girl in the crate had died between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.
My case form had a dozen checks in the column indicating European ancestry. Narrow nasal opening. Sharply projecting lower nasal border. Highly angled nasal bridge. Prominent nasal spine. Cheekbones tight to the face. Every feature and measurement placed the skull squarely in the Caucasoid category. I was certain the girl was white.
And tiny. Leg bone measurements indicated she stood approximately five feet two inches tall.
Though I’d examined every bone and bone fragment, I’d found not a single mark of violence. A few scratches in the vicinity of the right auditory canal looked superficial and V-shaped under magnification. I suspected the marks were a postmortem artifact, caused by abrasion with the ground surface, or careless handling during removal to the crate.
The teeth showed evidence of poor hygiene and no dental restorations.
Now I was turning to postmortem interval. How long had she been dead? With just dry bone, PMI was going to be a bitch.
The human body is a Copernican microcosm composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. The heart is the daystar, providing life source to every metabolic system in the galaxy.
When the heart stops pumping, it’s cytoplasmic chaos. Cellular enzymes begin a cannibalistic feast on the body’s own carbohydrates and proteins. Cell membranes rupture, releasing food for armies of microorganisms. Bacteria in the gut start munching outward. Environmental bacteria, carrion insects, and scavenging animals start munching inward.
Burial, submersion, or embalming retards the process of decomposition. Certain mechanical and chemical agents boost it.
So how long are we talking for dust to dust?
With extreme heat and humidity, loss of soft tissue can occur in as little as three days. But that’s a land record. Under normal conditions, with shallow burial, a body takes six months to a year to go skeletal.
Enclosure in a basement might slow that. Enclosure in a basement in the subarctic might slow that a lot.
What facts did I have?
The bodies were found in shallow graves. Was that the original place of burial? How soon after death had they been placed there?
At least two had been flexed, knees drawn tight to the chest. At least one had been bundled, wrapped in an outer covering of leather. Beyond that, I knew squat. Moisture. Soil acidity. Temperature fluctuation.
What
The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel’s buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.
Best estimate: more than a year and less than a millennium. Claudel would have a field day with that.
Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions.
I was rolling out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel’s arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.
“Brennan.”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” A female voice, quavery and uncertain.
I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rolled over to the night service.
“I didn’t expect you to actually answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat—”
“Is there something I can help you with?” I matched her English.
There was a pause, as if the caller was actually considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.
“Well, I don’t know. Actually, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you.”
Great. Another citizen volunteer.
Members of crime scene recovery units are typically not scientists. They are technicians. They collect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit’s involvement is over. No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveillance. No hot lead shoot-outs. Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.
But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hollywood myth needs a kick in the pants.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process.”
“Oh.” I heard a sharp intake of air.
“If you stop in the personnel office, I’m certain that printed material exists giving job descript—”
“No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in
Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.
