by Kathy Reichs
Next image.
“This is a posterior view of that same segment of rib. Note the beveling.”
Hawthorn: “So a bullet entered the front of the rib cage at the level of the seventh rib, then exited that same rib in back, near the spine.”
“Yes.” Next image. “This is a view of the anterior surface of Mr. Aqsaee’s sternum, after rearticulation of the broken pieces.”
“His breast bone.”
“Yes.”
Hawthorn: “You reconstructed it yourself?”
“Yes. Note the clean-edged circular defect at the middle right. This is a bullet entrance point.”
Next image.
“This shows the posterior aspect of the sternal defect. Note its significantly larger size, irregular shape, and the fragmentation that exposes the underlying spongy bone. This is a bullet exit point. The fracture patterning demonstrated on these two images indicates that a bullet traveled through Mr. Aqsaee’s sternum on a trajectory of front to back.”
Hawthorn: “So. You are saying that three bullets entered Mr. Aqsaee’s chest and exited his back.”
“A minimum of three. There could have been more. I can only observe trauma evident on the skeleton.”
Hawthorn: “Do the flight paths of these bullets suggest anything concerning Mr. Aqsaee’s position relative to that of Lieutenant Gross at the time of the shooting?”
I projected a photograph to which I’d added graphics to illustrate this point. The reconstructed sternum, rib fragments, and vertebral fragments were placed in anatomically appropriate positions in a schematic of a skeleton. A red line connected each entrance wound with its associated exit wound, then extended forward and backward from the rib cage and spinal column. Each line ran roughly parallel to the skeleton’s feet.
“The bullet trajectories suggest that Mr. Aqsaee was upright and facing Lieutenant Gross when he was shot.”
Gross’s lips tightened. His chin hitched up a millimeter, leveled.
“I can also project the X-rays.”
I moved to an image in which brilliant white dots peppered a partial rib and two vertebral fragments.
“When a gun is fired, metal particulates can travel with the bullet as it moves through the body. These particulates appear here as white specks due to their greater density in comparison to bone.”
I advanced to an image superimposing the X-ray over a schematic of a rib cage, and drew the cursor along a path from the rib to the vertebrae.
“Note how the metallic trace is more densely packed in the rib, less so in the vertebrae. Particles were lost as the bullet advanced along its path.”
Hawthorn: “Its path being from the chest toward the spine.”
“Yes. In addition to metallic trace, bone fragments can be displaced forward as a bullet moves through tissue.”
I placed the cursor beside a minute sliver, not as intensely white as the metallic trace, but brighter than the vertebral bone in which it was embedded. Then I moved it to another sliver, and another.
“These bone fragments came from the blowout zone at the back of the sternum, from the area of bone loss we observed earlier. The orientation of the fragments suggests they were traveling from front to back with the bullet.”
“So, in summary, this evidence substantiates your conclusion that Mr. Aqsaee was upright and facing Lieutenant Gross when shot in the chest.”
“Yes.”
“Did you prepare a report of your procedures, findings, and conclusions?”
“I did.”
Hawthorn: “Let me show you defense exhibit one. Is that your report?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Sir, the defense moves to admit exhibit one into evidence. A copy was previously provided to Major Nelson.”
Nelson did not object to the report and had no questions for me. Keever advised that he would submit his conclusions and recommendations within a week, then adjourned the hearing.
Even while the flow of testimony was running decidedly in his favor, Gross never relaxed or smiled. He’d remained taut and erect throughout, battling his twitch.
As I passed the defense table, he disengaged from Hawthorn and strode toward me. His face revealed nothing, but his step and carriage radiated confidence.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Gross’s hand shot out. Without thinking I responded.
Gross’s cuff hiked up as we shook, revealing the lower part of a tattoo. I saw the bottom of the Marine Corps globe and anchor, the letters RIP circling below.
I’d heard that this version was favored by the most “gung ho mofo” types. Mess with the Corps and you’ll rest in peace.
Noticing my glance at the tattoo, Gross came to attention, saluted, and said, “Semper fi, ma’am.”
With that he stepped back, pivoted, and walked away.
PART THREE
TUESDAY MORNING, I WOKE BEFORE the alarm bells bonged. Early dawn was seeping through the window, turning my room into a study in shades of gray. Outside, the first few mockingbirds were sending out tentative trills.
I ran sleepy eyes over the chair, the dresser, the antique wooden shelf with its collection of memorabilia. A conch shell from Maui. A silver Latvian bride’s headband. Framed photos whose images I couldn’t see. Didn’t matter. I knew each like I knew my own features. Katy at her college graduation. Ryan and me in Guatemala City. Pete and Boyd on the beach at Isle of Palms. Birdie stretched full-length in the sun.
God, it was good to be home.
I rolled over.
The digits on the clock read 6:12.
I tried to fall back to sleep. Impossible. Would have helped to have Birdie there, snuggling and purring.
At 6:45, I gave up. A long hot shower and shampoo scrubbed away the last piggybacking grime from Bagram. Though still tender, my ankle was on the mend. The swelling was down and the bruising looked less flamboyant.
Down in the kitchen, I made coffee and popped bread into the toaster. Oddly, there was milk in the refrigerator. And cottage cheese, OJ, a plastic container of lasagna from Pasta and Provisions, fresh produce, lunch meat and cheese, and a number of other items I hadn’t purchased. Including a Heineken.
More than a dozen Observers had been dutifully brought inside during my absence. Making a mental note to thank my neighbor, I glanced through a few in a fast-forward manner, working from the oldest to the most recent. I got a general sense of what had happened in my absence. Which was the usual.
A student shot up a school in Montana, claiming he’d been bullied. Four dead. A couple was found with an arsenal of guns and explosives in their Trenton, New Jersey, apartment. Both were under arrest. The NRA was defending the right of every American to pack a semiautomatic and load it with a thirty-round clip. The video-game industry was claiming innocence in the fostering of a culture of violence.
On the local scene, a Gastonia plant closing was about to put hundreds out of work. Guns were found at two middle schools. Fraud was being alleged at a college. A kid reported missing from Mount Holly in 2004 was found living with his grandparents in northern Michigan. He was now fourteen.
I was on my sixth paper when a small headline caught my eye. Local section. Three column inches. I checked the date. The story had appeared the previous Saturday.
SEARCH FOR SUSPECT IN FATAL HIT AND RUN
The article started out by asking for the public’s help in identifying a teenage hit-and-run victim. It provided a brief description of the girl and the date, approximate time, and Rountree–Old Pineville Road location of the accident. It stated that authorities were looking for witnesses or persons with information. My name was mentioned, as was Slidell’s. Anyone with knowledge of the girl or the incident was urged to contact the CMPD.
My morgue-cooler face shot accompanied the text. So did a number for the homicide division at police headquarters.
The byline was Allison Stallings.
Second mental note. Another thank-you due. Though I could have done without personal
mention. Seeing my name in the paper never thrills me. Unless I’ve finished the Charlotte 10K in under an hour.
The previous Sunday’s edition had a follow-up piece on the MP case Slidell was working when I left for Afghanistan. Pictures of the missing woman, Cheryl Connelly, and her kids; background on her movements immediately prior to her disappearance; and a hint she might have had mental issues.
So Connelly was still whereabouts unknown as of two days ago. Great. Unless she’d turned up or was found on Monday, Slidell would still be distracted.
I took the papers to the recycling bin. Two empty Heineken bottles lay at the bottom.
Hm.
I went to the study. A PC sat on my desk, plugged into a wall switch. A Dell, minimally a decade out of date.
Pete and I have opposing views on cars and computers. I see the former as a means of transportation, the latter as a slick on-ramp to the knowledge of the world. My Mazda is too old to have resale value. My Mac is fast and new and will be gone as soon as an updated model comes out.
For my ex, automotive trumps cyber speed every time. I knew who’d been in my house. Suspected the reason.
I dialed Mrs. Flowers.
“Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner.”
“It’s Dr. Brennan.”
“My, my, bless your heart. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard you’d gone to that terrible place. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“Did you see any of those dreadful Taliban?”
“I was mostly on base.”
“I prayed for you every day. Will you be coming into the office soon?”
“Perhaps later. I just arrived home last night.”
“Unpack right off. If you let it go, who knows what creatures will crawl out and move in with you. Happened to a friend of mine.” Mrs. Flowers’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I won’t mention what took up residence in her house.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You have several phone messages.”
“I’ll get to them first thing.”
“And a new case.”
Mrs. Flowers gave me a thumbnail. It involved hooligans, an outhouse, and a noggin in doo-doo. I have to admit, I do enjoy her prose.
“Thank you. Could you transfer me to Dr. Larabee?”
“Certainly.”
A soulless version of “Sailing” bridged me over until Larabee picked up. What is it with institutions and Muzak?
“Tempe, glad you’re back. How was it?”
“I’ve got boundless respect for our troops.”
“That bad?”
“Just tiring.” And bugs, and body armor, and burial alive.
“Were you able to see Katy?”
“Yes. She’s really something.”
“The kid always was. Listen, I didn’t respond to your messages because I didn’t want to be a distraction.”
“No problem.”
“The DNA trace came up empty on our Jane Doe. She’s not in the system.”
“No big surprise.”
“No. But you never know until you try.”
I asked if he’d seen Allison Stallings’s article. He had.
“Still no one’s come forward.”
“So we’re no farther ahead than when I left.”
“Au contraire. I got results back on the semen analysis. We were right. It came from more than one individual.”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “This is where you tell me the DNA has names attached.”
“The DNA has names attached. Two cold hits right here in the North Carolina database. I’ll leave the reports on your desk. I’ve already forwarded them to Slidell.”
“This could be big.”
“Could be. I found something else which may or may not be big.”
I waited.
“While going back over the X-rays, I spotted a small streak of radio-opacity near the right parieto-occipital junction. Hematoma was pretty extensive in that part of the brain, and the cortical bone is very thick there, so I hadn’t noticed it at first. I double-checked, and sure enough something had gotten caught up when I retracted the scalp. Prob—”
“What did you find?”
“Looks like a sliver of bone. Pierced the scalp but didn’t penetrate the ectocranial surface. I left that on your desk, along with the two DNA reports.”
The line beeped.
“Hold on a sec.”
As Larabee clicked over to answer the incoming call, I considered the implications of a bone fragment in a victim’s scalp. A fall? A blow? Some sort of hair accessory? Before I got far, Larabee was back.
“Gotta go. Double suicide. Myers Park of all places. Thought the gentry were too well-bred to off themselves with rat pellets.”
“I’ll be in shortly.”
“Good. You’ve got a skull from a crapper.”
I hung up, totally pumped. About the DNA, not the latrine find.
When I left Charlotte, the hit-and-run case was going cold fast. Now there were leads. The names of men who’d had sex with the victim. Forced? For love? For fun? For money? It didn’t matter. These men knew her.
I phoned Slidell, got voicemail. Left a message telling him to call me as soon as possible
I called ICE, figuring this new information might gain some traction with Luther Dew. Voicemail. Another message.
Irrational, but there are certain tasks I despise so much I conjure endless excuses to avoid them. Grocery shopping. Flossing. Car servicing.
Topping the list is unpacking luggage. Mrs. Flowers’s advice was dead-on. Though for different reasons. Rational ones. But I knew I’d loathe myself later if I put it off.
Despite being anxious to see what Larabee had left on my desk, I went to the bedroom, dumped my duffel, and began to triage. Clothes to the laundry. Toiletries to the bathroom. Books, papers, and anthropology materials to the office.
I turned the duffel inside out in the yard, then stowed it on a shelf in the downstairs closet. Pleased with myself, I took a break to check my e-mail.
Katy had written to say she was glad I’d come. Opined I would forever be the only mother in her unit to do so. She also assured me she’d be careful.
Nothing from Ryan.
Why did I even bother to look?
Hurrying back up to the bedroom, I turned my attention to the backpack. I’d barely begun when the phone rang.
Thinking it was Slidell or Dew, I picked up without checking caller ID.
Click.
Dial tone.
Lejeune, now here. Twice in two days.
Nice.
Back to the pack. First I emptied the main compartment. Cap, jacket, sunglasses, books, a neck pillow I’d bought during the flight delay in Istanbul. The little goody bag the airlines give out in business class.
Then I worked my way through the outer pockets. Of which there are a bazillion on a military backpack. My efforts produced hand cream, batteries, two melted protein bars, at least a dozen used earplugs, and a whole lot of sand.
Ten minutes after starting, I ripped loose the last Velcro strap and reached into a side pocket, expecting nothing but wadded tissues. My hand closed on something that felt like plastic.
Curious, I withdrew the object.
Moments passed as I studied the thing, bewildered.
I turned it over.
My puzzlement grew.
I WAS STARING AT A photograph, faded and worn around the edges. Someone had placed it inside a clear plastic sleeve that was badly scratched.
Had Katy put the photo in my pack? Stashed it while I wasn’t looking?
At first I thought that must be the answer. I wasn’t focusing on the scene depicted, just on the fact of the picture’s existence among my belongings.
Then I noticed a few technical details. The photo measured three by five and was printed on paper with a weight and finish that suggested a source other than a home computer or drugstore processor.
A recently stored memory flar
ed. A comment about backups.
Of course. The print had been made with an instant camera, a Polaroid or some similar brand.
I brought the sleeve close to the window and studied the pic.
The image was grainy and slightly blurred, snapped quickly, or when the lens was in motion. Centered in it was a group of Afghan girls in head scarves and traditional dress.
I counted. Six in all. Five with arms linked, eyes all giggles and shyness. The sixth girl stood behind the group, forking “devil’s horns” over the head of another.
That seemed wrong. Weren’t devil’s horns a very Christian reference? Where had these kids learned it? Had they seen Western troops do it?
Five of the girls were facing directly into the lens. Though their heights varied, each appeared to be in her early teens, probably twelve to thirteen. The sixth girl was partially obscured but seemed a bit taller than the rest. All six had dark eyes and glossy black hair crossing their foreheads.
Adolescent girls caught in a playful moment. The subject matter argued against Katy as the source. Unless she’d taken the picture while out with her unit.
But Katy would use a smartphone or a digital camera, not an instant. And why sneak the photo into my pack? It seemed an odd memento. And, if that was her intent, why not simply give it to me?
My mind shifted from the question of how I’d gotten the picture to the question of its provenience. Afghanistan? Probably.
The girls stood a few yards from the corner of a modest stone house not unlike those I’d seen in Sheyn Bagh. Beyond the house, arid desert stretched in all directions. On the far left, a distant rock formation needled into a cloudless blue sky, dark and featureless, all detail lost to the camera’s limited depth of field.
The moment could have been captured at any one of a hundred villages across Southwest Asia. Perhaps a thousand.
My mind shifted again. To the photographer.
Slim chance a local farmer would possess an instant camera. But it was possible. A gift from overseas. Maybe from one of the allied forces who’d visited the village.
Perhaps the photographer was a U.S. service member. Maybe picture taking was a ploy used to schmooze the locals. To win hearts and minds, as the military put it.