Wally was summarizing in speech as he might have on paper. Or perhaps he was reading from notes he’d jotted during the call with his student.
“Male. Thirty years old, plus or minus five years. Age based on ribs and pubic symphyses. Or at least on what was left of them.”
Pause.
“Caucasoid.”
Pause.
“Height seventy-three inches, plus or minus. Can’t remember that exactly. Muscle attachments slight.”
“Any evidence of trauma?” I asked.
“Just postmortem. Animal damage. Cut marks on the third cervical vertebra suggestive of decapitation by a sharp instrument with a nonserrated blade. That’s about it.”
“Did you have any feel for the case at the time?”
“A tall white boy pissed somebody off. That somebody killed him and whacked off his head and hands. That in accord with what you’re seeing?”
“Pretty much.”
I looked out my window. The trees around my patio shimmered in the heat. My heartbeat had returned to normal. Concentrating on Cagle’s narrative, I’d nearly forgotten the prior call.
“I had a tough time determining sex with this skull. Didn’t fall on either side of the line,” I said.
“I had the same problem,” Cagle said. “Sheriff’s deputies recovered no clothes or personal effects. Dogs and raccoons used the body as carryout for a goodly period of time. Pelvis was badly chewed, so were the ends of the long bones. Had to calculate stature from one relatively complete fibula. Except for that height estimate, I saw zilch with regard to sex.”
“There are tall women,” I said.
“Look at professional basketball,” Cagle agreed. “Anyway, I thought I had a tall male, but wasn’t one hundred percent sure. So when I sent a femoral sample off for DNA profiling, I requested an amelogenin test.”
“And?”
“Two bands.”
“Male.” I said it more to myself than to Cagle.
“X and a Y, holding hands.”
“The state lab agreed to do a blind DNA?”
“Of course not. The sheriff’s query turned up a missing person as a possible match. DNA said otherwise.”
“What happened to the skeleton?”
“I shipped it back to Lancaster when I mailed my report. Coroner sent me a receipt.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Snow. Murray P. Snow. Probably held the bones a week then torched them.”
“Did you take pictures?” I asked.
“They’re on file in my lab at the university.”
I thought a moment.
“Is there any way you could scan the images and transmit them to me electronically?”
“No problem, princess. I’ll be back in Columbia by late this afternoon. I’ll do it toot sweet, and fax you a copy of the report.”
I thanked him, disconnected, and went straight to my computer. Though Cagle’s call had distracted me for a time, I was anxious to see what kind of e-mail stalker wanted to be my chat buddy.
What kind of psychopath knew my home phone number.
The flag on my inbox was straight up. A cheery voice told me I had mail.
Barely breathing, I double-clicked the icon.
Forty-three e-mails.
I scrolled downward.
And my heartbeat ratcheted up.
Twenty-four messages had been sent by someone using the screen name Grim Reaper. Each file carried an attachment. Each subject line held the same message in bold caps: BACK OFF!
I recoiled from the monitor.
