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.”
Rizzoli saw Korsak roll his eyes, so far unimpressed by their bone expert.
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.”