Grave Secrets

Seven shots down I found a close-up of the ulna. Inching my glass along the shaft, I scrutinized every bump and crest. I was about to give up when I spotted a hair-thin line at the wrist end.

“Look at this.”

Galiano took the lens and bent over the print. I pointed with the tip of a pen.

“That’s a remnant epiphyseal line.”

“Ay, Dios.” He spoke without raising his eyes. “And that means?”

“The growth cap is fusing to the end of the shaft.”

“And that means?”

“It means young.”

“How young?”

“Probably late teens.”

He straightened.

“Muy bueno, Dr. Brennan.”

The cranial series began halfway down the third stack. As I viewed image after image, my gut curled tighter than it had in the septic tank. Xicay had shot down on the skull from at least six feet away. Mud, shadow, and distance obscured every feature. Even the magnifier didn’t help.

Discouraged, I finished envelope three and moved on. One by one, body parts spread across the sheet. Fusing growth caps on several long bones supported the age range suggested by the ulna.

Xicay had taken at least a half dozen shots of the pelvis. Soft tissue held the three parts together, allowing me to note a heart-shaped inlet. The pubic bones were long, and met above an obtuse sub-pubic angle.

I flipped to the side views.

Broad, shallow sciatic notch.

“Female,” I said to no one in particular.

“Show me.” Galiano returned to my desk.

Spreading the photos, I explained each feature. Galiano listened in silence.

As I was gathering the prints, my eye picked out several oddshaped flecks on the belly side of the right iliac blade. I pulled the image to me and raised and lowered my lens above it. Galiano watched.

Tooth fragments? Vegetation? Gravel? The tiny particles looked familiar, but try as I might, I couldn’t identify them.

“What is it?” Galiano.

“I’m not sure. Maybe just debris.”

I returned the photos to their envelope, and shook out another set.

Foot bones. Hand bones. Ribs.

Galiano was paged to his office. The two detectives plugged away at their boards.

Sternum. Vertebrae.

Galiano returned.

“Where the hell is Hernández?”

No answer. I imagined two shrugs behind me.

My spine ached. I raised my arms, stretched backward, then to each side.

When I resumed my perusal, a miracle.

While I was overseeing evacuation of the tank, Xicay had returned to the skull. The last series of photographs showed top, bottom, side, and front views, taken from approximately one foot away. Despite the muck, I could see plenty.

“These are good.”

Galiano was immediately at my elbow. I pointed out features on the facial view.

“Rounded orbits, broad cheeks.”

I shifted to a shot of the skull base, and indicated the zygomatics.

“See how the cheekbones flare out?”

Galiano nodded.

“The skull is short from front to back, broad from side to side.”

“Sort of globular.”

“Well put.” I tapped the upper palate. “Parabolic shape. Too bad the front teeth are missing.”

“Why?”

“Shoveled incisors can indicate race.”

“Shoveled?”

“Scooped-out enamel on the tongue side, with a raised border around the edge. Kind of like a shovel.”

I exchanged the basal view for a side view, and noted a low nasal bridge and straight facial profile.

“What’s your thinking?” Galiano asked.

“Mongoloid,” I said, thinking back to my last fleeting view at the scene and correlating that impression with the photos in front of me.

He looked blank.

“Asian.”

“Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese?”

“All of the above. Or someone whose ancestors came from Asia. Native American—”

“You talking old Indian bones?”

“Definitely not. This stuff ’s recent.”

He considered a moment, then, “Were the front teeth knocked out?”

I knew what he was thinking. Teeth are often destroyed to hamper identification. That was not the case here. I shook my head.

“Incisors have only one root. When the soft tissue decomposes, there’s nothing to hold them. Most likely, hers just fell out.”

“And went where?”

“They could have filtered through the septic system. Or they could still be wedged in the tank.”

“Would they be useful?”

“Sure. These features are only suggestive.” I waved a hand at the photo.

“So who’s the stranger in the septic tank?”

“Female, probably late teens, possibly Mongoloid ancestry.”

I could sense neurons firing behind the Guernsey eyes.

“Most Guatemalans would have Mongoloid traits?”

“Many would,” I agreed.

“And mighty few Canadians.”

“Native peoples, Asian immigrants, their descendants.”

Galiano said nothing for a long time. Then, “Odds are we’re not looking at Chantale Specter.”

I was about to answer when Hernández rolled his dolly into the room. The large boxes had been replaced by two trash bags and a black canvas case.

“Where the hell have you been?” Galiano asked his partner.

“Assholes didn’t want to loan out their precious light. Acted like it’s the crown jewels.” Hernández’s voice sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. “Where do you want this stuff?”

Galiano indicated two folding tables by the right-hand wall. Hernández offloaded his cargo, then parked the dolly by the remaining boxes.