A fifty-nine-year-old crackhead overdosed in a pay-by-the-night flophouse near the Chinatown gate.
Nothing for the anthropologist.
At nine-twenty, I returned to my office and phoned Jacob Drum, a colleague at UNC-Charlotte. His voice mail answered. I left a message asking that he return my call.
I’d been with the fragments another hour when the phone rang.
“Hey, Tempe.”
In greeting, we Southerners say “hey” not “hi.” To alert, draw the attention of, or show objection to another, we also say “hey,” but air is expelled and the ending is truncated. This was an airless, four-A “hey.”
“Hey, Jake.”
“Won’t get above fifty in Charlotte today. Cold up there?”
In winter, Southerners delight in querying Canadian weather. In summer, interest plummets.
“It’s cold.” The predicted high was in negative figures.
“Going where the weather suits my clothes.”
“Off to dig?” Jake was a biblical archaeologist who’d been excavating in the Middle East for almost three decades.
“Yes, ma’am. Doing a first-century synagogue. Been planning it for months. Crew’s set. Got my regulars in Israel, meeting up with a field supervisor in Toronto on Saturday. Just finalizing my own travel arrangements now. Pain in the gumpy. Do you have any idea how rare these things are?”
Gumpies?
“There are first-century synagogues at Masada and Gamla. That’s about it.”
“Sounds like a terrific opportunity. Listen, I’m glad I caught you. Got a favor to ask.”
“Shoot.”
I described Kessler’s print, leaving out specifics as to how I’d obtained it.
“Pic was shot in Israel?”
“I’m told it came from Israel.”
“It dates to the sixties?”
“‘October ’63’ is written on the back. And some kind of notation. Maybe an address.”
“Pretty vague.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be glad to check it out.”
“I’ll scan the image and send it by e-mail.”
“I’m not optimistic.”
“I appreciate your willingness to take a look.”
I knew what was coming. Jake reran the shtick like a bad beer ad.
“You gotta come dig with us, Tempe. Get back to your archaeological roots.”
“There’s nothing I’d like better, but I can’t take off now.”
“One of these days.”
“One of these days.”
After our call, I hurried to the imaging section, scanned Kessler’s photo, and transferred the .jpg file to the computer in my lab. Then I hurried back, logged on, and transmitted the image to Jake’s in-box at UNCC.
Back to Ferris’s shattered head.
Cranial fractures show tremendous variability in patterning. The successful interpretation of any given pattern rests on an understanding of the biomechanical properties of bone, combined with a knowledge of the intrinsic and extrinsic factors involved in fracture production.
Simple, right? Like quantum physics.
Though bone seems rigid, it actually has a certain amount of elasticity. When subjected to stress, a bone yields and changes shape. When its limits of elastic deformation are exceeded, the bone fails, or fractures.
That’s the biomechanical bit.
In the head, fractures travel the paths of least resistance. These paths are determined by things such as vault curvature, bony buttressing, and sutures, the squiggly junctures between individual bones.
Those are the intrinsic factors.
Extrinsic factors include the size, speed, and angle of the impacting object.
Think of it this way. The skull is a sphere with bumps and curves and gaps. There are predictable ways in which that sphere fails when walloped by an impacting object. Both a .22-caliber bullet and a two-inch pipe are impacting objects. The bullet’s just moving a whole lot faster and striking a smaller area.
You get the idea.
Despite the massive damage, I knew I was seeing an atypical pattern in Ferris’s head. The more I looked, the more uneasy I grew.
I was placing an occipital fragment under the microscope when the phone rang. It was Jake Drum. This time there was no leisurely “hey.”
“Where did you say you got this photo?”
“I didn’t. It—”
“Who gave it to you?”
“A man named Kessler. But—”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“How long will you be in Montreal?”
“I’m leaving for a quick trip to the States on Saturday, but—”
“If I divert to Montreal tomorrow, can you show me the original?”
“Yes. Jake—”
“I’ve got to phone the airlines.” His voice was so taut it could have moored the Queen Mary. “In the meantime, hide that print.”
I was listening to a dial tone.
4
I STARED AT THE PHONE.
What could be so important that Jake would change plans he’d been making for months?
I centered Kessler’s photo on my blotter.
If I was right about the paintbrush, the body was oriented north–south with the head facing east. The wrists were crossed on the belly. The legs were fully extended.
Except for some displacement of the pelvic and foot bones, everything looked anatomically correct.
Too correct.
A patella sat perfectly positioned at the end of each femur. No way kneecaps stay in place that well.
Something else was off.
The right fibula was on the inside of the right tibia. It should have been on the outside.
Conclusion: the scene had been doctored.
Had an archaeologist tidied the bones for a pic, or did the repositioning reflect some meaning?
I carried the photo to the scope, lowered the power, and positioned the fiber-optic light.
The soil around the bones was marked with footprints. Under magnification, I could make out at least two sole patterns.
Conclusion: more than one person had been present.
I took a shot at gender.
The skull’s orbital ridges were large, the jaw square. Only the right half of the pelvis was visible, but the sciatic notch looked narrow and deep.
Conclusion: the individual was male, more probably than not.
I shifted to age.
The upper dentition looked relatively complete. The lower dentition had gaps and teeth in poor alignment. The right pubic symphysis, one of the surfaces at which the pelvic halves meet in front, was tipped toward the lens. Though the photo was grainy, the symphyseal face looked smooth and flat.
Conclusion: the individual was a young to middle-aged adult. Possibly.
Terrific, Brennan. A grown-up dead guy with bad teeth and rearranged bones. Possibly.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I mimicked Ryan.
The clock said one-forty. I was starving.
Removing my lab coat, I clicked off the fiber-optic light and washed up. At the door, I hesitated.
Returning to the scope, I collected the photo and slid it under an agenda in my desk drawer.
* * *
By three I was no clearer on the Ferris fragments than I’d been at noon. If anything, I was more frustrated.
People can reach only so far. They shoot themselves in the forehead, the temple, the mouth, the chest. They do not shoot themselves in the spine or the back of the head. It’s too hard to position a barrel there and keep a finger or toe on the trigger. So bullet path can often be used to distinguish suicide from homicide.
Blasting through bone, a bullet dislodges small particles from the perimeter of the hole it creates, beveling an entrance wound internally, and an exit wound externally.
Bullet in. Bullet out. Trajectory. Manner of death.
So what was the problem? Did Avram Ferris put a gun to hi
s own head, or did someone else do the honors?
The problem was that the affected parts of Ferris’s skull looked like puzzle pieces dumped from a box. To consider beveling, I’d first have to determine what went where.
Hours of jigsawing had allowed me to identify one oval defect behind Ferris’s right ear, near the junction of the parietal, occipital, and temporal sutures.
Within Ferris’s reach? A stretch, but you betcha.
Another problem. The hole was beveled on both its endocranial and ectocranial surfaces.
Forget beveling. I was going to have to rely on fracture sequencing.
A skull is designed to house a brain and a very small quantity of fluid. That’s it. No room for guests.
A bullet to the head sets up a series of events, each of which may be present, absent, or appear in combination with any other.
First, a hole is created. As that happens, fractures starburst outward and wrap the skull. The bullet tunnels through the brain, pushing aside gray matter and creating space where space isn’t meant to be. Intracranial pressure rises, concentric heaving fractures develop perpendicular to the fractures radiating from the entrance, and plates of bone lever outward. If heaving and radiating fractures intersect, blam-o! That section of skull shatters.
Another scenario. No shattering, but the bullet says adios on the far side of the skull. Fractures barrel backward from the exit hole and slam into those hotfooting it around from the entrance hole. Energy dissipates along the preexisting entrance fractures, and the exit fractures go no farther.
Think of it this way. A bullet to the brain imparts energy. That trapped energy has to go somewhere. Like all of us, it looks for the easy out. In a skull that means open sutures or preexisting cracks. Bottom line: fractures created by a bullet’s exit will not cross fractures created by its entrance. Sort it out and you’ve got sequence.
But sorting out the dead ends requires reconstruction.
There was no getting around it. I’d have to put the pieces back together.
That would take time and patience.
And a lot of glue.
I got out my stainless steel bowls, my sand, and my Elmer’s. Pair by pair I joined fragments and held them until the bonding set. Then I placed the mini-reconstructions upright in the sand, positioned so they’d dry without slippage or distortion.
The lab techs’ boom box went silent.
The windows darkened.
A bell sounded, indicating the house phones had rolled to night service.
I worked on, selecting, manipulating, gluing, balancing. Silence settled around me, grew loud within the after-hours-big-building emptiness.
When I looked up, the clock said six-twenty.
Why was that wrong?
Ryan was due at my condo at seven!
Flying to the sink, I washed my hands, tore off my lab coat, grabbed my belongings, and bolted.
Outside, a cold rain was falling. No. That’s being kind. The stuff was sleet. Icy slush that clung to my jacket and burned my cheeks.
It took ten minutes to hack through the glacier on my windshield, another thirty to make a drive that was normally fifteen.
When I arrived, Ryan was wall-leaning outside my door, a bag of groceries beside his feet.
There exists some indissoluble law of nature. When encountering Andrew Ryan, I look my worst.
And Ryan looks like something sketched out by a matinee-idol planning committee. Always.
Tonight he wore a bomber jacket, striped woolen muffler, and faded jeans.
Ryan smiled when he saw me, purse drooping from one shoulder, laptop in my left hand, briefcase in my right. My cheeks were chapped, my hair wet and plastered to my face. Runoff had turned my mascara to an Impressionist study in sludge.
“Dogs got tangled in the traces?”
“It’s sleeting.”
“I think you’re supposed to yell ‘mush.’”
Ryan pushed from the wall, relieved me of the computer with one hand, and with the other brushed aside my bangs. Several held form as a solid clump.
“Close encounter with Dippity-do?”
“I’ve been gluing.” I dug out my keys.
Ryan moved to the cusp of a comment, held back. Bending, he snatched up his bag and followed me into the condo.
“Chirp?”
“Charlie, boy,” Ryan called out.
“Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.”
“You and Charlie spend some quality time,” I said. “I’m going to de-glue.”
“Tap pant—”
“I didn’t even order them, Ryan.”
In twenty minutes I’d showered, shampooed, blowdried, and applied subtle but artful maquillage. I sported pink cords, a body-molding top, and Issey Miyaki behind each ear.
No tap pants, but a man-killer thong. Dusty rose. Not the undies my mother would have worn.
Ryan was in the kitchen. The condo smelled of tomatoes, anchovies, garlic, and oregano.
“Making your world-famous puttanesca?” I asked, stretching to tiptoes to kiss Ryan on the cheek.
“Whoa.” Ryan wrapped me in his arms and kissed me on the mouth. Fingering my waistband, he pulled outward, and peered down my back.
“Not tap pants. But not bad.”
I did a two-handed push from his chest.
“You really didn’t order them?”
“I really didn’t order them.”
Birdie appeared, looked disapproving, then strolled to his bowl.
During dinner, I described my frustration with the Ferris case. Over coffee and dessert, Ryan gave an update on his investigation.
“Ferris was an importer of ritual clothing. Yarmulkes, talliths.”
Ryan misread my expression.
“The tallith’s the prayer shawl.”
“I’m impressed you know that.” Like me, Ryan was raised Catholic.
“I looked it up. Why the face?”
“Seems it would be a very small market.”
“Ferris also handled ritual articles for the home. Menorahs, mezuzahs, Shabbat candles, kiddush cups, challah covers. I plan to look those up.”
Ryan offered the pastry plate. There was one mille feuille left. I wanted it. I shook my head. Ryan took it.
“Ferris sold throughout Quebec, Ontario, and the Maritimes. It wasn’t Wal-Mart, but he made a living.”
“You talked again with the secretary?”
“Appears Purviance really is more than a secretary. Handles the books, tracks inventory, travels to Israel and the States to evaluate product, schmooze suppliers.”
“Israel’s tough duty these days.”
“Purviance spent time on a kibbutz back in the eighties, so she knows her way around. And she speaks English, French, Hebrew, and Arabic.”
“Impressive.”
“Father was French. Mother was Tunisian. Anyway, Purviance tells the same story. Business doing well. Not an enemy in the world. Though she did feel Ferris had been more moody than usual in the days leading up to his death. I’ll give her a day to finish with the warehouse, then we’ll have another little chat.”
“Did you find Kessler?”
Ryan crossed to the couch and dug a paper from his jacket. Returning to the table, he handed it to me.
“These were the people cleared for autopsy patrol.”
I read the names.
Mordecai Ferris
Theodore Moskowitz
Myron Neulander
David Rosenbaum
“No Kessler.” I stated the obvious. “Did you locate anyone who knows the guy?”
“Talking to the family’s like talking to cement. They’re doing aninut.”
“Aninut?”
“First stage of mourning.”
“How long does aninut last?”
“Until interment.”
I pictured the cranial segments taking shape in my sand bowls.
“Could be a long one.”
“Ferris’s wife told me to come back when the fam
ily’s finished sitting shiva. That lasts a week. I suggested I’d be dropping by sooner.”
“This must be a nightmare for her.”
“Interesting sidebar. Ferris was insured for two million big ones, with a double-up clause for accidental death.”
“Miriam?”
Ryan nodded. “They had no kids.”
I told Ryan about my conversation with Jake Drum. “I can’t imagine why he’s coming here.”
“Think he’ll really show?”
I’d wondered that myself.
“The hesitation tells me you’ve got your doubts,” Ryan said. “This guy a flake?”
“Jake’s not flaky. Just different.”
“Different?”
“Jake’s a brilliant archaeologist. Worked at Qumran.”
Ryan gave me quizzical look.
“Dead Sea scrolls. He can translate a zillion languages.”
“Any that are spoken today?”
I threw a napkin at Ryan.
After clearing the table, Ryan and I stretched out on the sofa. Birdie flopped by the fire.
We talked of personal things.
Ryan’s daughter in Halifax. Lily was dating a guitarist and considering a move to Vancouver. Ryan feared the items were not unrelated.
Katy. For her twelfth and final semester at the University of Virginia, my daughter was taking pottery, fencing, and a class on the feminine mystique in modern film. Her independent study involved interviewing patrons of pubs.
Birdie purred. Or snored.
Charlie squawked and resquawked a line from “Hard-Hearted Hannah.”
The fire crackled and popped. Ice ticked the windows.
After a while everyone drifted into silence.
Ryan reached back and pulled the lamp chain. Amber light danced the familiar shapes in my home.
Ryan and I lay molded like tango dancers, my head nestled below his collarbone. He smelled of soap and the logs he’d carried in for the fire. His fingers caressed my hair. My cheek. My neck.
I felt content. Calm. A million miles from skeletons and shattered skulls.
Ryan is built on sinewy, ropelike lines. Long ones. Eventually I felt one line grow longer.
We left Birdie in charge of the hearth.
5
RYAN LEFT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING. Something about all-weather radials and balance and a warped rim. I am not a good listener at 7 A.M. Nor am I the least bit interested in tires.