Bare Bones
Nothing. It was a freak chance thing that the dead man’s implant matched Huang’s.”
    He had a point. “Aren’t those devices shipped in batches?” I chimed in. “Hopkins probably does a ton of knee replacements. Heck, there are hundreds of joint replacement specialists in the Baltimore/D.C. area. It’s not that far of a stretch to think that Huang may have gotten his replacement from the same batch as the victim and the numbers were only one digit off. Someone does a typo and bingo—two guys in Baltimore with the same implant registration number.”
    Tremelay glared at me as if I were Judas. I felt suddenly guilty and pushed the box over toward him. Maybe another chocolate chip cookie would ease the pain of my betrayal.
    “Let it go, Tremelay,” the other detective said. “This is Baltimore. We’ve got enough to deal with without harassing some museum employee with a bad knee. The M.E. John Doe’d the vic. They’ll hold it longer than usual because of the circumstances of the murder. We’ll keep checking missing person’s reports and eventually we’ll get a hit.”
    The detective had a point. If my theory about the artificial joint batches was correct, then the guy lived in the area at the time of the surgery. He was either visiting or he still lived here. Eventually someone would report his disappearance, and most likely sooner rather than later. I couldn’t see vagrants with expensive knee replacements, and nothing about the guy’s teeth—which were all frighteningly visible on his corpse—seemed to indicate long-term drug use or lack of annual dental care. Someone had to be missing this guy.
    At that moment the door opened to the interview room and we all snapped to attention. A uniformed officer escorted an Asian man in and motioned to the chair, asking him if he’d like water or coffee.
    “Coke? Orange if you have it.”
    The officer tilted his head, his expression confused. “Orange soda? We don’t have any of that but we do have the regular Coke.”
    Huang thanked him and the officer left. No one made a move to go into the room. Norwicki and Tremelay watched through the mirror, as did I. The man slumped in his chair, legs wide and hands shoved in his pockets in a stance that was at odds with what I’d expect from a forty-year-old museum employee.
    He looked like a nervous teenager, bouncing his knee and glancing around the room.
    “Rock, paper, scissors?” Norwicki asked.
    “Nah. I got it.” Tremelay closed the lid on the cookies and gave his partner a warning glare before leaving to enter the room with Huang. The man straightened up as the detective walked in, clasping his hands on top of the table, still bouncing his leg at a frantic pace.
    “Mr. Huang. Thank you so much for coming in today.” Tremelay put a folder on the table and sat across from the man. “I know we spoke to you about the body found at the Walters the other day, but some interesting facts have come to light.”
    Brian Huang fidgeted, picking at his nails. “Yeah?”
    Yeah? This was a man who had a Master’s degree and five years of employment at the museum as a curator.
    “The dead body has a knee replacement, and the serial number is registered to you.”
    Huang’s leg abruptly halted its frantic movement. “Well, I’m obviously still alive.”
    “I see that,” Tremelay smiled. “It’s quite the coincidence, though. A dead man at your place of employment has a medical device that links to you.”
    “What are you getting at?” Huang’s voice was squeaky, panicked. “Are you accusing me of something? You think I ripped out my knee and surgically implanted it in someone else before killing them?”
    “Of course not. I just need to follow up. I’m sure you understand.” The detective opened the folder and pulled out a picture, sliding it toward Huang. “Do you recognize him?”
    “No,” the man shrieked. “How the hell am I supposed to recognize him? He’s got no face.”
    Tremelay slid the

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