Cross Bones Read Free

cats brushed the thermostat,” Ryan said.

    I did a quick calculation. Ninety-two Fahrenheit. About thirty-five Celsius. No wonder Ferris was setting a land record for decomposition.

    But heat had been just one of this gentleman’s problems.

    When hungry, the most docile among us grow cranky. When starved, we grow desperate. Id overrides ethics. We eat. We survive. That common instinct drives herd animals, predators, wagon trains, and soccer teams.

    Even Fido and Fluffy go vulture.

    Avram Ferris had made the mistake of punching out while trapped with two domestic shorthairs and a Siamese.

    And a short supply of Friskies.

    I moved around the table.

    Ferris’s left temporal and parietal bones were oddly splayed. Though I couldn’t see the occipital, it was obvious the back of his head had taken a hit.

    Pul ing on gloves, I wedged two fingers under the skul and palpated. The bone yielded like sludge. Only scalp tissue was keeping the flip side together.

    I eased the head down and examined the face.

    It was difficult to imagine what Ferris had looked like in life. His left cheek was macerated. Tooth marks scored the underlying bone, and fragments glistened opalescent in the angry red stew.

    Though swol en and marbled, Ferris’s face was largely intact on the right.

    I straightened, considered the patterning of the mutilation. Despite the heat and the smel of putrefaction, the cats hadn’t ventured to the right of Ferris’s nose or south to the rest of the body.

    I understood why LaManche needed me.

    “There was an open wound on the left side of the face?” I asked him.

    “Oui.And another at the back of the skul . The putrefaction and scavenging make it impossible to determine bul et trajectory.”

    “I’l need a ful set of cranial X-rays,” I said to Lisa.

    “Orientation?”

    “Al angles. And I’l need the skul .”

    “Impossible.” Observer four again came alive. “We have an agreement.”

    LaManche raised a gloved hand. “I have the responsibility to determine the truth in this matter.”

    “You gave your word there would be no retention of specimens.” Though the man’s face was the color of oatmeal, a pink bud was mushrooming on each of his cheeks.

    “Unless absolutely unavoidable.” LaManche was al reason.

    Observer four turned to the man on his left. Observer three raised his chin and gazed down through lowered lids.

    “Let him speak.” Unruffled. The rabbi counseling patience.

    LaManche turned to me.

    “Dr. Brennan, proceed with your analysis, leaving the skul and al untraumatized bone in place.”

    “Dr. LaManche—”

    “If that proves unworkable, resume normal protocol.”

    I do not like being told how to do my job. I do not like working with less than the maximum available information, or employing less than optimum procedure.

    Ido like and respect Pierre LaManche. He is the finest pathologist I’ve ever known.

    I looked at my boss. The old man nodded almost imperceptibly.Work with me, he was signaling.

    I shifted my gaze to the faces hovering above Avram Ferris. In each I saw the age-old struggle of dogma versus pragmatics. The body as temple. The body as ducts and ganglia and piss and bile.

    In each I saw the anguish of loss.

    The same anguish I’d overheard just minutes before.

    “Of course,” I said quietly. “Cal when you’re ready to retract the scalp.”

    I looked at Ryan. He winked, Ryan the cop hinting at Ryan the lover.

    The woman was stil crying when I left the autopsy wing. Her companion, or companions, were now silent.

    I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on personal sorrow.

    Was that it? Or was that merely an excuse to shield myself?

    I often witness grief. Time and again I am present for that head-on col ision when survivors face the realization of their altered lives. Meals that wil never be shared. Conversations that wil never be spoken. Little Golden Books that wil never be read aloud.

    I see the pain, but have no help to