Scattered Graves

who she was angry with, her or Bryce.

‘‘Now do we have everything under control?’’ said Diane when Bryce was off the phone.

‘‘This thing about the forensic anthropology lab is not finished by a long shot,’’ he said.

‘‘No, you’re wrong. It’s over,’’ said Diane.

‘‘We’ll see. In the meantime, Jennifer will be work ing here,’’ he said.

‘‘Have you heard nothing I said? This is my lab, and I don’t need an assistant,’’ said Diane.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jennifer flinch at the word assistant. Diane needed to ratchet the ten sion down, but she wasn’t sure how, other than give away her lab. And she wasn’t going to do that, even temporarily.

‘‘Jennifer is the official Rosewood forensic anthro pologist. She is the person all skeletal remains will be given to for analysis. What will you need a big lab for then?’’

David had told her Bryce was clueless. She’d thought David was just overly critical, but apparently he was right. The man really didn’t know anything.

‘‘Bryce, Rosewood gets how many skeletons a year? Almost none. Virtually all of the bones we analyze come to me from neighboring counties, other states, and other countries. I’m all for Rosewood having its own forensic anthropologist, but the city will have to supply her with a lab and equipment. You can’t ask the museum to do it. Now, I have work to do.’’

‘‘I’ll see you later today—with the police if neces sary,’’ said Bryce. He stomped out of the lab.

Diane looked over at Jennifer.

‘‘I need to get my purse,’’ she said.

Diane followed her into the office. ‘‘You moved here from California?’’ said Diane.

‘‘Yes, with my family. My husband quit a job he loved in order to support my career,’’ she said, retriev ing her purse from the bottom drawer of the desk.

Diane hardly knew what to say. She should have been kinder to her. This had to be a blow. Bryce may not have believed her, but Jennifer knew something was not right.

‘‘I’m sure they’ll find you very good lab space,’’ began Diane.

Jennifer looked sharply at Diane. ‘‘I don’t need your pity.’’

Diane was surprised at her vehemence. ‘‘I wasn’t offering you pity,’’ she said, ‘‘just friendliness.’’

Jennifer put her purse under her arm and walked out of the office, the heels of her Dolce & Gabbana pumps clicking on the floor like ricocheting bullets. At least she’s rich, thought Diane.

Diane stood for a moment staring at the closed door. ‘‘This has got to be the strangest day,’’ she said under her breath.

She saw that the watercolor of the lone wolf hunting that she kept on the wall, the only decoration in her osteology office, had been taken down and was leaning against the wall. She walked over and picked it up.

‘‘Now, why didn’t Goldilocks like you?’’ she said to the picture. ‘‘Maybe she’s friends with Little Red Rid ing Hood.’’ Diane hung the painting back on the wall.

She then changed the key code on the doors to the lab. Safely locked in, she went to the drying racks to look at the wood-chipper bones.

She put on her lab coat and gloves, stopping mo mentarily to see whether she could hear any more closet conversations. All was quiet. She checked the bones. They were mostly dry, and she began laying them out on the table in basically anatomical position. They looked like a fossil find—like Lucy laid out with her tiny ribs and scant bones. Diane had only seventytwo pieces of bone to work with.

She picked up the petrous part of the temporal bone, the bone she hoped would reveal the sex, made measurements of the fragment, and recorded them. She mixed up casting compound and began making a cast of the acoustic canal. She set the poured cast aside and examined the rest of the fragments one by one, looking for any anomalies, any cut marks that might not have been made by the wood chipper, anything that might have identification value. She reached for a piece of the hip bone that included the pubic symphysis—the place where the two sides of the hip bones join. The surface was rugged with well-defined grooves, which meant the person was young—late teens, early twenties.

Diane turned to get the camera to photograph the piece when she was suddenly jarred out of her thoughts by very loud yelling coming from the crime lab next door.

Chapter 9

Diane stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. The voices were coming from deeper within the lab and not the closet. She reached for a phone to call the crime lab when she heard her name.

Okay , she thought, it’s somehow about me. I am the landlord, so to speak, and this sounds serious. Land lords check into serious noises.

She walked to the adjoining door, unlocked it, and entered the crime lab. It hadn’t changed much, still all glass and metal cubicles and fancy equipment. The voices were clearer now. One was Sheriff Canfield’s; he was red faced and very angry. He was standing in front of Bryce, yelling at him. Bryce was backed against a desk, staring wide-eyed at the taller sheriff.

A woman with long blond hair in a ponytail, wear ing khaki slacks and a pink polo shirt, sat in one of the cubicles with her door open. Her eyebrows were raised and her lips turned into almost a smile. Must be Rikki. Diane thought the look on Rikki’s face was far too excited. She was obviously enjoying the con frontation. Diane glanced around the room but didn’t see Neva.

‘‘Did you really think you could get away with this? What goes on in the heads of you people? We didn’t elect you...’’

Bryce caught sight of Diane. He straightened up and pointed a finger at her.

‘‘What are you doing here?’’ he said.