She turned to him. “I’m sorry. I have to get back to the city. You’ll call me the instant you hear anything about Hoyt?”
He nodded. Smiled. “We don’t think it’ll take long.”
The last person she felt like speaking to was Dean, but as she drove into the M.E.’s parking lot she saw him stepping out of his car. She quickly pulled into a space and turned off her engine, thinking that if she just waited a few minutes, he would walk into the building first, and she could avoid any unnecessary conversation with him. Unfortunately, he had already spotted her, and he stood waiting in the parking lot, an unavoidable obstacle. She had no choice but to deal with him.
She stepped out into the wilting heat and walked toward him, at the pace of one with no time to waste.
“You never came back to the meeting this morning,” he said.
“Marquette called me into his office.”
“He told me about it.”
She stopped and looked at him. “Told you what?”
“That one of your old perps is out.”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s shaken you up.”
“Marquette told you that, too?”
“No. But since you didn’t come back to the meeting, I assumed you were upset.”
“Other matters required my attention.” She started to walk toward the building.
“You are the lead on this case, Detective Rizzoli,” he called after her.
She stopped, turned to look at him. “Why do you feel the need to remind me?”
Slowly he walked toward her, until he was close enough to be intimidating. Perhaps that was his intention. They now stood face-to-face, and although she would never give ground, she couldn’t help flushing under his gaze. It was not just his physical superiority that made her feel threatened; it was her sudden realization that he was a desirable man—an utterly perverse reaction, in light of her anger. She tried to suppress the attraction, but it had already planted its claws and she could not shake it off.
“This case is going to require your full attention,” he said. “Look, I do understand you’re upset about Warren Hoyt’s escape. It’s enough to rattle any cop. Enough to knock you off balance—”
“You hardly know me. Don’t try to be my shrink.”
“I just wonder if you’re feeling focused enough to head up this investigation. Or if you have other issues that will interfere.”
She managed to hold her temper. To ask, quite calmly: “Do you know how many people Hoyt killed this morning? Three, Agent Dean. A man and two women. He slashed their throats, and he walked away, just like that. The way he always manages to do.” She raised her hands, and he stared at her scars. “These are the souvenirs he gave me last year, just before he was about to cut my throat.” She dropped her hands and laughed. “So yeah, you’re absolutely right. I do have issues with him.”
“You also have a job to do. Right here.”
“I’m doing it.”
“You’re distracted by Hoyt. You’re letting him get in the way.”
“The only issue that keeps getting in my way is you. I don’t even know what you’re doing here.”
“Interagency cooperation. Isn’t that the party line?”
“I’m the only one cooperating. What are you giving me in return?”
“What is it you expect?”
“You could start by telling me why the Bureau’s involved. It’s never stepped in on any of my cases before. What makes the Yeagers different? What do you know about them that I don’t?”
“I know as much about them as you do,” he said.
Was it the truth? She didn’t know. She couldn’t read this man. Now sexual attraction had added to her confusion, scrambling any and all messages between them.
He looked at his watch. “It’s after three. They’re waiting for us.”
He started toward the building, but she didn’t immediately follow him. For a moment she stood alone in the parking lot, shaken by her reaction to Dean. At last she took a breath and walked into the morgue, bracing herself for another visit with the dead.
This one, at least, did not turn her stomach. The overpowering stench of putrefaction that had sickened her during the autopsy of Gail Yeager was largely absent from the second set of remains. Nevertheless, Korsak had taken his usual precautions and once again had smeared Vicks under his nose. Only a few bits of leathery connective tissue still adhered to the bones, and while the smell was certainly unpleasant, at least it did not send Rizzoli reeling for the sink. She was determined to avoid a repeat of last night’s embarrassing performance, especially with Gabriel Dean now standing directly across from her, able to watch every twitch on her face. She maintained a stoic front as Dr. Isles and the forensic anthropologist, Dr. Carlos Pepe, unsealed the box and carefully removed the skeletal remains, laying them on the sheet-draped morgue table.
Sixty years old and bent like a gnome, Dr. Pepe was as excitable as a child as he lifted out the box’s contents, eyeing each item as though it were gold. While Rizzoli saw only a random collection of dirt-stained bones, as featureless as twigs from a tree, Dr. Pepe saw radii and ulnas and clavicles, which he efficiently identified and placed in anatomical position. Disarticulated ribs and breastbone clattered against the covered stainless steel. Vertebrae, two of them surgically fused together, formed a knobby chain down the center of the table to the hollow ring of the pelvis, shaped like a macabre crown for a king. Arm bones formed spindly limbs that ended in clusters of what looked like dirty pebbles but were in reality the tiny bones that give human hands such miraculous versatility. Immediately obvious was evidence of an old injury: steel surgical pins in the left thigh bone. At the head of the table Dr. Pepe placed the skull and disarticulated jawbone. Gold teeth gleamed through crusted dirt. All the bones now lay displayed.
But the box was not yet empty.
He turned it over, pouring the last of the contents onto a cloth-draped tray. A shower of dirt and leaves and clumps of matted brown hair spilled out. He directed the exam light onto the tray and, with a pair of tweezers, began picking through the dirt. Within seconds, he found what he was looking for: a tiny black nugget, shaped like a fat grain of rice.
“Puparium,” he said. “Often mistaken as rat droppings.”
“That’s what I would’ve said,” said Korsak. “Rat poop.”
“There are lots of them in here. You just have to know what you’re looking for.” Dr. Pepe plucked out a few more black grains and set them aside in a small pile.
“Calliphoridae species.”
“What?” said Korsak.
Gabriel Dean said, “Blowflies.”
Dr. Pepe nodded. “These are the casings the blowfly larvae develop in. They’re like cocoons. It’s the exoskeleton for the third-stage larvae. They emerge from these as adult flies.” He moved the magnifier over the puparia. “These are all eclosed.”
“What does that mean? Eclosed?” asked Rizzoli.
“It means they’re empty. The flies have hatched.”
Dean asked, “What’s the developmental time for Calliphoridae in this region?”
“At this time of year, it’s about thirty-five days. But notice how these two puparia differ in color and weathering? They’re all from the same species, but this casing’s had longer exposure to the elements.”
“Two different generations,” said Isles.
“That would be my guess. I’ll be interested to hear what the entomologist has to say.”
“If each generation takes thirty-five days to mature,” said Rizzoli, “does that mean we’re talking seventy days of exposure? Is that how long this victim has been lying there?”
Dr. Pepe glanced at the bones on the table. “What I see here is not inconsistent with a postmortem interval of two summer months.”
“You can’t get more specific than that?”
“Not with skeletonized remains. This individual may have been lying in those woods for two months. Or six months.”
But Dr. Pepe was just getting started. He shifted his focus to the remains on the table. “A single individual, female,” he said, surveying the array of bones. “On the small side—not much taller than five-foot-one. Healed fractures are obvious. We have an old comminuted femoral fracture, treated with a surgical screw.”
“Looks like a Steinman pin,” said Isles. She pointed to the lumbar spine. “And she’s had a surgical fusion of L-2 and L-3.”
“Multiple injuries?” asked Rizzoli.
“This victim has had a major traumatic event.”
Dr. Pepe continued his inventory. “Two left ribs are missing, as well as …” He shuffled through the collection of tiny hand bones. “… three carpals and most of the phalanges from the left hand. Some scavenger made off with a snack, I’d say.”
“A hand sandwich,” said Korsak. No one laughed.
“Long bones are all present. So are all the vertebrae.…” He paused, frowning at the neck bones. “The hyoid’s missing.”
“We couldn’t find it,” said Isles.
“You sifted?”
“Yes. I went back to the site myself to look for it.”
“It may have been scavenged,” said Dr. Pepe. He picked up a scapula—one of the wing bones that flare out behind the shoulder. “See the V-shaped punctures here? They were made by canine and carnissial teeth.” He looked up. “Was the head found separated from the body?”
Rizzoli answered, “It was lying a few feet from the torso.”
Pepe nodded. “Typical of dogs. For them, a head is like a big ball. A plaything. They’ll roll it around, but they can’t really sink their teeth into a head, the way they can a limb or a throat.”
“Wait,” said Korsak. “Are we talking Fifi and Rover here?”
“All canids, wild and domestic, behave in similar ways. Even coyotes and wolves like to play with balls, just like Fifi and Rover. Since these remains were in a suburban park, surrounded by residences, domestic dogs would almost certainly have frequented those woods. Like all canids, their instinct is to scavenge. They’ll gnaw on any areas they can get their jaws around. The margins of the sacrum, the spinous processes. The ribs and iliac crests. And of course, they’ll tear away any soft tissue that still remains.”
Korsak looked appalled. “My wife has a little Highland terrier. That’s the last friggin’ time I let him lick me on the face.”
Pepe reached for the cranium and shot Isles a mischievous look. “So let’s play pimp time, Dr. Isles. What’s your call on this?”
“Pimp time?” asked Korsak.
“It’s a term from medical school,” said Isles. “Pimping someone means to test their knowledge. To put them on the spot.”
“Something I’m sure you used to do to your pathology students at U.C.,” said Pepe.
“Ruthlessly,” Isles admitted. “They’d cringe whenever I looked their way. They knew a tough question was coming.”
“Now I get to pimp you,” he said, with a touch of glee. “Tell us about this individual.”
She focused on the remains. “The incisors, palate shape, and skull length are consistent with the Caucasoid race. The skull is on the small side, with minimal supraorbital ridges. Then there’s the pelvis. The shape of the inlet, the suprapubic angle. It’s a Caucasian female.”
“And the age?”
“There’s incomplete epiphyseal fusion of the iliac crest. No arthritic changes on the spine. A young adult.”
“I concur.” Dr. Pepe picked up the mandible. “Three gold crowns,” he noted. “And there’s been extensive amalgam restoration. Have you done X rays?”
“Yoshima did them this morning. They’re on the light box,” said Isles.
Pepe crossed to look at them. “She’s had two root canals.” He pointed to the film of the mandible. “Looks like gutta percha canal fillings. And look at this. See how the roots of seven through ten and twenty-two through twenty-seven are short and blunt? There’s been orthodontic movement.”
“I didn’t notice that,” said Isles.
Pepe smiled. “I’m glad there’s something left to teach you, Dr. Isles. You’re beginning to make me feel quite superfluous.” Agent Dean said, “So we’re talking about someone with the means to pay for dental work.”
“Quite expensive dental work,” added Pepe.
Rizzoli thought of Gail Yeager and her perfectly straight teeth. Long after the heart ceased to beat, long after the flesh decayed, it was the condition of the teeth that distinguished the rich from the poor. Those who struggled to pay the rent would neglect the aching molar, the unsightly overbite. The characteristics of this victim were beginning to sound hauntingly familiar.
Young female. White. Well-to-do.
Pepe set down the mandible and shifted his attention to the torso. For a moment he studied the collapsed cage of ribs and sternum. He picked up a disarticulated rib, arched it toward the breastbone, and studied the angle made by the two bones.
“Pectus excavatum,” he said.
For the first time, Isles looked dismayed. “I didn’t notice that.”
“What about the tibias?”
Immediately she moved to the foot of the table and reached for one of the long bones. She stared at it, her frown deepening. Then she picked up the matching bone from the other limb and placed them side by side.
“Bilateral genu varum,” she said, by now sounding quite disturbed. “Maybe fifteen degrees. I don’t know how I missed it.”
“You were focused on the fracture. That surgical pin’s staring you in the face. And this isn’t a condition one sees much anymore. It takes an old guy like me to recognize it.”
“That’s no excuse. I should have noticed it immediately.” Isles was silent a moment, her vexed gaze flitting from the leg bones to the chest. “This does not make sense. It’s not consistent with the dental work. It’s as if we’re dealing with two different individuals here.”
Korsak cut in, “You mind telling us what you’re talking about? What doesn’t make sense?”
“This individual has a condition known as genu varum,” said Dr. Pepe. “Commonly known as bowed legs. Her shinbones were curved about fifteen degrees from straight. That’s twice the normal degree of curvature for a tibia.”
“So why’re you getting all excited? Lotta folks have bow legs.”
“It’s not just the bow legs,” said Isles. “It’s also the chest. Look at the angle the ribs make with the sternum. She has pectus excavatum, or funnel chest. Abnormal bone and cartilage formation caused the sternum—the breastbone—to be sunken in. If it’s severe, it can cause shortness of breath, cardiac problems. In this case, it was mild, and probably gave her no symptoms. The condition would have been primarily cosmetic.”
“And this is due to abnormal bone formation?” said Rizzoli.
“Yes. A defect in bone metabolism.”
“What kind of illness are we talking about?”
Isles hesitated and looked at Dr. Pepe. “Her stature is short.”
“What’s the Trotter-Gleiser estimate?”
Isles took out a measuring tape, whisked it over the femur and tibia. “I’d guess about sixty-one inches. Plus or minus three.”
“So we’ve got pectus excavatum. Bilateral genu varus. Short stature.” He nodded. “It’s strongly suggestive.”
Isles looked at Rizzoli. “She had rickets as a child.”
It was almost a quaint word, rickets. For Rizzoli, it conjured up visions of barefoot children in tumbledown shacks, crying babies, and the grime of poverty. A different era, colored in sepia. Rickets was not a word that matched a woman with three gold crowns and orthodontically straightened teeth.
Gabriel Dean had also taken note of this contradiction. “I thought rickets is caused by malnutrition,” he said.
“Yes,” Isles answered. “A lack of vitamin D. Most children get an adequate supply of D from either milk or sunlight.
But if the child is malnourished, and kept indoors, she’ll be deficient in the vitamin. And that affects calcium metabolism and bone development.” She paused. “I’ve actually never seen a case before.”
“Come out on a dig with me someday,” said Dr. Pepe. “I’ll show you plenty of cases from the last century. Scandinavia, northern Russia—”
“But today? In the U.S.?” asked Dean.
Pepe shook his head. “Quite unusual. Judging by the bony deformities, as well as her small stature, I would guess this individual lived in impoverished circumstances. At least through her adolescence.”
“That isn’t consistent with the dental work.”
“No. That’s why Dr. Isles said we seem to be dealing with two different individuals here.”
The child and the adult, thought Rizzoli. She remembered her own childhood in Revere, their family crammed into a hot little rental house, a place so small that for her to enjoy any privacy she had to crawl into her secret space beneath the front porch. She remembered the brief period after her father was laid off, the frightened whispers in her parents’ bedroom, the suppers of canned corn and Potato Buds. The bad times had not lasted; within a year, her father was back at work and meat was once again on the table. But a brush with poverty leaves its mark, on the mind if not the body, and the three Rizzoli siblings had all chosen careers with steady, if not spectacular, incomes—Jane in law enforcement, Frankie in the Marines, and Mikey in the U.S. Postal Service, all of them striving to escape the insecurity of childhood.
She looked at the skeleton on the table and said, “Rags to riches. It does happen.”
“Like something out of Dickens,” said Dean.
“Oh yeah,” said Korsak. “That Tiny Tim kid.”
Dr. Isles nodded. “Tiny Tim suffered from rickets.”
“And then he lived happily ever after, ’cause old Scrooge probably left him a ton of money,” said Korsak.
But you didn’t live happily ever after, thought Rizzoli, gazing at the remains. No longer were these just a sad collection of bones, but a woman whose life was now beginning to take shape in Rizzoli’s mind. She saw a child with crooked legs and a hollow chest, growing stunted in the mean soil of poverty. Saw that child passing into adolescence, wearing blouses with mismatched buttons, the fabric worn to frayed transparency. Even then, was there something different, something special about this girl? A look of determination in her eyes, an upward tilt to the jaw that announced she was destined for a better life than the one into which she’d been born?
The Rizzoli & Isles Series 11-Book Bundle Page 43
