Scooping the cranial soil, the bug, and the casing into a ziplock, I wrote the MCME ID number, date, and my name on the outside of the plastic. The sample might never be processed, but better to err on the side of caution.
Using a scalpel, I chipped flakes from the candle wax coating the outer surface of the crown and sealed them into a second ziplock. Scrapings of the “blood” stain went into a third.
Then I turned back to the X-rays. Slowly, I worked through the frontal, lateral, posterior, superior, and basal views Hawkins had provided.
The skull showed no signs of trauma or disease. No metallic trace that would indicate gunshot wounding. No fractures, bullet entrance or exit holes, or sharp instrument gashes. No lesions, defects, or congenital anomalies. No restorations, implants, or indicators of cosmetic or corrective surgery. Not a clue as to the girl’s dental or medical history. Not a hint concerning the reason for her death.
Frustrated, I reexamined both the skull and the X-rays under magnification.
Nope. The cranium was remarkably unremarkable.
Discouraged, I ran through a mental checklist of methods for PMI estimation with dry bone. Ultraviolet fluorescence, staining for indophenol and Nile blue, supersonic conductivity, histological or radiographic structure analysis, nitrogen or amino acid content evaluation, Bomb C14 testing, calculation of fat transgression, carbonate, or serological protein levels, benzidine or anti-human serum reaction.
Though I’d forward the pill bug and casing to the entomologist, I doubted either would be of much use. They could have come from the fill, drifting into the skull years after the girl had died.
The Bomb C14 was a possibility. Testing might show whether death occurred, roughly, before or after 1963, the end date for atmospheric testing of thermonuclear devices. But based on bone quality, I doubted PMI could be greater than fifty years. Besides, given budgetary restraints, Larabee would never cough up the funds for C14.
Revving up a Stryker saw, I removed a small square of bone from the right parietal and sealed it into a ziplock. Then I extracted and added a right second molar. Even if we couldn’t afford C14 testing, we might need the specimens for DNA sequencing.
Samples bagged, I finished entering my observations onto my case form.
PMI: Five to fifty years.
MOD: Unknown.
I could picture Slidell’s expression when I reported that. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.
Discouraged, I turned to the nonhumans.
Yep. Goat and chicken.
Both skulls retained remnants of desiccated flesh. I found a few larvae and puparial cases inside the vault and auditory canals of the goat.
I’d already sampled from the chicken on Tuesday, and knew it had held the motherlode. Adult flies. Larvae. The body had even yielded a few beetles and a number of very large roaches. I’d await word from the entomologist, but I had no doubt Chicken Little had gone to her reward in the past few months.
I turned my attention to the large cauldron.
First I took photos. Then I placed a stainless steel tub in the sink, settled a screen over it, masked, and began troweling. The dirt
One scoop. Three. Five. A few pebbles, snail shells, and bug parts collected in the screen.
Twelve scoops in, I sensed resistance. Abandoning the trowel, I dug by hand. In seconds, I’d freed a shriveled mass measuring approximately two inches in diameter.
Laying my find on the gurney, I gingerly explored with my fingers.
The mass was shrunken, yet spongy.
Apprehension began to tap at my brain. What I was handling was organic.
As I teased away dirt, detail emerged. Gyri. Sulci.
Recognition.
I was poking at a hunk of mummified gray matter.
My own neurons fired up a name.
I pushed it back down.
The human brain measures in at approximately 1,400 cubic centimeters. This thing could claim but a fraction of that.
Goat? Chicken?
A sudden grisly thought. One lobe of a human cerebrum?
That was a question for Larabee.
After bagging and tagging my find I continued with the fill.
And made my next chilling discovery.
6
AT FIRST I THOUGHT IT WAS A HOLY CARD, A MASS-PRODUCED devotional used by the Catholic faithful. My sister, Harry, and I used to collect them as kids. A bit smaller than a driver’s license, each card depicts a saint or biblical scene and provides a suitable prayer. The good ones promise indulgence, time off the purgatory sentence you’ve got to serve for screwing up on Earth.
It wasn’t. When removed from its plastic wrapping, the image that emerged was actually a portrait, the kind that shows up in school yearbooks.
The subject was shown from the waist up, tree-leaning, face turned toward the lens. She wore a brown long-sleeved sweater that allowed a peek of stomach. One hand pressed the tree, the other thumb-hooked a belt loop on a faded pair of jeans.
The girl’s hair was center parted, swept back and flipped up behind her ears. It was black. Her eyes were dark chocolate, her skin nutmeg. She looked about seventeen.
I felt a constriction in my chest.
A black teenaged girl.
My eyes jumped to the gurney. Dear God, could this be her skull? If so, how had it ended up in that basement? Had this girl been murdered?
I looked back at the portrait.
The girl’s head was subtly tipped, her shoulders lightly raised. Her lip corners rose in an impish grin. She looked happy, bursting with self-assurance and the promise of life. Why was her photo buried in a cauldron?
Could Arlo Welton be right? Had he uncovered an altar used for satanic ritual? For human sacrifice? I’d read news stories, knew that, though rare, such atrocities did take place.
The phone shrilled, sparing further contemplation of the dreadful possibilities.
“Weren’t we the early bird today.” As usual, Mrs. Flowers sounded a yard north of chirpy.
“I have a lot to go through.”
“The media is in a dither over this basement thing.”
“Yes.”
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Well, I guess they don’t really have hooks anymore. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
I looked at the wall clock. Twelve forty.
“They’ll move on once something new die-verts their attention. Thought I’d let you know. There’s a detective steaming your way.”
“Slidell?”
“Yes, ma’am. Partner’s with him.”
“Warning heeded.”
I was hanging up when the autopsy room door swung in. Slidell entered, followed by a gangling skeleton
