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“Dr. Brennan.”
“You were out of pocket yesterday.” Delivered more as statement than question. Had Monck tried to contact me?
“Long story.” Still unsure how I’d ended up on that ridge. “I’m analyzing the cut marks on Palke and Bonner.”
“Any progress?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to walk me through it.”
The line muffled, as though Monck was shielding the mouthpiece. I heard a muted exchange of male voices, then he was back.
“Sorry.” No explanation.
“Are you ready?” I slid my notes closer, wanting to get through this and back to my analysis. “The blade’s entry site appears—”
“Not by phone. I want to see it.”
“I should finish by mid-afternoon.”
“Now.”
“I’m at the hospital. The pathology departm—”
“No can do. You come here.”
Seriously? I should drop what I’m doing and rush to him?
“While you’re here I’ll brief you on where we are with the case.”
“Musgrove or the serial?”
“Both.”
“Fine.” Tone radiating that it wasn’t. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Reluctantly, I packaged the bones and set out.
Unlike Chalk Sound, the Grace Bay station had no dragon guarding its gate. I’d barely cleared the door when Monck appeared in the lobby. Today’s outfit involved a violet shirt and purple tie dotted with green and orange whirligigs. Bold choices. The bags under his eyes were smaller, but still the size of carry-ons.
Monck led me to his office. Offered coffee.
I accepted. Lack of sleep had me craving caffeine.
When Monck disappeared, I sat. After digging the microphotographs from my purse, I looked around.
The room was undersized given its file cabinets, pair of desks, and six chairs. The décor was standard cop shop. Phones. Keyboards and screens. Unwashed mugs. Overflowing in- and out-baskets.
A corkboard layered with flyers and posters hung on one wall. A portable whiteboard was pushed to another, remnant jottings from some previous investigation still smearing its surface.
I noted only two island touches. An oscillating fan standing tall in one corner. A conch shell paperweight atop one of the cabinets.
Minutes after leaving—disappointingly soon for him to have brewed a fresh pot—Monck returned with a pair of thick ceramic mugs. Handing one to me, he circled the desk and dropped into its chair.
“Okay. Lay it down.” Cupping his chin with his good hand and angling the prothesis across the blotter.
I reached out and spread my printouts before him. After scanning the images, he looked a question at me.
