the top drawer, unhooked one of several dozen keys, and checked its tag.
Keeping several steps ahead to minimize opportunity for conversation, our reluctant hostess led us to the second floor, down a tiled corridor, and around a corner to a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. The wordsHUMAN IDENTIFICATION LABORATORY were stenciled on the glass in bold, black letters.
“What exactly is it you need?” The deb ran a thumb back and forth across the small round key tag.
“Last Thursday Dr. Cagle promised he’d send me a case report and photos,” I said. “I haven’t received them. I can’t reach him by phone and it’s quite urgent.”
“Dr. Cagle’s been in the field all summer, only comes in on weekends. Y’all sure he intended to do it right away?”
“Absolutely.”
Two creases puckered the mulberry mushroom. “Man’s usually very predictable and very reliable.”
The deb hunched her whole body when she turned the key, as though revelation of the wrist movement might constitute a security breach. Straightening, she swung the door inward, and pointed a lacquered nail at me.
“Don’t disturb any of Dr. Cagle’s things.” It came out “thangs.” “Some are official police evidence.” It came out “poe-lice.”
“We’ll be very careful,” I said.
“Check with me on your way out.”
Drilling us each with a look, the deb marched off down the corridor.
“Broad missed her calling in the SS,” Slidell said, moving past me through the open door.
Cagle’s lab was an earlier-era version of mine at UNCC. More solid, outfitted with oak and marble, not molded plastic and painted metal.
I did a quick scan.
Worktables. Sinks. Microscopes. Light boxes. Copy stand. Ventilator hood. Hanging skeleton. Refrigerator. Computer.
Slidell tipped his head toward a wall of floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets.
“What do you suppose that meatball keeps locked up in there?”
“Bones.”
“Jay-zus Kee-rist.”
While Slidell went through the unlocked cupboards above the work counters, I checked the room’s single desk. Its top was bare save for a blotter.
A file drawer on the left held forms of various types. Archaeological survey sheets. Burial inventories. Blank bone quizzes. Audiovisual requisitions.
The long middle drawer contained the usual assortment of pens, plastic-headed tacks, paper clips, rubber bands, stamps, and coins.
Nothing extraordinary.
Except that everything was organized into separate boxes, slots, and niches, each labeled and spotlessly clean. Inside the compartments, every item was aligned with geometric precision.
“Fastidious little wanker.” Slidell had come up behind me.
I checked the right two drawers. Stationery. Envelopes. Printer paper. Labels. Post-its.
Same ordinary supplies. Same anal tidiness.
“Your desk look like that?” Slidell asked.
“No.” I’d once found a dead goldfish in my desk drawer. Solved the mystery of its disappearance the previous spring.
“Mine sure don’t.”
Being familiar with Slidell’s car, I didn’t want to imagine the state of his desk.
“Any sign of the report?”
I shook my head.
Slidell moved on to the lower-counter drawers, and I began on the file cabinets to the left of the desk. One held class materials. The other was filled with forensic case reports.
Bingo!
Across the room, Slidell banged a drawer home.
“I’ve gotta get some air.”
“Fine.”
I said nothing about the files. Better to have Slidell outside smoking than breathing down my neck.
The dossiers were organized chronologically. Twenty-three dated to the year Cagle had examined the Lancaster skeleton. I found two for the proper month, but none for a headless body.
I checked the preceding and following years, then scanned the tab on every folder.
