I got up and started filing papers, sorted through a stack of reprints, then switched to shelving books. I knew it was avoidance, but couldn’t help myself. The thought of going home was unbearable.
Ten minutes of restless activity. Don’t think. Then,
“Oh hell, Birdie!”
I slammed a copy of
“Why did you have to be there? I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry, Bird.”
I lay my head on the blotter and sobbed.
23
THURSDAY WAS DECEPTIVELY PLEASANT.
In the morning I had two small surprises. The call to my insurance carrier went well. Both repairmen I phoned were available and would start work immediately.
During the day I taught my classes and revised the CAT scan paper for the physical anthropology conference. Late in the afternoon Ron Gillman reported that the Crime Scene Recovery unit had found nothing useful in the debris from my kitchen. No surprise there. He’d asked patrol to keep an eye on my place.
I also heard from Sam. He had no news, but was becoming increasingly convinced the bodies had been dropped on his island by dope dealers. He was taking it as a personal challenge and had dug out an old twelve gauge and stashed it under a bunk in the field station.
On the way home from the university I stopped at the Harris Teeter superstore across from the Southpark Shopping Center and bought all of my favorite foods. I worked out at the Harris YMCA and arrived at the Annex around six-thirty. The window had been fixed and a workman was just finishing sanding the floor. Every surface in the kitchen was coated in fine white dust.
I cleaned the stove and counters, then fixed crab cakes and a goat cheese salad and ate them while watching a rerun of “Murphy Brown.” The Murph was tough. I resolved to be more like her.
During the evening I revised the CAT scan paper again, watched a Hornets’ game, and thought about my taxes. I resolved to do that, too. But not this week. At eleven I fell asleep with the copies of Louis-Philippe’s journal spread across the bed.
Friday was scripted by Satan. It was then I got my first inkling of the horror about to unfold.
The Murtry victims arrived from Charleston early in the morning. By nine-thirty I was gloved and goggled and had the cases spread out in my lab. One table held the skull and bone samples Hardaway had removed during his autopsy of the lower corpse. The other held a full skeleton. The technicians at the medical university had done an excellent job. All the bones looked clean and undamaged.
I started with the body from the bottom of the pit. Though putrefied, it had retained enough soft tissue to allow a full autopsy. Sex and race were evident, so Hardaway wanted my help only in assessing age. I left the pathologist’s report and photos until later since I didn’t want to bias my conclusions by knowing his.
I popped the X-rays onto the light box. Nothing unusual. In the cranial views I could see that all thirty-two teeth were erupted, their roots fully formed. There were no restorations or missing teeth. I noted this on a case form.
I walked to the first table and looked at the skull. The gap at the cranial base was fused. This was not an adolescent.
I studied the rib ends and the surfaces where the halves of the pelvis join in front, the pubic symphyses. The ribs had moderately deep indentations where cartilage had connected them to the breastbone. Wavy ridges ran across the pubic symphyseal faces, and I could see tiny nodules of bone along the outer border of each.
The throat end of each collarbone was fused. The upper edge of each hip blade retained a thin line of separation.
I checked my models and histograms, and wrote down my estimate. The woman was twenty to twenty-eight years of age when she died.
Hardaway wanted a full analysis on the subsurface burial. Again I started with the X-rays. Again they were unremarkable, except for the perfect dentition.
I already suspected this victim was also female, as I’d told Ryan. As I’d laid out the bones, I’d noted the smooth skull and delicate facial architecture. The broad, short pelvis with its distinctly feminine pubic area confirmed my initial impression.
This woman’s age indicators were similar to those of the first victim, though her pubic symphyses showed deep ridges across their entire surfaces and lacked the little nodes.
I estimated this victim had died slightly younger, probably in her late teens or early twenties.
For the question of ancestry, I returned to the cranium. The mid-face region was classic, especially the nasal features: high bridge between the eyes, narrow opening, prominent lower border and spine.
I took measurements that I would analyze statistically, but I knew the woman was white.
I measured the long bones, fed the data into the computer, and ran the regression equations. I was entering a height estimate into the case form when the phone rang.
“If I stay here one more day I’m going to need complete linguistic retraining,” Ryan said, then added, “y’all.”
“Catch a bus north.”
“I thought it was just you, but now I see it’s not your fault.”
“It’s hard to overcome one’s roots.”
