“And on the age, move my ‘pretty confident’ up to ‘very confident. ’ ”
“But still short of ‘Oh, no question’?”
“If you mean, would I bet my life on it? No, but it’s the best you’re going to get out of me. The epiphyses don’t lie. She was fifteen or sixteen years old, or if you want to play it completely safe, make it fourteen to seventeen. I’ll see you at five.”
When Marmolejo left, Gideon stood up and stretched again, walked up and down the corridor a few times, turned down an offer of more coffee from Corporal Vela-it was getting to the time of day where a highball or a glass of wine would be more welcome-and returned to the cubicle to finish up.
There was nothing left but the bones of the feet, which he had not yet laid out properly. For whatever reason, in forensic analysis, these bones figure less than any of the others. There is less interest in them, less known about them, and less research done on them. Gideon wasn’t sure why, but he thought it might simply be that feet just aren’t that exciting, at least not to most people. Still, they had to be examined; as he had told Marmolejo, you never know what you’re going to find.
The tarsus, composed of the four largest ankle bones, was missing, but everything else in the foot was there: the three smaller cuneiforms, the five metatarsals, and the fourteen phalanges that made up the toes, even the four tiny ones at the ends. That was unusual, and he assumed that the foot, like the foot of the mummy, had been encased in a shoe.
Almost the moment he began to lay them out anatomically for a proper examination-no easy task; they are confoundingly similar-he ran into a shock. He found himself holding what he thought was a left first metatarsal in his right hand, and what he was sure was another left first metatarsal in his right hand. This was not as it should have been. The first metatarsal is the bone in the sole of the foot that leads to the first toe-the big toe-and like the toe itself, it is by far the strongest, bulkiest of its fellows, twice the thickness of any of the others, and therefore the easiest to recognize. Most important, we are entitled to only one apiece, not two. Two first metatarsals indicate two separate individuals just as surely as two jawbones do.
All alone in the cubicle, with no one to see him, Gideon Oliver blushed. He had just committed the simplest, most sophomoric error of omission that a forensic anthropologist can make. The very first thing to be established- how often had he drummed this into his students?-when faced with a pile of bones, is how many people one is dealing with. Well, strictly speaking, the first thing to be established is whether or not the remains are human, but figuring out whether you have one person or more than one is every bit as elementary. The fact that he’d been assured by the police that the carton contained a single individual was no excuse and he knew it. Cops weren’t anthropologists. Doctors weren’t anthropologists.
Everything he’d come up with, everything he’d told Marmolejo, was now in doubt. Were the legs and skull from one person or two (or more)? To which one did the clavicle belong? Or was that a third person? Why wouldn’t the skeletal maturation and the sexual differentiation be out of joint if he were dealing with two or more people? How could he have been so careless, so cavalier…?
In the midst of all this self-recrimination, he became aware that his own left thumb was trying to send him a message. Something didn’t feel right about the metatarsal. Why was its head so smooth? Why couldn’t he feel the grooves for the sesamoids? He took a closer look. The other end of the bone was peculiar too. Where was the prominence for the Peroneus longus tendon? What were those facets for the cuneiforms doing there? They should have been… they should have been…
It took him longer than he’d have liked to admit to realize what the problem was, or rather what it wasn’t. He’d made a mistake, all right, but not the inexcusable one he thought he’d made. The thing was, the bone he was holding in his left hand wasn’t another first metatarsal at all, it was the second, but greatly thickened, so that its bulk gave it the initial appearance of a first metatarsal.
Whew. One person, after all, and not two.
All the same, he finished laying out the foot bones now, as he should have done to begin with, just to be sure. And, happily, there they all were, with not a spare in the bunch. Other than the four missing ones from the tarsus, there were precisely enough to make one human foot; no more, no less.
One foot with a peculiar, grossly enlarged second metatarsal. Again, he picked it up, turned it round and round, fingered it, studied every ridge and fossa. Aside from its size, it was perfectly normal. The bulkiness wasn’t the result of disease or trauma; it had been caused by muscular stress… and he was fairly sure he understood exactly what kind of stress it had been, although he needed to check a few sources to be certain.
He was also fairly sure that the age estimate he’d given Marmolejo was going to suffer a significant revision.
He couldn’t help smiling. Marmolejo was going to love this.
TWELVE
When the colonel got back to his office a little after five, he found Gideon getting up from Corporal Vela’s computer. The colonel raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Just looking up a few things on the Internet,” Gideon explained cheerfully.
The eyebrows settled down and morphed into one of Marmolejo’s familiar, foxy expressions. “I know that look,” he said, leveling a finger at Gideon. “You’ve come up with a rabbit, after all.”
Gideon grinned. “I think I just might have,” he agreed. GIDEON, having been breathing bone dust for several hours, wanted some fresh air, so they went outside and sat on one of the peeling metal Libertad benches that lined the brick plaza out front. It was late afternoon now, with a drowsy sun on its way down, and the people going in and out of the Procuraduria, or just hanging around the vicinity, seemed mellower than they had earlier. Several pairs of people, mostly men, sat chatting and laughing on the other benches, or on the rims of the rusting fountains, and others were wolfing down tacos and Cokes in the clusters of plastic chairs that had been set up around umbrellaed food carts at the edges of the brickwork. Near the benches, three or four shoeshine stands-green- awninged metal chairs on wheels-had been set up. All had waiting customers.
It was all a little exotic and unfamiliar to Gideon, of course, but tinged with an everyday, life-goes-on normalcy that he found welcome. As always, it was restorative, even slightly surprising, to come out into the daylight after a session with the pitiful remains of a murder victim and find the sun shining and the world going along as usual.
“So, then,” said Marmolejo. “Tell me.” He sat peering at Gideon, very upright as usual, with a hand on each knee, and the toes of his tiny, perfectly buffed shoes barely touching the bricks, more than ever like a wise old monkey. Or perhaps better yet, a meerkat, erect, alert, attentive, intelligent.
“Umm…”
Marmolejo frowned. “Why do you hesitate?”
“I’m hesitating,” Gideon said, “because I don’t know which would be more fun: stringing you along bit by bit, or boggling your mind by giving it to you all at once.”
“All at once, I think.”
“Good enough. I was wrong about the age, and Orihuela was even more wrong about the age. She wasn’t a girl, she was a grown woman-”
Marmolejo was not a man whose surprise plastered itself across his face, but this time it couldn’t be missed. “A grown woman-”
“-who happened to be-”
“One moment please. Kindly wait until my mind stops boggling. All right, go ahead.”
“-who happened to be a ballet dancer.”
Marmolejo stared at him. “Do you mean to say you know who she was?”
“No, only what she was. You’ll have to figure out the who.”
“When you say ballet dancer, do you mean a professional ballet dancer?”
“Professional? That I don’t know. Maybe. Serious? Yes.”
“A grown woman, a ballet dancer,” Marmolejo repeated. Hm.” He continued to sit there inscrutably, meerkat-like, unmoving and silent, his chin slightly uplifted as if he were sniffing for the scent of outsiders on the wind.
