“I could use something fresh, Moses.”
“It’s fresh all right,” said Reed. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“Why not?”
“More bones, boss. Same neighborhood. Another baby.”
A city worker, part of a crew planning a drainage ditch at the western edge of Cheviot Hills Park, had spotted the scatter of white.
Unruly toss, strewn like trash, barely concealed by bushes. What might pass for dried twigs at a distance was an assortment of tiny skeletal components.
This baby appeared even smaller than the one unearthed in the Ruches’ backyard. The skull was the size of an apple. Some of the bones were as thin as drinking straws and some of the smallest-the phalanges of the hand- were thread-like.
These remnants were clean-looking. Silvery white, luminous in the sunlight.
I thought: Scrubbed clean, maybe polished.
The orange-vested laborer who’d found them was a huge, muscular guy named George Guzman who kept dabbing tears.
Moe Reed stood next to him, pad in hand. His expression said he’d been offering continuous sympathy, wasn’t sure he liked that gig. At Reed’s other side stood Liz Wilkinson, impassive but for soft searching eyes, tool cases on the ground next to her, white coat draped over one arm. Ready to have a go at the skeleton but waiting for the coroner’s investigator to release the victim for further analysis.
The C.I. hadn’t shown up yet. Neither had the crime scene techs, but Liz had gloved up in anticipation. She stood right up against Moe, hips pressed against his. Hard to say who was supporting who.
Guzman stared at the white bones and sniffled.
Reed’s mouth twisted. “Okay, thanks, sir.”
“For what?”
“Calling us.”
“There was a choice?” said Guzman. He took another look. “Man.”
Reed said, “You can go, now.”
Guzman said, “Sure,” but he lingered. Reed prompted his exit by pointing at the yellow tape.
Guzman said, “Sure, sure,” took a step, stopped. “I’ll never forget this. We just had one.”
“One what, sir?”
“Baby.” The word came out strangled. “George Junior. We waited a long time for him.”
“Congratulations,” said Milo.
Guzman looked at him.
Reed said, “This is my boss, Lieutenant Sturgis. Sir, Mr. Guzman is our first arriver. He called it in.”
Guzman said, “I’m always here first. Since we started the job, I mean.”
“What’s the job?” said Milo.
“Making sure water doesn’t collect and ruin the roots of all those trees.” Guzman pointed. “We need to check out the entire area, taking samples of what’s below, then if we need drains, we put ’em in. Few years ago it was done wrong, flooded the archery field.”
“It’s your job to get here before anyone else?”
“No, no, not officially,” said Guzman, “but that’s what happens, I make it at seven ten, fifteen, the other guys not till seven thirty. ’Cause I take my wife to work, she waitresses at Junior’s on Westwood. I drop her off, she gives me coffee, I drive a couple minutes and I’m here.”
Guzman’s eyes drifted back to the bones. “I thought it was a squirrel or something. Dead animals, we see plenty of that. Then I got close and …” He blinked. “It’s definitely human?”
Everyone turned to Liz Wilkinson. She said, “Unfortunately.”
“Damn,” said Guzman, biting his lip. His eyes misted.
Milo said, “Appreciate your help, sir. Have a nice day.”
His prompt was more directive than Reed’s, a nudge to Guzman’s elbow that got the giant in motion. Guzman plodded toward the tape, ducked under with effort, walked several yards, and joined another group of orange-vests hanging near a yellow city truck. The group stayed there, listening as Guzman regaled them.
Milo said, “There’s one who likes attention. You pick up anything about him that fills your nostrils, Moses?”
“Kind of a crybaby,” said Reed, “but nothing overtly creepy.”
“Run him through, anyway.”
“Already done, boss. Clean.”
“Good work, kid, that’s why you get the big bucks. Any anthropological impressions, Liz?”
Wilkinson said, “By its size, this child might be younger than the first. The teeth will help me judge but I haven’t inspected them because the way the skull’s positioned the mouth is in the dirt.”
“We’ll get you access soon as the C.I. okays it.” To Reed: “Any word from the crypt?”
“Held up in traffic. Best guess is within the hour.”
“What about Crime Scene?”
“They should’ve been here already.”
Milo turned to Liz. “You were notified by the crypt crew?”
She smiled. “By Moe.”
Reed fidgeted.
Milo laughed. “Anything for a date, Detective Reed?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Liz said, “I think that’s a compliment.”
Milo said, “Anything else of a scientific nature, Dr. W?”
“These bones look considerably fresher than the first, so you could have a fairly recent crime. But that could also be the result of cleaning or bleaching. From what I can see so far, they appear totally de-fleshed. As to how that was done, I’m a bit puzzled. The most common methods would be mechanical-scraping-or chemical-corrosives, boiling-or a combination of both. But all that seems to be lacking here.”
“How can you tell?”
She let go of Reed’s hand, walked closer to the bones. “Don’t tattle on me to the crypt folk, Milo, but I crouched down and had a good close look.” She held up a gloved hand. “Then I put these on and touched several of the bones because the freshness intrigued me. I was careful not to move anything, there was no disruption of the crime scene. But I wanted to see how they responded to tactile pressure. I also used a magnifying loupe and couldn’t find any of the tool marks you’d get from scraping, or the pitting and cloudiness you’d get from a corrosive bath. More important, the bones felt relatively rigid, as firm as an infant skeleton could be, and with boiling you’d expect them to turn at least a bit rubbery. Especially the smaller bones, those could be as pliable as cooked noodles. It’s possible there’s a new chemical able to do the job without leaving traces but I haven’t heard of it. Maybe something’ll turn up in the analysis.”
“De-fleshed,” said Milo, “but no sign of trauma. So maybe this one
“Anything’s possible but I don’t think so. For the same reason as with the first: You’d expect holes for wires.”
Milo went over to the bones, squatted, a Buddha in a bad suit. “Almost like plastic, with that shine.”
I said, “Is it possible they were coated with something that’s obscuring the tool marks?”
Liz said, “I thought about some kind of lacquering but it would have to be super-thin because normal anatomical irregularities are visible.”
Milo said, “Call the C.I. again, Moses, get a fix on ETA.”
Reed complied. “Half an hour, minimum.”
“Wonderful.”
I said, “Sick joke or murder, with the dump being so close to the first bones, this reeks of copycat.”
Milo inhaled, gut heaving. “Two in Cheviot Hills. Can’t remember the last time we had a murder here.”
