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“Thank you,” I said when he returned.
“I be genuine sorry, ma’am.” As he set down the boxes. “I can’t stay wit’ you today.”
“Oh?”
“I be powerful sad. Miz Musgrove, she one fine woman. My mind keep settlin’ on thoughts of her.”
“Of course,” I said, not surprised that he already knew about the murder of his boss. Musgrove was a cop. All of law enforcement would be in an uproar, slathering to take down the thug who’d killed one of their own.
“You have all the tools you be wantin’?”
“Let’s check.”
The setup was basic but had what I’d need. Except for one thing.
“I may wish to view items under magnification. Does the morgue have a dissecting scope?”
“There be one over to the hospital. You want I should call and see if that’s free?”
“Please,” I said, recalling that Musgrove had told me that.
Turned out the microscope wouldn’t be available until Lindstrom finished with the boaters. Maybe Monday.
Crap.
But the small room did have one perk: a television mounted high in a corner, an old thirteen-inch Sharp at least two feet thick.
“Does that work?” I asked, pointing at the TV.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A random fact about me. I like inane dialogue or color commentary playing softly as I grind through butt-in-the-chair tedious tasks. Tax returns. Algebra homework. Ironing. Skull reconstruction. Mindless drivel in the background helps my concentration.
Devastated over Musgrove’s death, I needed calming more than ever right then.
When Iggie had gone, I searched for a remote. I know. Call me an optimist.
Finding none, I dragged a chair close and went at the relic old style. By punching random buttons along the bottom front, I powered the TV on and determined that it received three channels: PTV8, Channel 4 News, and a very snowy station broadcasting a soccer game, probably from Mars.
Unenthused about local news, perhaps fearing coverage of Musgrove’s death, I chose the sporting event. I’d be focused on the bones, so image clarity was irrelevant.
I spent the rest of that day and all of the following one—a goddam Sunday—analyzing the remains sniffed out by the olfactorily gifted canine, Thursday. And listening to the play-by-play of match after match.
For each individual, I determined sex, estimated age, ancestry, and height, and noted medical and dental peculiarities. I took measurements and collected bone and tooth samples for potential DNA testing. You know the drill.
By Sunday evening I’d determined the following:
The skeleton from the gully was consistent with the known profile of Ryder Palke.
The skeleton from the woods was consistent with the known profile of Quentin Bonner.
Both men had suffered through-and-through gunshot wounds to the chest.
Both men’s left hands had been removed with a tool of indeterminate type.
Until I got access to the scope, that’s all I could say.
MONDAY, JULY15
