“Grimm bagged the bones and hauled ass to the morgue. Apparently he and his brother watch a lot of Quincy.”
Though I know little about death-scene recovery, that doesn’t sound good. I say nothing.
“The arson team will be heading there soon. From Mr. Grimm’s account, a kerosene heater may be involved.”
“Corpses ain’t sausage. Smoking don’t improve ’em.” Slidell thinks he’s quite a wordsmith. Again, I ignore him.
“I’m a bioarchaeologist. I don’t do forensic work.” Not admitting to the tiny skeleton I once examined at the request of an anthro grad student who is also a cop. Those images still haunt me.
“A charred stiff’s a charred stiff,” Slidell says.
“This ‘charred stiff’ ”—hooking air quotes around Slidell’s callous turn of phrase—“died two thousand years ago. A medical examiner won’t be issuing a death certificate. An insurance company won’t be paying beneficiaries.”
“So why bother?”
“Archaeologists work to piece together humanity’s past.” Now I’m defensive and spouting boilerplate. “To reconstruct the complexit—”
“And a few eggheads in ivory towers give a shit.”
“I believe interest in human evolution is much more widespread than that.” Cool. How could I explain my love of bioarchaeology to this dolt? My passion for understanding people who inhabited the earth long before my birth? For learning of their accomplishments, their failures, the minutiae of their lives? The connectedness I felt when touching their bones?
Slidell shoots me a brief, pitying glance. Then he tries a different tack. A good one.
“Doc Becknell ain’t so wrapped up in the past she don’t care about the living.”
That hits home. Still, I can’t spare the time. But is work pressure the sole reason for my reluctance? Or is something else operating? Fear of inadequacy?
“Dr. Becknell has training in areas that I do not,” I say.
Slidell laughs, a mirthless little snort. “Horseshit.”
Heat flames my cheeks. I bite back a retort.
Rinaldi tries to defuse my anger. “That didn’t come out the way my partner intended.”
I say nothing. I think, Horseshit.
“Skinny means he’s confident you possess the skill set required to ID this man.”
“Skinny?” Slidell is far from that.
“Erskine.”
Slidell glares. I store the nickname for future use.
“Dr. Millikin has family?” Against my will, I feel myself drawn in.
“A son. In Wisconsin.” Rinaldi pauses, cop instincts triaging what is safe from what must be withheld. “Dr. Millikin was a loner. And, by all accounts, an odd duck. But his patients say he was a kind and generous man.”
“You speak of him in the past tense.”
“Dr. Millikin’s patients insist that he would never willingly abandon them. A burned body has been found in his home.” Rinaldi’s brows float up. What remains to be said?
“Millikin was a whack-job, Millikin was a saint. It don’t matter.” Slidell, caring only about closing a file. “Until someone says otherwise, I got a John Doe in a cooler with a tag on his toe. If he still has a toe.”
“Once more, with feeling. I don’t do police work.”
“You could.”
Easy, Brennan.
“I’m very sorry. But I haven’t the time right now.”
“You got time for people haven’t breathed since John the Baptist was handing out towels.”
“Colorful image.”
“I try.” Slidell fires back my own quip. Though obnoxious, the man isn’t dumb.
Slidell crosses his arms and gives me a hard green stare. I give it back. His fingers drum an impatient staccato on one brown corduroy sleeve. Several nails wear dark crescent caps. I refuse to consider the nature of the grime.
Around us, things hum quietly. The overhead fluorescents. The HVAC. The motor in the ancient storage fridge.
“If you’ll excuse me.” I rise.
The fingers drum faster. It’s clear Skinny is used to getting his way.
Seconds pass. No one moves. No one speaks. Then Slidell fires one last volley.
“Guess the little lady ain’t ready for prime time.”
“Really, Detective.” Calm. I want to reach out and stuff the Kmart tie down his chauvinist throat. “You can do better than that.”
A bell trills, dismissing students far away on beaches and slopes.
Slidell’s arms drop to his sides. His shoulders roll back. His lips part, but Rinaldi jumps in.
“May I say one last thing?”
I nod.
“Keith Millikin was an educated man. A physician. Had he chosen, he could have led a very different life. Taken cruises, driven Porsches, played golf at the club. He did none of those things. He lived in a trailer and treated the people whom society has kicked to the curb. The poor and forgotten. Should we forget him?”
Sonofabitch.
I make a decision that changes my life.
The Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner facility is located in uptown Charlotte. The drive takes twenty-two minutes. That’s where my mind is. Tallying lost time like a taximeter tallies up miles.
Using Rinaldi’s directions, I find the place, a brick box with all the architectural whimsy of a Stalinist bunker. Signs tell me the MCME is at one end, satellite offices of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department are at the other. Parking is easy. The building is surrounded by enough asphalt to pave Orlando.
I kill the engine and get out of my VW Bug. The sky is clotted with clouds that are serious about rain. The wind is sharp.
I mount a few stairs and approach a window to the left of double glass doors. A woman is behind it. She is blond and probably living on a high-carb diet. Her cardigan is a shade of yellow that nails the daisies in her shirtwaist dress. A chain loops her chest, connecting the button to the buttonhole side.
I press my faculty ID to the window. The woman studies it so long I think she’s memorizing the content. Finally satisfied, she gives me a big wide smile. Her teeth aren’t great.
The lock buzzes. I enter a small vestibule and continue through a second set of doors. To the left stretch Cardigan’s command post and four work carrels. To the right, groupings of upholstered furniture and wooden tables. Magazines. Plastic plants. The universal waiting room motif. Today, no one is waiting.
Cardigan greets me. She’s younger than I thought. Too young for the severe perm and sweater clip.
“Welcome, Dr. Brennan.” Vowels broader than juleps and grits. “I’m Mrs. Flowers.”
We shake hands. Mrs. Flowers’s grip could maybe crumple a tissue.
“Dr. Larabee is expecting you. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
“Thank you.” I assume Larabee is the ME.
“Please make yourself comfortable.”
I sit facing the carrels. Only one shows evidence of use. Stapler, pens, stacked folders. A framed picture of Joe DiMaggio.
Behind Mrs. Flowers’s desk is a mountain range of gray filing cabinets. Opposite the cabinets, on the far wall, is an erasable board divided into a grid. Numbers and dates fill some of the cells. Abbreviations I don’t understand.
I assume the digit-letter combinations represent cases. Suicides, homicides, accidents, flukes. Deaths that have earned tickets to Y incisions. One entry has been designated ME1207. The code also incorporates the year. The letters Sk-b have been penned into one of the squares. I suspect this is the man I am here to inspect.
The meter ticks a long ten minutes. I wonder if Slidell is having success acquiring the antemortem records I’ve asked him to gather. If he’s found a forensic dentist to look at them. I wonder if Rinaldi is learning anything from Millikin’s neighbors.
Finally, a man hurries toward me with long, lopey strides. His limbs are sinewy, his torso lean inside blue surgical scrubs. I stand.
“Dr. Tim Larabee.” He doesn’t offer a
hand. Fine with me. The bloodstains on his chest aren’t reassuring.
“Temperance Brennan.”
“I apologize for the delay. I have a gunshot case open on the table.”
“No problem.”
“Thanks for agreeing to pitch in.” Larabee’s gaze is intense. There’s an air of coiled energy about the man.
“I don’t know how helpful I’ll be.”
“You’ll outperform me. My knowledge of bone is minimal. Ready?”
I nod. Pick up my purse and backpack.
Larabee leads me to the secure side of the operation. The “dirty” side. His Nikes make little squeaks when we cross from the carpet onto tile. My heels click softly. We turn down a corridor, pass several doors, stop at one with a plaque that says AUTOPSY.
“You’re set up in here. I’ll be over there.” Indicating an identical door with an equally grim plaque. “This one’s outfitted with special ventilation.” In case I miss the meaning, he adds, “For odor. Joe Hawkins calls it the stinky room. He’s my death investigator.”
I can think of no response.
“I doubt you’ll need it. There’s almost no soft tissue.” Larabee points to a door farther down the hall. No signage. “The locker room’s there. We don’t have women’s scrubs, but a man’s small should fit.”
“Sexy.”
Larabee looks at me, uncertain if I’m serious.
“Joe is away on a pickup, so I’m afraid you’re on your own. He’s set out forms, cameras, Dr. Becknell’s kit. X-rays are on the counter. If you need anything, just ask.”
With that he’s gone.
I go to the locker room and change out of my street clothes. By rolling the cuffs and cinching the waist string I make it work. Pant legs flapping, I cross to the stinky room.
ME1207’s intake form contains little information. A case number. A brief description of the remains, of the circumstances surrounding their arrival at the morgue. Slidell and Rinaldi are listed as investigators.
The room has one autopsy table, which is outfitted with an adjustable overhead light. Counters with cabinets above and below, a sink, a scale, a dissecting scope. Lots of gleaming tile, glass, and stainless steel.
A Nikon and a Polaroid sit on the counter. I check. Both are loaded.
Next to the cameras is a small metal suitcase with butterfly hasp locks. Assuming this is Becknell’s “kit,” I thumb the clips and lift the lid. Inside are the familiar tools of my trade: calipers, brushes, magnifiers, a diagram of sub-adult dental development, a list of equations for calculating height from long bones.
I search drawers, eventually find items to accessorize my fetching ensemble. Paper apron and mask. Latex gloves. I pass on the plastic goggles.
The cardboard carton on the table once held cornflakes. The number written on its lid matches that on the form and on the erasable board.
I shoot 35-millimeter prints, backups with the Polaroid, then pop the X-rays onto wall-mounted light boxes. Each film makes a sound like a tiny thunder roll.
I hit the switches and, plate by plate, study the images. See a skull, other glowing white shapes I recognize as bones and teeth. Densely opaque blobs that could be dental restorations. I haven’t a clue about the nature of the gray matrix.
I find a plastic sheet and spread it across the autopsy table, don my protective gear, and open the carton. My heart sinks.
The brothers Grimm have done a good job of separating decedent from Airstream. The box, half-full, holds mostly bone, little debris. The gray jumble turns out to be bits of charred carpet and fabric not easily detachable from the remains.
The brothers Grimm have done a lousy job of estimating the volume of a burned human being. And a lousy job of keeping that human being intact. Accompanying the skull are limb bones, all broken, the left half of a mandible, and a hunk of pelvis. Discoloration ranges from black to gray to white, suggesting varying degrees of exposure to flame. Eyeing the paltry postcranial assemblage, I know major parts are missing.
Slowly, gingerly, I begin transferring elements. Some are brittle and leave scatters of ash on the blue plastic sheeting. A few retain remnants of tendon or muscle cooked hard and leathery as beef jerky. A smell like cinders and charred meat permeates the air.
Eventually, a patchwork skeleton lies with arms and legs spread, torso sparse, hands and feet unrepresented. Though the skull has survived relatively intact, the face is badly damaged, and every dental crown is missing from the maxilla and mandible.
I center the skull on a rubber ring for stability. It stares at me with empty black orbits.
I begin my examination. My pulse settles. Grudgingly, I admit that Slidell is right. My skill set is dead-on.
I observe the orbital ridges and rims, the nuchal crest on the occiput, the hunk of pelvis, which includes the right pubic and sacroiliac areas. I measure the diameter of a decapitated femoral head. I record gender as male in my notes.
Enough of the right pubic symphysis remains to observe the articular surface. Two fragments of rib are complete to their sternal ends. Two isolated molar crowns, each showing moderate wear on its occlusal surface. I check the X-ray, see completed molar roots in the mandibular fragment. I record age as thirty-five to fifty.
With my ancient dead I don’t address the question of race. But I know the markers. I observe a narrow nasal opening and tight cheekbones. Little projection of the lower face. A parabolic dental arcade. I write Caucasoid in my notes. Add a question mark. Erase it.
There is sufficient femoral shaft to calculate height. I measure, do the math, add the estimate to my profile. Five eight to six one. The range is broad and I anticipate Slidell’s scorn. But the bone is incomplete and I’m unsure of the amount of shrinkage due to burning.
Still, Slidell will be pleased. The remains are compatible with what he and Rinaldi have told me about Keith Millikin.
But something bothers me. I know cremation of a human corpse takes an hour and a half at a thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Ballpark. The Grimm brothers reported minimal damage to the outside of the trailer. Yet Millikin is toast. I wonder how long the fire burned undetected. I know body fat can provide fuel after other combustibles have been depleted. I make a note to ask if Millikin was obese.
And something else is not right. The brain is roughly 75 percent water. With temperatures high enough and exposure long enough, that water turns to steam. The steam expands, causing separation along the sutures, cracking, sometimes explosion of the skull.
Millikin’s head shows no thermal fracturing. Why?
I rotate the skull on its ring, studying every detail with a magnifying lens. Melted gunk coats the crown in back. Scrap by scrap, I tweeze it free. When the area is clean, I retrieve the magnifier. And feel an irrational flip in my gut.
I stare, breathing in the smell of ash and soot. I’m still staring, nose inches from the glass, when Slidell shoulder-barges through the door. His hair is flattened and separated into wet clumps. The corduroy jacket is mottled with dark splotches.
I glance at the clock: 12:14. The rain has started.
I set down the lens. “Detective.”
No response. Slidell is seeing nothing but the burned man on the blue plastic sheeting.
“Did you obtain Dr. Millikin’s dental records?”
He pulls an envelope from a pocket and tosses it onto the counter.
“Originals?” I have instructed him that copies are unacceptable.
“Yeah. Dr. Steiner’s a real peach of a guy.”
I imagine the conversation. Feel empathy for Steiner.
“Did you contact a forensic dentist?”
“None to be had.”
“I’m not qualified—”
“So what’s up here?” Hooking a thumb at the table.
I tell Slidell that the bioprofile is compatible with the descriptors he’s provided for Keith Millikin.
He rolls that around.
“The victim is a white middle-aged male.” I add this thinking he doesn
’t understand.
Slidell gives me a pained look, like I’ve said frogs can croak. Then the cop notebook comes out. A stub of pencil. He licks, then poises the lead.
“Shoot.”
I outline my findings. He jots them quickly in some kind of shorthand.
“What else?” Without looking up.
I give him my height estimate.
“That narrows it to half the population.”
“It’s the best I can do with so much missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“Gone. Absent. AWOL.”
“Burned up?”
“Or not collected.”
“Like what?”
“His hands and feet. Most of his dentition.”
“There enough to get a positive with those?” Jabbing the notebook toward Dr. Steiner’s envelope.
“It’s iffy.”
“Iffy?”
“I have a total of three crowns.”
“You know burned teeth when you see ’em?”
“Yes.” Guarded.
A fraction of a pause, then the notebook slaps shut and disappears into a pocket. “You gotta go out there.”
“No. I don’t.” I almost say “gotta.”
“Doc Becknell would.”
“I’m not Doc Becknell.”
A moment of standoff silence. I break it.
“I have found something disturbing.” Positioning the magnifier over the posterior right parietal, I gesture him to me.
Slidell circles the table, takes the lens, and brings the skull into focus. Up close, I see oily strips of scalp between the rain-parted hair. Smell drugstore cologne and stale cigarette smoke.
When Slidell finally speaks, I’m not sure what I hear in his tone. I know it’s not good.
“That what I’m thinking?” Slidell is sparking energy that wasn’t there before.
“It is.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Detective. It’s a bullet entrance.”
“How do you know?” He flips to a clean page in the spiral.