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

told the same story. Young adult.
    A femoral measurement placed the woman’s height at solidly average. Small muscle attachments suggested she’d been of slight to medium build.
    I reviewed the data I’d entered onto the case form.
    Female. Black. Twenty-three to twenty-seven years of age. Between 5′5″ and 5′8″.
    I found the missing person file the cops had sent over with the first four bones.
    Edith Blankenship fit the profile in every parameter.
    I unclipped the photo and studied the subject.
    A girl smiled from under a tasseled mortarboard, curly black hair framing her face. She wasn’t pretty, wasn’t homely either. Just plain. But the set jaw and straight-at-the-camera gaze conveyed confidence and determination.
    The media had flashed the same image for a week or so. Until fresher crimes drew the attention of law enforcement. Until news coverage shifted to flooding in the Midwest. Then Edith Blankenship dwindled to tattered flyers posted on telephone poles in northwest Charlotte.
    Edith’s case was briefly reinvigorated by the Mountain Island Lake bones. Those investigating her disappearance were certain the file would shift to homicide or move to the “closed” category in some other way. I’d dashed their hopes.
    Had Edith finally turned up?
    My mind shifted to PMI. Postmortem interval.
    I checked a date. Edith Blankenship was last seen alive on September 8.
    Fall had been unseasonably warm, even for North Carolina. The torn bag had allowed access to fish, turtles, and other aquatic scavengers. They, along with the normal spectrum of bacteria, had done their job.
    My first impression, the level of decomp looked good for an early September immersion. But I’d need to verify.
    I straightened, arched backward, then rolled my shoulders. I was again thinking yoga when my stomach growled.
    The wall clock said 1:03 p.m. I was starving.
    I removed my mask and tossed my goggles to the counter. Stripped my gloves and apron, balled them, and tried a layup into a biohazard can. Two points.
    Quick hand wash, then I returned to my office. I was fantasizing about a giant sub when the desk phone rang.
    I considered letting the call roll to voicemail.
    Picked up.
    Big mistake.

“T HANKS FOR SENDING A floater into my basket.”
    Charlotte Mecklenburg PD Homicide investigator Erskine “Skinny” Slidell had not been pleased by my call on Saturday. I’d fled behind the transport van, leaving him debating jurisdiction with Officer Skip. Junkyard dog vs. Jersey barrier.
    “You’re welcome.”
    “You tossed in the Unabomber for shits and giggles?”
    “Have you found Herman Blount?”
    “Oh, yeah. Prick looked like Saddam friggin’ Hussein peering outta his spider hole. I’ll let him sweat a while, think about the good times out hugging trees. Then I’ll grill him.”
    “I’d like to be there.”
    “How come that don’t surprise me?”
    The Law Enforcement Center is on East Trade Street, in uptown Charlotte. The drive took ten minutes.
    Skinny met me on the second floor, beside a door marked Violent Crimes Division. Behind it were Homicide and ADW, assault with a deadly. Blount was in the farthest of three interview rooms on the opposite side of the hall.
    “Mr. Birkenstocks and lentils has spent the past six weeks underground. Smells like shit.”
    Coming from Skinny, this was a statement.
    “What’s his story?”
    “Guy’s got a beef with coal power. And hydroelectric. And logging, mining, farming, ranching, pesticides, the fur trade, animal testing, zoos, circuses, rodeos, McDonald’s . . .”
    “You’ve already questioned him?”
    “Asshole hasn’t shut up since I hauled his sorry butt outta his hidey-hole. Keeps grinding on about coal ash and arsenic and fish having trouble porking.”
    “Do you think Blount’s a serious threat?”
    “Your artist buddy was right about the videos.” Slidell shook his head in disgust. “The dude with the squirrels growing on his face—”
    I rotated a