Danny lifted the cover on the box holding 1968-979.
We both leaned in.
Seconds passed.
Our eyes met.
Reflected mutual shock.
THE SKULL WAS NESTLED IN ONE CORNER, WITH THE REST OF the skeleton packed above and around it. Every element was dappled yellow and brown. Nothing special. Exposure to sunlight bleaches bone. Contact with soil and vegetation darkens it.
It wasn’t the state of the remains that shocked us.
It was the object wedged behind an infolded flap of cardboard rimming the inside of the box.
“Is that a dog tag?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“That shouldn’t be in there.”
“You think not?” Sarcasm not directed at me.
After wiggling the tag free, Danny whipped off his glasses, scrunched his eyes, and brought the small metal rectangle to his nose.
“Can you make out a name?” I asked.
“No.” He thumbnail-scratched one side, flipped the tag, scratched the other.
“There’s a thick accretion covering both surfaces. Let’s try some water.”
At the sink, Danny scrubbed the tag with a hard-bristle brush, then repeated the glasses-squinty-eye thing.
“If the raised lettering is abraded or squashed, usually I can dig out and read the indentation on the back. But this gunk’s like cement. Let’s give it a whirl in the sonicator.”
Sonicators are used to clean jewelry, optical parts, coins, watches, dental, medical, electronic, and automotive equipment. The gizmos rely on ultrasound, usually in the 15–400 kHz range. No rocket science. Using liquid cleanser, you just shake the crap out of whatever is dirty.
Danny placed the tag in the stainless steel basket, added a vinegar-water solution, and closed the cover. Then he set the timer.
We were both staring at the thing, pointlessly, when a thought occurred to me.
“Who was the last person to examine this case?” I asked.
“Excellent question.”
Danny crossed to Red Sweater. He was explaining what he wanted when my BlackBerry pinged an incoming text.
Katy.
Invasion!
Ants? A marching army?
Home shortly, I texted back.
Fast.
What?
This blows.
Great. A new crisis.
Problem?
Unbelievable.
???? I was clueless as to the basis of Katy’s current discontent.
Vacation over, she replied.
???? I repeated.
A minute passed with no response.
What the hell?
I called Katy’s cell.
Got voice mail.
Terrific. She’d turned off or was ignoring her phone.
I was clipping the BlackBerry onto my belt when Danny returned, his expression troubled.
