Sykes knelt beside me.

"I don't understand," he said. "How do you know it happened in '57? Hurricanes tear up this part of the country all the time, don't they?"

"Good question, podna," I said, and I used the willow branch to peel away the dried web of algae from around one shinbone, then the other.

"That left one's clipped in half," Sykes said.

"Yep. That's where he was shot when he tried to run away from two white men."

"You clairvoyant or something?" Sykes said.

"No, I saw it happen. About a mile from here."

"You saw it happen?" Sykes said.

"Yep."

"What's going on here?" the deputy said behind us. "You saying some white people lynched somebody or something?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying. When we get back we'll need to talk to your sheriff and get your medical examiner out here."

"I don't know about y'all over in Iberia Parish, but nobody around here's going to be real interested in nigger trouble that's thirty-five years old," the deputy said.

I worked the willow branch around the base of the bones and peeled back a skein of algae over the legs, the pelvic bones, and the crown of the skull, which still had a section of grizzled black hair attached to the pate. I poked at the corrugated, blackened work boots and the strips of rag that hung off the pelvis.

I put down the branch and chewed on the corner of my thumbnail.

"What are you looking for, Mr. Robicheaux?" Sykes said.

"It's not what's there, it's what isn't," I said. "He wasn't wearing a belt on his trousers, and his boots have no laces."

"Sonofabitch probably did his shopping at the Goodwill. Big fucking deal," the deputy said, slapped a mosquito on his neck, and looked at the red and black paste on his palm.

Later that afternoon I went back to work on the case of the murdered girl, whose full name was Cherry LeBlanc.