Believing them to be the earliest in time, we started with the four tunnel burials. While Stan and Maggie cleaned, sorted, numbered, photographed, and X-rayed, I studied bones.
I found Edna Farrell early. Skeleton number four was that of an elderly female whose right cheekbone and jawbone deviated sharply from the midline due to fractures that had healed without proper intervention.
Skeleton number five was incomplete, lacking portions of the rib cage, arms, and lower legs. Animal damage was extensive. Pelvic features told me the individual was male and old. A globular skull, flaring cheekbones, and shoveling on the front teeth suggested Native-American ancestry. Statistical analysis placed the skull squarely in the Mongoloid camp. Charlie Wayne Tramper?
Number six, the most deteriorated of the skeletons, was that of an elderly Caucasoid male who had been toothless at the time of his death. Save for a height estimate of over six feet, I found no unique markers on the bones. Tucker Adams?
Skeleton number three was that of an elderly male with healed fractures of the nose, maxilla, third, fourth, and fifth ribs, and right fibula. A long, narrow skull, Quonset hut nasal bridge, smooth nasal border, and anterior projection of the lower face suggested the man was black. So did the Fordisc 2.0 program. I suspected he was the 1979 victim.
Next, I examined the skeletons found in the alcove with Mitchell and Adair.
Skeleton number two was that of an elderly white male. Arthritic changes in the right shoulder and arm bones suggested repeated extension of the hand above the head. Apple picking? Based on the state of preservation, I guessed this individual had died more recently than those buried in the tunnel graves. The apple farmer, Albert Odell?
Skeleton number one was that of an elderly white female with advanced arthritis and only seven teeth. Mary Francis Rafferty, the woman from Dillsboro whose daughter had found her mother's house empty in 1972?
By late afternoon Saturday, I felt confident I had matched the bones with their proper names. Lucy Crowe helped by finding Albert Odell's dental records, the Reverend Luke Bowman by remembering Tucker Adams's height. Six foot three.
And I had a pretty good idea as to manner of death.
The hyoid is a small, horseshoe-shaped bone embedded in the soft tissue of the neck, high up behind the lower jaw. In the elderly, whose bones are often brittle, the hyoid fractures when its wings are compressed. The most common source of compressive force is strangulation.
Tommy Albright phoned as I was preparing to close up.
“Find any more hyoid fractures?”
“Five out of the six.”
“Mitchell, too. He must have put up a helluva fight. When they couldn't strangle him, they smashed his head in.”
“Adair?”
“No. But there's petechial hemorrhage.”
Petechiae are minute blood clots that appear as dots in the eyes and throat, and are strong indicators of asphyxiation.
“Who the hell would want to strangle old people?”
I did not answer. I'd seen other trauma on the skeletons. Trauma I found puzzling. Trauma I would not mention until I understood more.
When he hung up, I went to burial four, picked up the thighbones, and brought them to the magnifier light.
Yes. It was there. It was real.
I collected the femora from every skeleton, and took the bones to a dissecting scope.
Tiny grooves circled each right proximal shaft and ran the length of each linea aspera, the roughened ridge for muscle attachment on the back side of the bone. Other gashes ran horizontally, above and below the joint surfaces. Though the number of marks varied, their distribution was consistent from victim to victim.
I cranked the magnification as high as it would go.
When I focused, the grooves crystallized into sharp-edged crevices, V-shaped in cross section.
Cut marks. But how could that be? I'd seen cut marks on bone, but only in cases of dismemberment. Except for Charlie Wayne Tramper and Jeremiah Mitchell, these individuals had been buried whole.
Then why? And why only the right femora?
I was about to begin a reexamination of every bone when Andrew Ryan burst through the door.
Maggie, Stan, and I looked up, startled.
“Have you been listening to the news?” Ryan asked, flushed and perspiring despite the coolness.
We shook our heads.
“Parker Davenport was found dead about three hours ago.”
“DEAD?”
Emotions snapped inside me. Shock. Pity. Anger. Wariness.
