the burial is recent?"
"Flies were opening a soup kitchen as I was scraping dirt."
There was a pause. I could picture Emma checking her watch.
"I'l be there in about an hour and a half. Need anything?"
"Body bag."
===OO=OOO=OO===
I was waiting on the pier when Emma arrived in a twin-engine Sea Ray. Her hair was tucked under a basebal cap, and her face seemed thinner than I remembered. She wore Dolce & Gabbana shades, jeans, and a yelow T with Charleston County Coroner lettered in black.
I watched Emma drop fenders, maneuver to the dock, and tie up. When I reached the boat, she handed out a body bag, grabbed camera equipment, and stepped over the side.
In the cart I explained that, folowing our phone conversation, I'd returned to the site, staked out a simple ten-by-ten square, and shot a series of photographs. I described in more detail what I'd seen in the ground. And gave warning that my students were totaly jazzed.
Emma spoke little as I drove. She seemed moody, distracted. Or maybe she trusted that I'd told her al she needed to know. Al I knew.
Now and then I stole a sideways glance. Emma's sunglasses made it impossible to know her expression. As we moved in and out of sunlight, shadows threw patterns across her features.
I didn't share that I was feeling uneasy, anxious that I might be wrong and wasting Emma's time.
More accurately, anxious that I might be right.
A shalow grave off a lonely beach. A decomposing corpse. I could think of few explanations. Al of them involved suspicious death and body disposal.
Emma looked outwardly calm. Like me, she'd worked dozens, perhaps hundreds of scenes. Incinerated bodies, severed heads, mummified infants, plastic-wrapped body parts. For me, it was never easy. I wondered if Emma's adrenaline was pumping like mine.
"That guy an undergrad?" Emma's question broke into my thoughts.
I folowed her line of vision.
Homer Winborne. Each time Topher turned his back, the creep was snapping photos with a pocket-size digital.
"Sonovabitch."
"I take that as a negative."
"He's a reporter."
"Shouldn't be shooting."
"Shouldn't be here at al."
Flying from the cart, I confronted Winborne. "What the hel are you doing?"
My students turned into a frozen tableau.
"Missed the ferry." Winborne's right shoulder hunched as his arm slid behind his back.
"Fork over the Nikon." Razor tone.
"You've got no right to take my property."
"Your ass is out of here. Now. Or I'm caling the sheriff to haul it to the bag."
"Dr. Brennan."
Emma had come up behind me. Winborne's eyes narrowed as they read her T.
"Perhaps the gentleman could observe from a distance." Emma, the voice of reason.
I turned my glare from Winborne to Emma. I was so peeved I couldn't think of a suitable reply. "No way" lacked style, and "in a pig's eye" seemed low in originality.
Emma nodded almost imperceptibly, indicating I should go along. Winborne was right, of course. I had no authority to confiscate his property or to give him orders. Emma was right, too. Better to control the press than to turn it away angry.
Or was the coroner thinking ahead to her next election?
"Whatever." My reply was no better than the ones I'd rejected.
"Providing we hold the camera for safekeeping." Emma held out a hand.
With a self-satisfied smile in my direction, Winborne placed the Nikon in it.
"This is puppy shit," I muttered.
"How far back would you like Mr. Winborne to stand?"
"How about the mainland?"
As things turned out, Winborne's presence made little difference.
Within hours we'd crossed an event horizon that changed my dig, my summer, and my views on human nature.
3
TOPHER AND A KID NAMED JOE HORNE STARTED IN WITH LONG-handled spades, gently slicing topsoil inside my ten-foot square. Six inches down we spotted discoloration.
Send in the A team.
Emma shot videos and stils, then she and I troweled, teasing away earth from around the stain. Topher worked the screen. The kid might be goofy, but he was a world-class
"Flies were opening a soup kitchen as I was scraping dirt."
There was a pause. I could picture Emma checking her watch.
"I'l be there in about an hour and a half. Need anything?"
"Body bag."
===OO=OOO=OO===
I was waiting on the pier when Emma arrived in a twin-engine Sea Ray. Her hair was tucked under a basebal cap, and her face seemed thinner than I remembered. She wore Dolce & Gabbana shades, jeans, and a yelow T with Charleston County Coroner lettered in black.
I watched Emma drop fenders, maneuver to the dock, and tie up. When I reached the boat, she handed out a body bag, grabbed camera equipment, and stepped over the side.
In the cart I explained that, folowing our phone conversation, I'd returned to the site, staked out a simple ten-by-ten square, and shot a series of photographs. I described in more detail what I'd seen in the ground. And gave warning that my students were totaly jazzed.
Emma spoke little as I drove. She seemed moody, distracted. Or maybe she trusted that I'd told her al she needed to know. Al I knew.
Now and then I stole a sideways glance. Emma's sunglasses made it impossible to know her expression. As we moved in and out of sunlight, shadows threw patterns across her features.
I didn't share that I was feeling uneasy, anxious that I might be wrong and wasting Emma's time.
More accurately, anxious that I might be right.
A shalow grave off a lonely beach. A decomposing corpse. I could think of few explanations. Al of them involved suspicious death and body disposal.
Emma looked outwardly calm. Like me, she'd worked dozens, perhaps hundreds of scenes. Incinerated bodies, severed heads, mummified infants, plastic-wrapped body parts. For me, it was never easy. I wondered if Emma's adrenaline was pumping like mine.
"That guy an undergrad?" Emma's question broke into my thoughts.
I folowed her line of vision.
Homer Winborne. Each time Topher turned his back, the creep was snapping photos with a pocket-size digital.
"Sonovabitch."
"I take that as a negative."
"He's a reporter."
"Shouldn't be shooting."
"Shouldn't be here at al."
Flying from the cart, I confronted Winborne. "What the hel are you doing?"
My students turned into a frozen tableau.
"Missed the ferry." Winborne's right shoulder hunched as his arm slid behind his back.
"Fork over the Nikon." Razor tone.
"You've got no right to take my property."
"Your ass is out of here. Now. Or I'm caling the sheriff to haul it to the bag."
"Dr. Brennan."
Emma had come up behind me. Winborne's eyes narrowed as they read her T.
"Perhaps the gentleman could observe from a distance." Emma, the voice of reason.
I turned my glare from Winborne to Emma. I was so peeved I couldn't think of a suitable reply. "No way" lacked style, and "in a pig's eye" seemed low in originality.
Emma nodded almost imperceptibly, indicating I should go along. Winborne was right, of course. I had no authority to confiscate his property or to give him orders. Emma was right, too. Better to control the press than to turn it away angry.
Or was the coroner thinking ahead to her next election?
"Whatever." My reply was no better than the ones I'd rejected.
"Providing we hold the camera for safekeeping." Emma held out a hand.
With a self-satisfied smile in my direction, Winborne placed the Nikon in it.
"This is puppy shit," I muttered.
"How far back would you like Mr. Winborne to stand?"
"How about the mainland?"
As things turned out, Winborne's presence made little difference.
Within hours we'd crossed an event horizon that changed my dig, my summer, and my views on human nature.
3
TOPHER AND A KID NAMED JOE HORNE STARTED IN WITH LONG-handled spades, gently slicing topsoil inside my ten-foot square. Six inches down we spotted discoloration.
Send in the A team.
Emma shot videos and stils, then she and I troweled, teasing away earth from around the stain. Topher worked the screen. The kid might be goofy, but he was a world-class
Similar Books
The Lazarus Plot
Franklin W. Dixon
A Promise Of Home (A Lake Howling Novel Book 1)
Wendy Vella
Never Forget: A Novella in the Echo Platoon Series
Marliss Melton
The Only One
authors_sort
Soft Target
Mia Kay
Super Trouble
Vivi Andrews
The Ex-Boyfriend's Handbook
Matt Dunn
Sweet Temptation
Leigh Greenwood
Vengeance Bound
Justina Ireland