Bones of the Lost: A Temperance Brennan Novel tb-16

by Kathy Reichs

  Pete shrugged. Who knows?

  “The solution couldn’t be simpler.”

  Pete reached over and brushed a thumb across my upper lip. I batted his hand away.

  “Sugar mustache,” he said. “Go on.”

  “The medical examiner checks the bullet entry and exit points.”

  “That’s been impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “The men are buried in a Muslim cemetery. NCIS has repeatedly tried to get access, but the Afghan authorities have repeatedly refused to allow either an exhumation or an autopsy. After a lot of diplomatic maneuvering, they’ve now reversed their position.”

  I had a sudden suspicion where this was heading.

  “They’ve agreed to an exhumation,” I guessed.

  “Yes. But there’s no guarantee they won’t change their minds again. So speed is of the essence. The Article 32 hearing has been recessed to allow time for the exhumation to take place.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How well preserved do you think the bodies will be?”

  “What was done with them postmortem?”

  “Hunter’s intel says the men were bathed, shrouded, and buried. Just laid on their right sides, heads toward Mecca.”

  “A year in the ground. No caskets. I’d expect advanced decomp, if not full skeletonization.”

  “U.S. experts will only get one shot at these bodies. If base personnel aren’t top-notch, John could be screwed.”

  “Determining bullet trajectory is not rocket science.”

  “You know that. Will they? According to Hunter, this is John’s best hope to clear himself. The defense wants a say in who will exhume and examine, and the prosecution has told them to propose someone who might be mutually acceptable.”

  “You want me to go to Afghanistan.” Said with the enthusiasm I reserve for boils and sties.

  “Yes. Your prosecution background will satisfy the government and the defense will go along with Hunter’s recommendation.”

  Pete leaned back, eyes intense on mine. He’d presented his case. Now he waited.

  Deep breath.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Pete. I feel for John and his family. But military physicians have a lot of experience—too much—with traumatic injury. Any doctor in Afghanistan will have seen hundreds of gunshot wounds.”

  “In fresh tissue. You just said it. The only thing left will probably be bone. That’s you. That’s your thing. You’re the best. Plus, the Article 32 hearing is in North Carolina.”

  “I have commitments. I can’t just take off for the other side of the world.”

  “You do it all the time.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “JPAC?”

  Pete was referring to my role as a civilian consultant to the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command, the military’s central identification laboratory in Honolulu.

  “That’s different. Those visits are scheduled.”

  “That’s another reason it has to be you. You know how the military functions, and your JPAC connection is another big reason the government will agree to you as the forensic expert.”

  “Pete—”

  He reached across and took both my hands in his.

  “I’m asking this as a personal favor. Please. Oversee the exhumation. Do the analysis.”

  “This is ridiculous. The logistics would be a nightmare.”

  He smiled. “You’ve already been cleared.”

  “By whom?”

  “The DOD, the Pentagon, the friggin’ White House.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Pete pantomimed crossing his heart. “Digging up corpses on foreign soil is serious business, especially when they’re evidence in the investigation of an American soldier.”

  “No way.” I pulled my hands free. “I’ve got a teenage Jane Doe in my cooler and no one gives a flip. If I don’t press her case, who will?”

  “How’s that going?” Not full-out sarcastic, but close.

  “It’s going.” Clipped. Why was I even discussing this?

  “It’s your choice, of course. Stay here and keep pressing. Go to Afghanistan and help an American who’s maybe getting screwed. An American who risked his life serving his country.”

  Pete paused to allow the unspoken implication its full impact. Katy.

  “You can do either, buttercup. But ask yourself. Will staying here really help your Jane Doe?”

  Annoying as it was, Pete had a point. Slidell would keep chipping away at the hit and run. Not as fast without me nagging, but he’d do the work. Luther Dew? No nagging needed there. The DNA? I could fly around the world and still beat the results to my inbox.

  “John Gross needs one person he can trust to be impartial and competent. He needs the best.”

  “What if I find that these men were shot in the back?”

  “Then I will have fulfilled a commitment to a friend, and you will have found the truth, wherever it leads.”

  Then Pete the litigator brought his argument home.

  “The incident took place at a village called Sheyn Bagh. You’ll go there to oversee the exhumation. You’ll do the analysis at Bagram.”

  Where Katy is stationed. Again, it didn’t need saying.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Dear God, was I really considering this?

  Pete passed me the donuts. I shook my head. He placed one on his plate, collected both mugs, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  On the sideboard, Gran’s clock tapped out its quiet metronome. Curled on his chair, Birdie snored softly. Out the window, a mockingbird trilled a Saturday-morning air.

  Pete returned and set coffee before me. Took his chair. Waited.

  At length, he asked, “Finished thinking?”

  “No.” I was.

  “You’ll go, right?”

  “When?”

  He pulled an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans, removed two papers, and laid them on the table.

  I glanced at each.

  Invitational travel orders.

  An e-ticket on Turkish Airlines. Charlotte-Douglas to Dulles International. Dulles to Istanbul.

  Leaving the next day.

  THE REST OF THAT DAY was a nightmare of errands, packing, and last-minute arrangements. Ditto Sunday morning.

  Larabee had to be notified. Slidell. Dew. LaManche in Montreal. Katy.

  I tried Ryan, got voicemail. Big surprise there. Message: Gone to Afghanistan. Let him think about that.

  Not wanting an inquisition, I sent Harry an e-mail. An extremely vague one.

  I asked a neighbor to bring in the mail and papers. Dropped Birdie with Pete. Filled a prescription. Bought socks.

  You get the picture.

  Packing was a challenge. The Weather Channel said it might be hot, might be cold. Terrific. Figuring I could peel down, I erred in the direction of the latter.

  In addition to jeans, tees, and sweaters, I tossed in my usual crime-scene duds: khaki BDUs, khaki cap, desert boots, gloves. Saucy. I figured my hosts could supply any specialty gear needed.

  Sunday morning I also loaded files onto my MacBook Air. A template for an evidence transfer form. A template for a forensic anthropology case form. The latest version of Fordisc 3.0, a program for the metric analysis of unknown remains. A number of online osteology manuals. All probably unneeded, but I wanted to be fully armed.

  Last, I copied an article I was preparing for the Journal of Forensic Sciences. Unlikely I’d do any writing on this trip, but what the hell.

  The taxi rolled up at four. I was at Charlotte-Douglas in thirty minutes, through security in thirty more.

  Aviation miracle, the flight was on time. Three hours after leaving the annex, I was walking up a Jetway at Dulles.

  After locating the Turkish Airlines gate, I found the Virgin Atlantic lounge and burrowed in for my three-hour wait.

  Again, the gods were smiling. At 10:20 a voice announced my flight was boarding for an on-time departure.

 
Thinking international travel wasn’t so bad, I queued up with my fellow business-class passengers, found my seat, stowed my belongings, and buckled my belt.

  I do not sleep well in flight.

  For the next ten hours I read, ate a reasonably good meal, tried a movie or two. Donned earplugs and eyeshades, reclined my seat, and tucked under the blanket. Sought positions in which all of my limbs enjoyed blood flow. Reoriented again and again. Raised the seat and turned on the light to read. Lowered the seat. Dialed up white noise on my phone. Tried another movie.

  Again and again I thought about Jane Doe. Assured myself I hadn’t abandoned her.

  Deplaning in Istanbul, I felt like I’d rowed the entire fifty-five hundred miles.

  The Turkish Airlines lounge was all gold and white, with circular arches separating bars, seating clusters, and food stations. The chairs and sofas would have looked stylish in any posh L.A. hotel. Wi-Fi. A pianist. Even a masseur. I could’ve lived in the place.

  I snagged a few hors d’oeuvres, then checked my e-mail.

  Katy and Ryan remained incommunicado.

  Not so Harry. Now panicked.

  Twenty-four hours had passed since my departure from Charlotte, almost none of that time spent sleeping. No way I was up to dealing with baby sister. I sent a follow-up message as vague as my first. Traveling. Catch up soon.

  My next flight was aboard a 737 whose interior had never experienced a facelift. I got the bulkhead row, which meant a wall in my face in exchange for an extra inch of legroom.

  The ride was bumpy. The coffee was Turkish and tasted like tar.

  Five hours after taking off, the pilot put down at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, the transit center for U.S. and coalition forces moving to and from Afghanistan.

  As we taxied through blackness, I attempted some math. My watch said it was 9 P.M. EST. Monday. I estimated it was Tuesday morning in Kyrgyzstan. That’s all the precision my sleep-deprived neurons could muster.

  A master sergeant named Grace Mensforth met me at the terminal. Medium build, brown hair, unremarkable features. The type witnesses rarely remember.

  Mensforth introduced herself as my Air Force liaison. At my blank look, she explained that, though Kyrgyzstan operates the airport, the USAF runs the Transit Center. Thus her presence.

  “How was your flight?”

  “Uneventful.”

  “Best we can hope for, eh?” She swept an arm left. “Baggage is this way.”

  Mensforth led me across a cement-floored terminal that looked like the basement of a Stalinist factory. Boy-men in nine-foot peaked caps and long wool coats stood with automatic weapons slung across their chests.

  My duffel was on the floor, a spot of tan in a sea of multicolored leather and speckled camouflage. I waded in and hoisted it free.

  “Give me your passport.” Mensforth held out a hand. “I’ll handle the visa.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The red tape is unreal.”

  Slowly, the baggage area emptied. I stood, cold seeping through my Nikes, jacket, and jeans, fatigue weighing on my body like a truckload of sludge.

  Finally, Mensforth returned.

  “This your first trip to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan?” Handing back my passport.

  “And Kyrgyzstan.”

  “The Kyrgyz Republic. On to customs.”

  Again Mensforth arm-motioned “this way.” I wondered if she’d been a maître d’ in another life.

  Fortunately, the line was short. As we progressed, body length by body length, Mensforth took a stab at conversation.

  “Kyrgyz comes from forty. Forty tribes.”

  “Really.”

  We lurched forward.

  Mensforth interpreted my listless reply as either aloofness or lack of interest. From then on we waited in silence.

  Fifteen minutes after queuing up, I was following my liaison across a pitch-black tarmac. The air was frosty, the wind damp and penetrating.

  Head lowered, Mensforth angled to a white Air Force van and opened a side rear door. I climbed in. A kid in uniform loaded my bag, then slid behind the wheel.

  As we drove, tiny lights shaped up in the distance. I spotted no other vehicles.

  My head throbbed. My stomach churned. Sleep would definitely take precedence over food.

  The trip to the air base was mercifully brief, maybe five minutes.

  As the driver paused at a checkpoint to answer questions and present ID, including my passport and orders, I stared at the canvas-and-mesh-surfaced wall outside my window.

  “That Hesco?” I was curious, despite my exhaustion.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mensforth said.

  I’d read about Hesco. Made of crate-size units filled with sand and rock, then stacked three-high hard against each other, such barriers are strong but pliant. When ready to move on, base workers just empty the bags.

  No idea why my brain dredged that up.

  Finally, docs inspected and stamped, we cleared the gate.

  The van wound past prefab rectangular structures, enormous Quonsets, what might have been a small mosque, a long, low arrangement that looked like a bar. Eventually, we pulled to the curb by a windowless, two-story number measuring about a hundred feet long by thirty feet wide.

  “Female barracks.” Mensforth hopped out and cut toward a metal staircase on the building’s near end.

  I followed. The kid trailed with my duffel on one shoulder.

  We clanged up the stairs to a metal door. Mensforth gave me a key.

  “You’re in 204. Take the empty rack.”

  The kid dumped my bag and scuttled back down.

  “You may luck out and have the room to yourself.” Mensforth spoke in hushed tones. “The head’s down the hall. I’ll collect you at oh-eight-hundred.”

  Though the sky was still dark, I doubted dawn was far off.

  “What time is it now?” I asked.

  “Oh-four-thirty.”

  Hallelujah.

  The room, barely eight by ten, held two wardrobe units and two single beds. I lucked out. Both pillows were empty.

  After opening my duffel, I fired to the head. Back in the room, I peeled off my clothes, pulled on a tee and clean panties, plugged in my iPhone, set the alarm, and collapsed.

  Church bells bonged.

  Startled, I opened my eyes.

  My brain groped.

  Manas.

  I clawed the phone. Killed the bells. Checked the digits.

  7:45.

  Shivering, I yanked on BDUs and boots, grabbed my toiletry case, and trudged down the hall.

  Quick swipe at the teeth and hair. Different brushes.

  At 0800 I opened the outside door. The sun was a low white ball in an immaculate blue sky. Frost coated the grass like a dusting of sugar.

  Mensforth stood at the base of the stairs, a puffy brown jacket draped over one arm.

  “Good morning.” Breath coned from her mouth.

  “Good morning. Bring my gear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I collected my duffel and backpack and clumped down the stairs.

  “Take this.” Mensforth offered the jacket.

  “You think it’ll be that cold?”

  “Better to have and not need, than to need and not have.”

  “My mother used to say that.”

  “Mine too.”

  We both smiled. I put on the jacket.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thank Uncle Sam. Hungry?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Let’s hit a DFAC.” Pronounced dee-fack.

  A different kid in uniform now manned the wheel of the van. Scarecrow thin, with buzz-cut hair.

  As we drove, Mensforth briefed me on my upcoming travel arrangements.

  “Your flight downrange is at noon, which means lockdown by oh-nine-hundred. You’ll be issued IBA at the airfield.”

  Individual body armor. I was looking forward to that.

  The kid made a coupl
e of turns, then braked by a structure that looked like an aircraft hangar.

  Mensforth and I presented ID and were admitted to the dining facility. After washing our hands at one of a score of taps, we entered the main hall. The air was thick with the smell of warming food. Sausage. Canned corn. Tortillas. Bacon.

  Troops in camouflage and workers in civvies filled trays at hot and cold stations, salad and sandwich bars, burger grills, and dairy cases. Men and women of all ranks ate at hundreds of tables set out in rows.

  Mensforth gave some instruction, which I missed, then left me on my own. I headed to a banquette that seemed to be drawing a decent crowd.

  My instincts were good. Large metal bins offered standard Midwestern fare: eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns. I heaped my plate, added juice and coffee, then found an empty place at a table by a soft drink cooler.

  Further down, on the opposite side, was a man in a uniform I didn’t recognize. French? Polish? Beside him sat a twentysomething carrying a weapon half her body weight.

  Banging trays, clanging utensils, and humming conversation vied with football play-by-play coming from wall-mounted screens. Now and then staccato laughter broke through the din.

  Mensforth found me, and we ate without talking. She’d gone for some sort of burrito with a cheeselike overlay. Breakfast finished, we bussed our trays and headed for the airfield.

  Flight staging took place in another hangarlike affair with TVs airing yet more football.

  Troops sat crammed onto benches, either on cell phones or other devices or with eyes closed or numbly resting on a game. Observing them, I wondered, Is sport the new opiate of the masses?

  Others slumped on duffels or slept tucked to the walls. Male or female, all looked weary. And wary.

  Mensforth led me to a side room in which shelving and bins overflowed with IBA.

  Personal protective gear is designed to protect your person. Which does not mean it fits your person. Especially if your person is of the double-X gender.

  Outer tactical vests come in four colors—woodland green camouflage, desert camouflage, universal camouflage, and coyote brown, the khaki of the Marine Corps. Mensforth handed me a universal, size small. I removed my outer jacket and slipped into the gray-green beauty. Not bad.

  Then Mensforth added small-arms ballistic inserts to the front, back, and sides. And handed me a helmet. The combined weight came to somewhere north of forty pounds. I felt and looked like a Hesco unit with feet.