Reliquary

= 12 =

MARGO WASHED HER hands in the deep metal sink of the Forensic Anthropology lab, then dried them on a coarse hospital cloth. She glanced over at the gurney on which the sheeted remains of Pamela Wisher lay. The samples and observations had all been taken, and the corpse would be released to the family later that morning. Across the room, Brambell and Frock were at work on the unidentified skeleton, bending over its grotesquely twisted hips and taking elaborate measurements.

“If I may make an observation?” Dr. Brambell said, putting a vibrating Stryker saw to one side.

“Be my guest,” Frock replied in his buttery rumble, waving a hand magnanimously.

They detested each other.

Margo slipped two latex gloves onto each hand, turning to hide a smile. It was probably the first time she’d seen Frock face a man with an intellect, or an ego, equal to his own. It was a miracle that any work had been accomplished. Yet over the past few days they had performed antibody testing, osteological analysis, tests for toxic residues and teratogens, as well as numerous other procedures. All that remained was the DNA sequencing and forensic analysis of the teeth marks. Yet the unknown corpse remained a riddle, refusing to yield up its secrets. Margo knew this only added to the highly charged atmosphere within the lab.

“It should be obvious to the meanest intelligence,” Brambell was saying, his high Irish voice trembling with irritation, “that the puncture cannot have originated on the dorsal side. Otherwise, the transverse process would have been clipped.”

“I fail to see what clipping has to do with anything,” muttered Frock.

Margo tuned out the argument, most of which was uninteresting to her anyway. Her specialty was ethnopharmacology and genetics, not gross anatomy. She had other problems to solve.

She leaned over the latest gel electrophoresis run on tissue from the unidentified corpse, feeling her trapezius muscles cry out in protest as she reached forward. Five sets of ten reps with the upright rows the night before, instead of her normal three. She’d upped her workout routine dramatically over the last several days; she would have to be more careful not to overdo it.

Ten minutes of close scrutiny confirmed her suspicions: the dark stripes of the various protein elements could tell her little beyond being common human muscle proteins. She straightened up with a sigh. Any more detailed genetic information would have to come from the much more sensitive DNA sequencing machine. Unfortunately, reliable results would not be available for several more days.

As she placed the gel strips to one side, rubbing her shoulder thoughtfully, she noticed a manila envelope lying next to the SPARC-10 workstation. X rays, she thought. They must have arrived first thing this morning. Obviously, Brambell and Frock had been too busy arguing over the corpse to look at them. It was understandable: with a body that was almost completely skeletonized already, X rays weren’t likely to tell them very much.

“Margo?” Frock called.

She walked over to the examining table.

“My dear,” Frock said, pushing his wheelchair away and gesturing toward the microscope, “please examine this groove running down the right femur.”

The Stereozoom was on lowest power, yet it was still like gazing into another world. The brown bone leaped into view, revealing the ridges and valleys of a miniature desert landscape.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

It wasn’t the first time Margo had been called to give an opinion in a dispute, and she didn’t relish the role. “It looks like a natural fissure in the bone,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “Part of the suite of bone spurs and ridges that seem to have affected the skeleton. I wouldn’t necessarily say it was caused by a tooth.”

Frock settled back in his wheelchair, not quite able to mask a smile of triumph.

Brambell blinked. “I’m sorry?” he asked in disbelief. “Dr. Green, I don’t mean to contradict you, but that’s a longitudinal tooth mark if ever I saw one.”

“I don’t mean to contradict you, Dr. Brambell.” She switched the stereozoom to higher power, and the small fissure immediately turned into a vast canyon. “But I can see some natural pores along the inside, here.”

Brambell bustled over and looked into the eyepieces, holding his old horn-rims to one side. He stared at the image for several moments, then stepped away much more slowly than he had approached.

“Hmm,” he said, replacing his glasses. “It pains me to say it, Frock, but you may have a point.”

“You mean Margo may have a point,” said Frock.

“Yes, of course. Very good, Dr. Green.”

Margo was spared a reply by the ringing of the lab phone. Frock wheeled over and answered it energetically. Margo watched him, realizing that this was the first time she had really stopped to look at her old adviser since D’Agosta’s call had brought them back together the week before. Though still portly, he seemed thinner than she remembered from their days together at the Museum. His wheelchair, too, was different: old and scuffed. She wondered, in sudden sympathy, if her mentor had fallen on hard times. Yet if so, it hadn’t seemed to affect him adversely. If anything, he looked more alert, more vigorous, than during his tenure as Anthropology Department chairman.

Frock was listening, clearly upset about something. Margo’s gaze drifted away from him and up to the laboratory window and its gorgeous view of Central Park. The trees were rich with the dark green foliage of summer, and the reservoir shimmered in the brilliant light. To the south, several rowboats drifted lazily across the pond. She thought how infinitely preferable it would be in one of those boats—basking in the sun—instead of here in the Museum, pulling apart rotten bodies.

“That was D’Agosta,” Frock said, hanging up with a sigh. “He says our friend here is going to have some company. Close the blinds, will you? Artificial light is preferable for microscope work.”