ticket he now handed to Boldt as the two met at the front door. Boldt didn't believe the story for a minute. Nancy Dixon didn't like clubs. That was just Dixie's way of sparing Boldt the fifteen-dollar ticket. Dixie confirmed his status as a regular when the two men were greeted warmly by the host and shown immediately to one of the best tables. Dixon placed a flight bag on the floor but kept it within reach. He could have checked it upstairs along with their coats. Why hadn't he?
Boldt ordered a glass of milk from the waiter who delivered a Scotch for Dixie-they knew his drink. The house began to fill. Good-looking women with good-looking guys. Computer whiz kids and aerospace experts. Older couples who remembered 78s and Big Noise From Winnetka-false teeth, false hair, but real lives. A couple of smokers relegated to the distant seats under the air vents. Bread roll baskets passing by in a blur. Nylons. Even a few spike heels. God, it was good to get out now and then, good to be out with Dixie again. 'I bet it's been a year since I've been here,' Boldt said. 'Kids do that. it'll change.'
'I hope not. I like things the way they are.' Some part of Boldt, in spite of his rampant curiosity, wanted Dixie to leave that bag on the floor, wanted to keep the conversation personal, and off whatever that bag contained. 'I want to tell you a story,' Dixie announced. Boldt's skin prickled with anticipation.
'What happens in my line of work as in yours is that cases come and go. Some are solved, some are filed. Some go dormant, though they never quite leave your mind.' He sampled the Scotch and clearly approved. 'Every now and then something triggers you, something goes off in your brain, and you think: 'I've seen this before.' or 'Didn't I hear somebody talking about something like this?' or 'I know this is familiar to me.' You know what I'm talking about. It happens to all of us.'
Boldt nodded. He felt impatient and restless. 'Cases overlap,' he went on. Boldt fidgeted with his spoon, barely containing himself. 'It happens all the time-more often than seems possible. There are reasons for such overlaps: There are only a limited number of murderers in King County at any one time-at least we hope so-more often than not, a relatively small number given the population base. We average less than ten in any given month. Sometimes zero. Right? From my viewpoint, it means there's a good possibility-even a probability-that any two bodies discovered around the same time, or in the same area, or relating to a similar cause of unnatural death may in fact be the work of the same person. It takes a certain jump in logic, however, to immediately reach that conclusion in this particular case, but that's my job, isn't it? Damn right it is. That's exactly what I'm here for. And my job is to pass along my concerns to the police if and when such suspicions bear investigation. In this instance, you, my friend, are the police, and I'll explain why.'
'Nearly six months ago now,' he continued, 'a man carrying a brown paper bag arrived unannounced at our offices requesting to see 'whoever's in charge.' That's me, of course. He was of average height, in his early forties, with graying curly hair.
e was of a slight build-a hundred and forty-five Pounds maybe-the kind of guy who stays thin from an excess of nervous energy. You've met a dozen just like him. He was wearing a suit-a nice suit. This was his lunch hour. He was a corporate attorney by trade, name of Carsman.
'Mr. Carsman was a hunter. A bird hunter. Talked about not liking to kill. Talked about no one understanding hunting except other hunters. Said he liked to listen to the wind blow, the rain fall. 'The rain?' I asked. 'Is that why you're here?' He said no, it was on account of his dog. His dog? I verified that, then he lifted this paper bag, this grocery bag, the top of which was choked down tight so it looks like an old man's neck. He'd been sitting there holding it between his knees. I'm starting to think this guy is over the top and I'm part of his plan somehow. I'm starting to wish I carry some kind of revolver in my desk. I'm about to come out of my chair when he hoists this bag onto my desk. Thump, it goes. That thump worried me because I knew that sound: bone. I'm thinking it's a head maybe. He says he wasn't sure what to do with something like this. He said Stu Coleman's a neighbor of his. I know Stu from the state lab. Stu's all right. Stu told him to bring it to me. I asked him if I could see the bone. That threw him, but like I said: I knew that sound. There's no mistaking the sound of a bone on your desk.' 'Whatever you say,' Boldt said.
His palms were moist. He wanted to order his dinner. He wanted Dixie to stop with his storytelling and get to the point, but Dixie spent a lot of hours with the dead, and he appreciated someone alive to talk to when he got the chance. 'He was hunting in a very remote location, timberland northeast of the city. He shoots a bird-a blue grouse, I think it was-and he sends his dog after it. Dog disappears a long time. When he comes back-the dog, that is-he has …' Dixie leaned over with some effort. Boldt heard the sound of a zipper. The bag. Dixie righted himself saying ' … this in his mouth.'
Dixon let the large bone down gently onto the table. To him, it was perfectly normal to show someone a bone-a human femur. Big and unmistakable. To the people passing by their table, it proved a source of great curiosity-and for some, disgust.
Boldt studied it, turning it over repeatedly, and said, 'You could have waited until I ordered my dinner.'
'After a little bit of searching the stream, he found this as well,' Dixon informed him, placing another, much smaller bone on the table. 'This is the one that interests you-it's a rib.'
'What if I was planning on ordering barbecue?'
'I thought Liz had you eating vegetarian.'
'Who told you that?'
'Word gets around.'
'Well … What if I am?'
'Then you're not ordering barbecue,' Dixon said.
The second Scotch arrived. This was followed by a dinner waiter whose attention kept drifting to the two bones. Boldt ordered the Greek salad. Dixon just to be spiteful-ordered a rich pasta with smoked turkey and prosciutto.
When the waiter left, Boldt handled the rib. 'I'm supposed to be interested in this?'
'Yes, you are, It's human. just like the femur. Just like you.' Dixie stared him down. 'I took a personal interest in locating the rest of the corpse. Human bones discovered in such an isolated area suggest a buried body and buried bodies seem to be epidemic these days. The discovery of any human remains has to be investigated if for no other reason than that it is illegal to bury a corpse in the watershed area where Carsman's dog discovered the bone. Maybe you remember Monty, my assistant, Lewis Montgomery? He's our forensic anthropologist-and he's very good. Monty coordinated a search team using Boy Scout troops because at the time Search and Rescue wouldn't touch it.'
Boldt interrupted, 'Boy Scouts?' Dixie ignored him. 'Nothing turned up and the case was filed under Unsolveds. I haven't spoken to Monty about the bones since. He and I ran some tests on them back when Carsman turned them over to us. Measurement and calcification tests indicated this femur had once belonged to a woman between the ages of eighteen and twenty-eight. The pelvis, if it can be found, will not only confirm this but will also tell us whether or not this woman had children.' — Dixon continued 'To formally identify a person from his or her bones, one needs more bones than this, and a lot of luck. A young woman in her mid-twenties, buried fifty miles from nowhere suggests the obvious to me — .'
'Homicide,' Boldt finished for him.
He toyed with the partial bone on the table. 'Look at the rib, would you?' Boldt studied the rib more closely, taking it into his hands and spinning it around. The waiter arrived with their meals. Boldt moved his arms to accommodate the man, who remained fascinated by the bones. He bumped a water glass, nearly spilling it. The waiter offered ground pepper, which both men declined, and he left, backing away, still fascinated.
Boldt ran his index finger along the square end of the bone.
'Some kind of surgical technique?'
'Interesting, isn't it?'
Boldt waited him out. 'We use gardening shears. They work the best.'
'We?' Boldt asked. 'My office,' Dixon replied. 'For the autopsies,' he clarified. 'You've seen me use them; you just don't remember.'
'But this was no autopsy,' Boldt said. 'I have some serious hunches about that rib, about this skeleton, and the young woman it once danced inside. Once slept inside.
The woman inside whom it grew and developed. My office closed the case' Another department could reopen it.' He stabbed some of the salad. 'You're the investigator.'
'Boy Scouts. What did you expect?'
'We had some good people leading them.
