contact."

"Impressive character analysis. Is Flynn an old client?"

Pete shook his head. "Wasn't before now. Flynn's mother is Latvian. Dagnija Kalnins. He picked me because I'm one of the tribe."