“The round shape, the radiating fractures, the beveling on the endocranial border.”
Slidell’s eyes come up and narrow in warning.
“On the inside of the skull.”
“Where’s the exit?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s the slug?” The questions fire pepper-hot. I wonder if this could be Slidell’s first homicide.
“It may have exited through an orbit, maybe the mouth or nasal opening. The face is too damaged to tell.”
“Any way Millikin could have popped himself?”
“It’s possible, but unlikely.” I demonstrate by winging an elbow to point a finger to the back of my head.
“What else?”
“It puzzled me why Millikin’s skull stayed intact. The bullet hole explains it.”
Slidell twirls the pencil stub, impatient.
“It must have been an oven in that Airstream. At temperatures that high, liquids in the brain expand and the increased intracranial pressure leads to cracking, even explosion.” An oversimplification, but good enough.
“The hole acted like a steam vent.”
“Yes.” Not bad, Skinny.
“So you’re telling me some fuckbucket capped Millikin, then fricasseed his ass?”
“I’m telling you Millikin suffered a gunshot wound to the head. I don’t know what killed him. If it is Millikin.”
“What about those?” Indicating Dr. Steiner’s envelope.
“I’m not a forensic dentist.”
“I’m gutted. Just take a look.”
Slidell watches as I remove a set of tiny X-rays and arrange them in anatomical order on an illuminator.
“Crap.”
“What?”
“Millikin’s dental work is all on the lower right. I don’t have that half of the jaw.”
“You think it’s still out there?”
I shrug. Who knows?
Slidell makes a sound in his throat I cannot interpret. Shoots a cuff to check his watch. “Rinaldi radioed while I was on my way here. In twenty minutes, the arson boys start tossing that trailer.”
I know that’s a death sentence for fragile bone. Knowing I know it, Slidell hammers harder.
“By all accounts, this guy Millikin was Charlotte’s answer to Mother Teresa. You don’t want to help catch the bastard that killed him?”
“That’s your job.”
“One day ain’t gonna derail your life.”
I know Slidell is playing me. I also know he’s right. Conscience already booking a guilt trip, I cross to the phone. Check a list of extensions. Dial the other autopsy room. When Larabee answers, I explain the situation.
“We’ll have to be careful with this.”
We?
“How much are you missing?”
I tell him, then wait out a long, gaping pause.
“You think more teeth may have survived?”
“It’s possible.”
“Will you go out there?”
“I’ve never worked a fire scene.”
“Suppose we do it together?”
I rearrange things in my mind. Take a look at priorities. Make another decision.
—
Millikin’s Airstream is off Highway 49, almost at the South Carolina border. Too far south of Charlotte and too far north of Lake Wylie. Real estate that is cheap and untrendy. I pass few other homes along that stretch of two-lane.
I find the turnoff and make a right down a narrow track cutting through hickory, chestnut oak, and shortleaf pine. My wipers slap the windshield, fighting off rain. My tires spit gravel, struggling for traction. My radio pumps songs about angels and reindeer.
A quarter mile, then I reach barbed-wire fencing. Signs warn NO TRESPASSING in bold orange on black. The gate is open. I drive through and across a clearing.
The Airstream is a motor home, not the small bubble I’m expecting, silver with a bright blue stripe. The entrance is outfitted with an awning and makeshift wooden porch. On the porch is a green La-Z-Boy, stuffing sprouting from the seams like over-yeasted dough. The door has a square window with blinds covering the inside. Like the gate, someone has left it wide open.
I take a moment to assess. Behind the Airstream is a shed. Opposite the shed is a rectangle of dirt fenced in the same barbed wire that encloses the clearing. A triangle connects the three through soggy brown grass, gravel paths neatly edged with rock.
In the garden, stakes project from parallel mounds now devoid of vegetation. Rain pools between the mounds in long, skinny canals, brown-black and pockmarked by the deluge.
A truck is parked beside the Airstream, CHARLOTTE-MECKLENBURG PD CRIME LAB written on one side. A white Crown Victoria is parked beside the truck, a black Pontiac Bonneville beside that. I assume the cars belong to Slidell and Rinaldi. Not sure why. The Airstream must be towed by a vehicle. I ponder the whereabouts of Millikin’s car or truck.
I pull in beside the Pontiac, kill the engine, and get out. Somewhere, a startled creature squeals. I glance around, banjos dueling in my brain. Seeing nothing sinister, I retrieve Becknell’s case and the camera bag from the backseat, lower my head, and scurry to the trailer.
I enter what was once a kitchen. The air is damp and smells of smoke, scorched metal, and melted plastic. Everything wears a thick coat of soot.
My mind continues logging input. I note the burned-out hulks of a sink, stove, and fridge. Warped cabinetry. A blackened tube that probably supported a table. Pipes twisting inward from their points of attachment.
Slidell and Rinaldi are to my right, in what I assume is the living room. Wires dangle from the ceiling. Unrecognizable objects cover the floor and lie angled against walls or the denuded frames of built-in sofas or chairs.
Two arson investigators are present. One is taking photos. The other is down on all fours, making notes as he advances along a wall. I assume Slidell has told them the trailer is now a crime scene.
I set down the case and camera bag and start picking my way forward. Hearing movement, Slidell turns.
“Bedroom.” Pointing toward the opposite end of the trailer. “Have at it. They’ve already shot pics.”
I reverse, grab the equipment, and duck under toppled metal shelving, boots crunching on complicated stratigraphy involving a lot of broken glass. At the burned-out doorframe, a noxious element enters the olfactory mix. Gas or kerosene.
I stop dead, adrenaline zinging. Not the smell. The sight.
The room is small, maybe six by nine. Almost filling it is a jumble of charred rubble, blackened mattress coils peeking through. All that remains of a bed and bedding. To the right of the bed sits a scorched metal box, I assume the suspect space heater. Beside the box, a grotesquely distorted lamp. No bulb. No cord. No shade.
High up, on the trailer’s rear wall, is another window covered with aluminum blinds. Bleak, rainy-day light oozes through the disfigured slats.
I make out footprints. Ash trails leading to objects stacked along the baseboards. The handiwork of the brothers Grimm. I realize it is pointless to try to reconstruct body position. To recapture information forever lost.
I step forward. Squat. See a chalky-white metacarpal. A talus. Moving ever so calmly, I open the case, pull on latex gloves, and drag my fingers through the ash. A molar crown rolls into the track, enamel brittle and checked by a latticework of spidery cracks.
I stare at the tooth, a funhouse of emotion whirling inside me. Can I do this? Unbidden, Slidell’s taunt sounds in my head. A charred stiff’s a charred stiff. Crude wording. But this morning I’ve learned it is true.
I shout, “I need light in here!”
Minutes later two battery-operated LEDs have the room blazing like a Hollywood set. Becknell’s tools are laid out: trowels, brushes, strainers, tweezers, pipettes. I have marked the date, the location, and my initials on vials and evidence bags. I have prepared Vinac, a solution of polyvinyl acetate resin and methanol useful for preserving calcined bone.
I mask and go to work. Larabee arrives thirty minutes later. I explain the grid system I have devised for mapping the location of finds, then continue searching the east side of the room. He takes the west. We work in silence. I lose all track of time.
I’m dripping Vinac onto a crumbling incisor when I hear raised voices. Male. The words are muffled, but the cadence is clear. Both men are angry.
I look to Larabee. He shrugs, a bony move that makes me think of a turtle.
Cold and needing a break, I creak to an upright position. My knees are not happy with the new arrangement. I flex and straighten each to encourage circulation. Behind me I hear Larabee doing the same.
We are about to worm our way toward the kitchen when Slidell appears in the doorway. He is tense as a cobra poised to strike. His face is the color of claret.
“You ain’t gonna believe this.”
“We’ve found most of the missing dentition.” I think good news might prevent a cardiac event.
“We’re busting our chops out here and who strolls in?”
“I’m not following.” Larabee speaks for us both.
“The asshole himself.”
Nothing.
“Jesus Christ. Do I have to spell it out? The dumbshit doc.”
“Millikin?” Simultaneous.
“No. Hawkeye Pierce.”
Neither Larabee nor I appreciates the sarcasm.
“Turns out Mother Teresa’s been partying south of the border.”
“Millikin was in Mexico?” This is making no sense to me.
Slidell nods.
“Doing what?” Larabee asks.
“Muchachas and margaritas. Ain’t they famous for it?”
“So who’s this?” I arc an arm at the evidence bags lining one wall.
“Beats me.” The LEDs cause a collision of shadows on Slidell’s face. “But he took a bullet to the head and there’s a shooter out there who’s going down.”
It’s after eight when I pull to the curb in a neighborhood just south of uptown. Like Millikin’s rural patch, Elizabeth is far from hip. But rent is cheap and the quartier has a certain je ne sais quoi.
I kill the engine, hear the wail of an ambulance not far off. After six months, the sirens barely register. Presbyterian Hospital stands at the end of the block.
The rain has stopped, but water drips from live oaks spreading their branches from the parkway out over the street. The drops beat fat and erratic on the roof of my Bug.
Up and down both sides of Kenmore, primary colors twinkle on homes, shrubs, lawns, and trees. Here and there, electric icicles frame a window or door. At mid-block, a neon-blue palm beams its renegade Noel.
I’m cold, my clothes are sooty, and I smell like I’ve spent the day in a smoker. Though I’ve cleaned my hands as best I can, my nails are as grime-encrusted as Slidell’s. My thoughts are focused on Pinot and a long, hot bath.
I lock the car and climb to the porch. Am triaging keys when my common-wall neighbor’s front door opens. Artemis prances out. Mr. Speliopoulos follows on the other end of a leash. Artemis is a dachshund. Mr. Speliopoulos is a barber. We exchange Christmas greetings. Neither comments on my appearance.
I ease out of my jacket, drop it onto the stoop, and let myself in. A hammered tin mirror on the foyer wall reflects me dimly. My hair is a mess, my face speckled with ash.
Bowie and Jagger are singing about dancing in the street. I’m pleased to be spared more Magi or drummer boys.
Straight ahead, a no-nonsense staircase shoots to the second floor. The living room is to my right, the fireplace, mantel, and woodwork that seduced us into signing a lease. The dining room is toward the back, through a wide arch whose sliding oak doors are forever jammed in their eighty-year-old pockets.
Pete is at the table, a sea of law books and documents flowing around him. The Zamzow case. A limb lost as a result of a bungled diagnosis. So claims the plaintiff. At breakfast we discussed defense strategies. Mostly I listened. Breakfast seems a lifetime away.
“The archaeo-warrior home from the hill.” Pete speaks without looking up.
“Sorry I’m so late.”
“Long day.”
“It was.”
Pete’s nose and upper lip crimp. I know the face. He’s sniffed rot that must be tracked to a Ziploc or bin. Inserting a placeholder finger in the file, he looks up.
“Christ on a cracker.”
I hang my purse on the newel post.
“What happened to you?”
“Bath first.”
Pete gives me the full-on lawyer stare. I give him the full-on don’t-ask-now stare back.
“Need a hug?” Sincere as a bookie at an audit.
“Many. After I’ve soaked.”
The bath is all I hoped it would be. Bubbles. Lavender-peach shampoo and conditioner. The old claw-foot tub was also a draw.
Thirty minutes later, I descend smelling of Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir body lotion. I wear a long-sleeved T and flannel pajama pants, pink with sheep and white clouds. The sheep are either drowsy or drunk.
Wynton Marsalis is now playing low and cool, and Mount Legal has been relocated to the sideboard. A pizza box sits center stage on the table. Two places have been set, including mats, plates, utensils, napkins, and goblets. Pete is being thoughtful, even by Pete standards.
My husband and I agree on many things. The hilarity of Catch-22 and A Confederacy of Dunces. Beaches over mountains. Woody Allen. Politics. Pizza is not among them. I like everything on my pie but blubber and ants. Pete is a purist—tomato and cheese.
I take my seat and open the box. Half-gloppy, half-plain. I relax a bit. Pete fills my glass with Pinot. I sip. I relax a bit more.
Though curious, Pete waits, all caring eyes and reassuring pats. He assumes something has gone very wrong at the university.
We talk of other things. His malpractice suit. Last night’s Tar Heels victory. The latest happenings on Cheers. Mr. Speliopoulos’s taste in music. My comments tend toward the monosyllabic.
When finished, we uncork a second bottle and move to the living room. Pete lights a fire, then joins me on the couch. Wrapping my shoulders with one arm, he pulls me close. I lean in to his chest.
As the logs catch, we sit in a quiet made up of a hundred small sounds. The ticking of my grandmother’s mantel clock. The muted whoosh of tires on wet pavement. Artemis’s whining on the far side of the wall.
Despite the calming metronome of Pete’s heart, the fire is a mistake. The crackling and popping trigger images in my overstimulated brain. Jarring, like slivers knifing under my nails. Sensing my disquiet, Pete doesn’t push. Finally, three Pinots down, I unload.
Slidell and Rinaldi at UNCC. Keith Millikin, his street clinic, his mysterious disappearance. The fire at the Airstream. The discovery of remains by Louis Grimm and his brother. My finding of skeletal compatibility with Millikin’s profile. The bullet hole. The missing dentition. My recovery efforts with Larabee. The startling appearance of Millikin himself.
Pete asks the obvious. “So who died in the Airstream?”
“A white male, five eight to six one in height, thirty-five to fifty years old.”
“That rules out Tina Turner.”
I smack Pete’s arm.
He feigns hurt, then refills my glass. “This Slidell sounds like quite the character.”
“He’s an arrogant prick.”
“Still, you liked it.”
“Liked what?”
“Maybe like isn’t the best word.” Pete thinks, shakes his head. “I don’t know. There was something in your voice.”
“Pinot?”
“Not that.” Again he hesitates, perhaps unsure, perhaps not wanting to offend. “An excitement I don’t hear when you talk about your research. About archaeology.”
“What you’re hearing is terror.”
“Temperance Brennan fears nothing.”
I raise my glass in acknowledgment. He clinks my rim with his.
No one speaks as we con
sider what he has said. What I have said. Then he asks, “Terror of what?”
“Being wrong.”
“You’re never wrong.”
“There was that one time. I thought I was wrong, but it turned out I wasn’t.”
Another clink. Another thoughtful pause.
“You’re right,” I say. “I was reluctant to get involved. But once in, I kept thinking about the victim. About who he was. Who he leaves behind him—kids, a wife, a girlfriend. I kept remembering that somewhere someone is missing him. And somewhere his killer is walking around free.”
“And the terror?”
All day, I asked myself that.
“In archaeology I work with anonymous populations. I think in terms of demographics: males, females; juveniles, adults. No names or personal stories. My findings are discussed in print and at conferences—”
“Or ignored.”
“My point is”—this time he gets an elbow to the ribs—“praised or disputed, my theories about the ancient dead impact no one’s life. The opposite is true with forensic work. Evidence can be recovered or lost due to the competence of scene processing. An innocent person can be falsely accused. A guilty person can go free. Based on lab analysis, a family can find closure or continue to search. Based on court testimony, a suspect can be convicted or acquitted. It’s a huge responsibility.”
“No one reads a skeleton better than you.”
“True. But knowledge of archaeology and osteology isn’t enough for the cops or the coroner. I’m a rookie. I’d need to retrain big-time.”
“Why do I sense that decision has already been made?”
“Even then. What if I screw up?”
“I’ll represent you.”
I roll my eyes. Which feel loose. “I’d need to work toward board certification.”
“How long would that take?”
“The rest of my life.” The Pinot is weighing in.
“We survived the bar exam.”
“I’d need to apply for membership in the American Academy of Forensic Sciences.”
“And finish your dissertation.”
“And that.”
Pete sets his glass on the table. Collects mine and places it beside his. Leans close and breathes hot in my ear.