Bones in Her Pocket: A Tempe Brennan E-Short Read Free

he?”
    “Out with pink eye. Do you mind working alone?”
    “I mind it less than pink eye. Where are my bones?”
    “In the cooler. Joe did prelim photos and X rays, then left everything on the gurney.”
    “Busy weekend?”
    “Not bad. One stabbing, an electrical death, and a murder-suicide. Nothing for you.”
    In our strange industry, that roster qualified as “not bad.”
    “Keep me looped in.” With this, Larabee was gone.
    Relieved I had no other cases, I snapped a form onto my clipboard, went to the locker room to change, then headed to the cooler. I hoped forty-eight hours of chilling had diminished the smell. Knew that wouldn’t be so. At least not for long.
    After wheeling the gurney to room four, I gloved and strapped goggles onto my head. Then I slapped a mask on my face, and finished with a plastic apron tied behind my neck and waist. Fetching.
    Ceiling-mounted surgical light on. Industrial-strength fan blades whirring. I was ready.
    Joe had done a good job articulating the bones while still leaving them inside the clothes. After years assisting me tableside, he knows what I want.
    The skeleton lay supine, with limbs slightly splayed. Savasana posture. Weird, but that phrase popped into my mind. Corpse pose.
    The hair mass had sloughed from the skull during transport or handling. It lay to one side, filthy with rotting vegetation and other lacustrine debris.
    I flipped on the light box. Joe’s full-body X rays revealed nothing extraordinary.
    Back at the gurney, I paused, studying what remained of a person. Water is not kind to the dead. The bloat is grotesque, the smell nauseating. That phase had largely passed, leaving only bone and shreds of putrid flesh.
    Yet this had been a human being. I felt the usual stab of sorrow. Hair always does that to me. Evokes the simple act of brushing, ear-tucking, tossing in a breeze.
    Somehow my brain was channeled on yoga. It now fired an image, a class I’d recently attended. “Set your intention,” the instructor had said. “There is power in your thoughts.”
    My gaze roved the body. I set my intention. A name. A final trip home.
    Time noted on the form: 8:38 a.m.
    I lowered the goggles, raised the mask, and began.
    First I ran a magnifying lens over the clothing. Spotted a few short hairs, likely animal. Plucked and placed them in a plastic vial.
    Next, using scissors, I cut up the center of the thin olive T-shirt proclaiming HAPPILY EVER RAPTOR, and spread the two halves to either side of the torso. The jeans took more effort, but eventually they, too, lay halved and peeled back on the stainless steel. When finished with the bones, I’d remove and examine the clothing more closely.
    A skeletal inventory revealed every element present. Surprising, given the breach in the bag.
    A nonprominent nuchal crest, smooth brow ridges, and small mastoids suggested female gender. Pelvic traits were in agreement with those on the skull.
    The cranium was relatively long and thin. The nasal bridge was low, the opening wide. I ran measurements through a software program called Fordisc 3.0. Every indicator pointed to African American ancestry.
    Determination of age requires more minute examination. At birth, the skeleton is only partially complete. Throughout childhood and adolescence extra bits appear and attach to the ends and edges of bones. Components of the vertebrae and pelvis fuse.
    The clavicle is the last to complete the process. I examined both, where they met the breastbone. Each had a cap firmly affixed to its tip, but a faint squiggly line told me fusion had occurred shortly before death.
    I checked the arm and leg bones. The pelvis where the two halves met in front. The ribs where they attached via cartilage to the sternum.
    To confirm my skeletal estimate, I pulled the postmortem dental X rays from their tiny envelope and popped them on a light box.
    Minimal wear on all occlusal surfaces. Root formation complete throughout the arcade.
    Every age indicator