Cut to the Bone (Body Farm 8)

The bone lab was empty and locked. Peering through the small glass window in the steel door, I saw two trays of bones — pubic bones — sitting on a lab table, but no signs of life. Crap, I thought, he’s probably at the Annex. I’d dialed the extension there and gotten no answer, but I knew that if Tyler wasn’t in the bone lab, the odds were good that he was at the Annex. That meant another trek across the scorching parking lot, but my mood was too ebullient for me to care. Besides, I’d be totally drenched in sweat before long anyhow.

Tyler looked up from the sink, surprised, when I walked in. “Hey, Dr. B. Was that you that called a few minutes ago?”

“It was.”

“Sorry I didn’t pick up.” By way of explanation, he held up a femur and a scrub brush. The femur — like the two hundred other bones still in the steam kettle — was from the guy we’d taken out to the pig barn two weeks before. In the space of just fourteen days, bacteria and bugs had consumed virtually all the soft tissue, leaving behind nothing but bare bones, a greasy stain in the dirt of the barn floor, and another body’s worth of stench. Fortunately, my sense of smell was fairly poor — it was one of my best qualifications for my work — so the odors of death and decomposition didn’t bother me as much as they bothered most people.

Tyler turned his attention back to the bone. “This guy must’ve had a hell of a limp,” he said, giving the bone a final rinse. “This femur’s two inches shorter than the other one. I thought he felt lopsided when we were carrying him. Here, take a look.” He patted the bone dry with a surgical pad and handed it to me. It was warped and had a thick knot at mid-shaft, like a tree branch that’s been cracked and has healed with a prominent and permanent deformity.

“Looks like he had a comminuted, displaced fracture,” I said, “and never got it set. Must have been years ago, though. See how much the bone has remodeled to try to smooth out that discontinuity and those sharp edges?” He nodded. “Must’ve hurt for the rest of his life, though,” I added. “Even with the remodeling, that had to interfere with the muscles and tendons.” I handed the bone back to him, and he laid it on the counter, alongside the longer, straighter femur. I waited, expecting a question, but he seemed preoccupied with the bones. “Aren’t you even going to ask?”

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Ask what?”

“Why I’m here.”

He shrugged. “So, Dr. B, why’re you here?”

“Excellent question. Two reasons, actually. One, good news. I met with the dean earlier today, and he just now called me to let me know: We’ve got the land behind the hospital.”

“Hey, that’s great. When can we start setting things up?”

“Another excellent question. Today.”

“Great. Wait. Today?” I nodded. “You mean today today?” I nodded again. “Today, when it feels like mid-August, not late September? With a heat index of 103?”

“We’ve got to get started before the bureaucrats come to their senses and change their minds,” I said. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”

“Hot? The iron’s gonna be molten out there today,” he groaned.

“Quit whining. This is important. We’re embarking on our research program. Here.” Reaching a hand behind my back, I extricated the small paperback book I’d tucked into my belt. It was limper and damper than it had been before I’d made the sweltering walk from the stadium to the Annex.

Tyler took it and studied the cover, his face growing more puzzled by the moment. “Uh, thanks?” he said finally. “The Washing Away of Wrongs. Theology?” I shook my head. “And what’s with the Sumo-wrestler cartoon on the cover? And all the Japanese symbols?”

“It’s a forensic investigation manual,” I said. “The world’s first. Written in China, not Japan. In the thirteenth century.” Tyler was starting to look interested. “And that’s not a sumo wrestler, that’s a dead guy. It’s a coroner’s diagram. From seven hundred and fifty years ago.”

“Cool.”

“Check out page sixty-eight—‘The Case of the Bloody Sickle’—it’s directly relevant to your thesis project. Your new thesis project. We can talk about it after you lay some yoga moves on the trees and underbrush out at our lavish new research complex.”

* * *

The strength in my forearms was gone — I could scarcely hold up the chain saw — so I released the throttle trigger and the engine wound down to idle as the saw dropped. But the oiled chain continued to spin, the teeth still coasting, as the bar of the saw swung down toward my left leg. Almost as if I were outside my own body, I watched as the chain tore through the canvas of my coveralls and ripped into the flesh of my thigh. The teeth had nearly stopped by the time they reached the skin — the chain slid only a few more inches — but the chain was new and sharp, and my hide wasn’t as tough as tree bark. For a few seconds I saw the clean edges of pink flesh — as if the tissue itself were as surprised as I was by the sudden turn of events — and then the blood welled up, filling the gash and oozing out, seeping into the fabric. “Well, damn,” I muttered. I didn’t feel any pain yet; for the moment, all I felt was stupid.

Setting down the saw, I shucked off my leather gloves and fished a sweaty bandanna from my back pocket to blot the cut so I could see how much damage I’d done. Not too bad, I thought with relief — scarcely more than a nick, in fact: an inch long and maybe an eighth-inch deep. I’d gotten off lucky. Very, very lucky. Rolling the bandanna diagonally into a long, flat band, I tied it snugly around my thigh to stanch the bleeding, then flexed and stretched my fingers prior to resuming my assault on the deadfall pines — a tangled half-dozen trees killed by pine beetles and then toppled by a storm. My thigh was now starting to ache, but we needed to finish what we’d started, and fast; I’d arranged for a concrete truck to arrive the next morning at nine, and unless we finished clearing the trees out of the way, the truck wouldn’t be able to reach the site and pour the pad.

I reached down for the chain saw. As I tugged it off the ground, I noticed movement: blowflies — a dozen or more — taking flight from the blood-smeared chain. I smiled; it was a twentieth-century reminder of the thirteenth-century case I’d just told Tyler to read about.

* * *

One of the benefits of having offices in Stadium Hall, a former dormitory, was the abundance of showers. One of those showers was located in my own private bathroom in my own private hideaway: a second office, located a hundred yards — literally, the length of the football field — from the bustle and distractions of the main Anthropology Department offices. After Tyler and I had finished clearing and leveling the patch of ground that would become the new Anthropology Research Facility — a big, fancy name for a small, primitive place — I’d gone to my hideaway to shower and to glue my leg back together with Super Glue.

Just as I sat down on the toilet and picked up the tube of glue, my phone rang. “Oh, hell,” I muttered, clutching a towel around me and scurrying to my desk. “Hello?”

“Howdy, Doc, is that you?”

“Sheriff Cotterell?”

“That’s me. How are you, Doc?”

I caught my reflection in the mirror that hung on the bathroom door: practically naked, wrapped in an undersized and sodden towel, my face and neck crimson with sunburn, my thigh throbbing and bleeding again. I smiled, with a topspin of grimace. “I’m just fine, Sheriff. How about you? Any luck identifying that girl from the strip mine?”

“Not a goddamned bit, Doc, if you’ll pardon my French. That’s why I’m calling — see if maybe you could help us some more. Bubba and me was talking, and he asked me did you still have that girl’s skull. I said, ‘Well, I sure as hell hope so — he ain’

t never give it back to me.’ ” The sheriff paused.

I scanned my desktop for the skull, but it wasn’t there. I felt a flash of panic — had someone made off with it? — but then I saw it sitting on my windowsill, and I vaguely recalled having moved it out of the way a few days before. Or was it a few weeks before? Out of sight, out of mind, I thought guiltily. “Of course I’ve still got it, Sheriff. Do you want it back?”

“Oh, hell no, Doc. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Thing is, Bubba was telling me about a TBI training he went to a while back. They had somebody from the FBI there talking about putting faces back on skulls — makin’ ’em out of clay. Showing what the dead person looked like. Bubba ’n me was wondering if maybe you might know how to do that.”

“I’ve tried it a time or two,” I said, “but to be honest, I’m no good at it, Sheriff. My clay heads look like a fourth grader’s art project. I’d only make it harder to ID the girl.” I’d hoped that might draw a laugh from him, but instead, he sighed.

“Well. I figured it didn’t hurt none to ask. We’ll keep knocking on doors and asking questions. Thing is, Doc, we’re running out of doors to knock on.”

“That’s the way sometimes with forensic cases,” I commiserated. “Especially old ones. People forget. Out of sight, out of mind,” I added, feeling another pang of guilt for having nothing helpful to offer him. I wished him luck and hung up, but I felt the dead girl’s eyes — her vacant eyes — staring at me in reproach, her silent voice clear and accusatory in my head: What about me? she seemed to say. Have you forgotten me, too? So soon?