"The dentals will help," I said. "This guy had some metal in his mouth."
"Our odontologist will chart him on Monday." Again Emma rubbed her temples. Though trying hard, she was fading.
"I'll measure the leg bones and calculate height," I said.
Weak nod. "Any other identifiers?"
I shook my head. I'd seen no healed trauma, no congenital anomaly, not a single unique skeletal feature.
"Cause of death?"
"Nothing obvious. No fractures, no bullet entrances or exits, no sharp instrument cuts. I'd like to view the bones under magnification when they've been fully cleaned, but for now, nada."
"Full-body X-rays?"
"Can't hurt."
As I began measuring a femur, Emma's mobile sounded. I heard her walk to the counter and flip the cover.
"Emma Rousseau."
She listened.
"I can live with it." Guarded.
Pause.
"How bad?"
Longer pause.
"Now what?" Taut.
I looked up.
Emma had turned her back to me. Though her face was hidden, her voice told me something was very wrong.
5
EMMA TOSSED HER MOBILE ONTO THE COUNTER, CLOSED HER eyes, and went still. I watched, knowing she was trying to quell the pounding in her head.
I've traveled the migraine trail. I'm familiar with the pain. I knew, even for Emma, sheer willpower wouldn't prevail. Nothing pacifies dilating cranial vessels but time and sleep. And drugs.
I refocused on my measurements. Best to finish estimating stature so Emma could go home and crash. If she wanted to discuss the phone call, she would.
I heard the door open, click shut.
I'd moved from the osteometric board to my laptop when the door opened again. Footsteps crossed the tile as I entered the last figure and asked the program to calculate.
"I went over the clothes." Emma was at my shoulder. "No belt, no shoes, no jewelry or personal effects. Nothing in the pockets. Fabric's rotten and the labels are barely legible, but I think the pants were a thirty-eight long. Assuming they're his, the guy wasn't short."