the caller ID .
“It must have been about Machu Picchu. That’s where he is. Are you following his blog?”
Blog?
“No,” Diane said. “He has a blog?”
Diane searched for his name on the AJC Web site using her computer while she was talking. She found quickly that Brian Mathews was a travel reporter currently on vacation, going to major archaeological sites in Mexico and Central and South America. He was recording his trip on a blog at the AJC Web site.
Odd , thought Diane.
“I’ll wait until he contacts the museum again,” she said, thanking the woman.
Machu Picchu. That’s in Peru .
Diane sat for a moment, questions running through her mind about Mathews’ call to Martin Thormond. Did Mathews call from Peru? Had he been talking to someone who wished her harm? Someone who thought telling a reporter lies was a way to hurt her? Was it really Mathews . . . or someone pretending to be a reporter?
Damn . As if she didn’t have enough problems at the moment. She stood up and smoothed her blazer. One problem at a time .
Her office was adjacent to her osteology lab, which connected to the crime lab. She left her office intending to pass through her bone lab . . . stopping abruptly when she saw a box on the metal table. It was one of the crime lab boxes used to store bones and other evidence.
The bone from the backpack , she thought.
She looked in the box. It was there, lying softly but securely on brown paper over batting—the small upper arm bone of a child. It was a sad little bone. Bones of children were always sad—a life just starting . . . and ending too soon . . . often violently.
Diane put on her white lab coat and disposable gloves and picked up the bone. It was only a diaphysis—the bone shaft. The ends were gone. The epiphyses hadn’t fused.
The bone was a light yellow-gray in color, the color of the soil from which it was taken. She sniffed it. It wasn’t old, perhaps a few years. Not from an archaeological dig.
She measured the length of the bone and looked on a reference chart on the wall. The child was just over three feet tall. Probably between four and six years of age. Small for six.
The bone had no abnormalities, no healed breaks, no evidence of malnourishment, nor of any pathology. Murder victim? Illegally disinterred? What was it doing in the backpack with a bunch of feathers and animal parts?
Diane slipped off her gloves and dropped them in a trashcan. She walked across the room and opened the door. As she crossed the threshold, she took off her museum hat and put on her hat as director of the crime lab of the city of Rosewood, Georgia.
The first thing she saw when she entered the lab was an image of feathers projected on the large viewing screen. Elegant plumes with their parts neatly labeled.
Feathers are one of nature’s many well-designed inventions. They look and feel fragile and soft, they have great beauty, yet they are great protectors, better than an overcoat.
Diane recognized the illustration as being from one of David’s many databases. He was telling Izzy about feathers. They sat at the conference table looking at the screen. The new system they had recently installed for debriefing about evidence was money well spent. She pulled a chair out, sat down, and listened patiently, only because she knew when she finished with her crime scene crew, she had to go have lunch with Vanessa and Laura.
“Two main types,” David said.
He clipped his phrases short, as if he were going down a bulleted list of characteristics. Probably because deep down he felt Izzy had a short attention span for details.
“Contour and down. A contour feather is the large, flat feather that covers the body of an adult bird.”
“The ones Indians wear in a headdress,” said Izzy. He grinned at David.
Izzy, like Jin, liked to irritate David whenever the opportunity arose. And the main way to irritate David was to act either sophomoric or not interested in his databases.
“And down is
“It must have been about Machu Picchu. That’s where he is. Are you following his blog?”
Blog?
“No,” Diane said. “He has a blog?”
Diane searched for his name on the AJC Web site using her computer while she was talking. She found quickly that Brian Mathews was a travel reporter currently on vacation, going to major archaeological sites in Mexico and Central and South America. He was recording his trip on a blog at the AJC Web site.
Odd , thought Diane.
“I’ll wait until he contacts the museum again,” she said, thanking the woman.
Machu Picchu. That’s in Peru .
Diane sat for a moment, questions running through her mind about Mathews’ call to Martin Thormond. Did Mathews call from Peru? Had he been talking to someone who wished her harm? Someone who thought telling a reporter lies was a way to hurt her? Was it really Mathews . . . or someone pretending to be a reporter?
Damn . As if she didn’t have enough problems at the moment. She stood up and smoothed her blazer. One problem at a time .
Her office was adjacent to her osteology lab, which connected to the crime lab. She left her office intending to pass through her bone lab . . . stopping abruptly when she saw a box on the metal table. It was one of the crime lab boxes used to store bones and other evidence.
The bone from the backpack , she thought.
She looked in the box. It was there, lying softly but securely on brown paper over batting—the small upper arm bone of a child. It was a sad little bone. Bones of children were always sad—a life just starting . . . and ending too soon . . . often violently.
Diane put on her white lab coat and disposable gloves and picked up the bone. It was only a diaphysis—the bone shaft. The ends were gone. The epiphyses hadn’t fused.
The bone was a light yellow-gray in color, the color of the soil from which it was taken. She sniffed it. It wasn’t old, perhaps a few years. Not from an archaeological dig.
She measured the length of the bone and looked on a reference chart on the wall. The child was just over three feet tall. Probably between four and six years of age. Small for six.
The bone had no abnormalities, no healed breaks, no evidence of malnourishment, nor of any pathology. Murder victim? Illegally disinterred? What was it doing in the backpack with a bunch of feathers and animal parts?
Diane slipped off her gloves and dropped them in a trashcan. She walked across the room and opened the door. As she crossed the threshold, she took off her museum hat and put on her hat as director of the crime lab of the city of Rosewood, Georgia.
The first thing she saw when she entered the lab was an image of feathers projected on the large viewing screen. Elegant plumes with their parts neatly labeled.
Feathers are one of nature’s many well-designed inventions. They look and feel fragile and soft, they have great beauty, yet they are great protectors, better than an overcoat.
Diane recognized the illustration as being from one of David’s many databases. He was telling Izzy about feathers. They sat at the conference table looking at the screen. The new system they had recently installed for debriefing about evidence was money well spent. She pulled a chair out, sat down, and listened patiently, only because she knew when she finished with her crime scene crew, she had to go have lunch with Vanessa and Laura.
“Two main types,” David said.
He clipped his phrases short, as if he were going down a bulleted list of characteristics. Probably because deep down he felt Izzy had a short attention span for details.
“Contour and down. A contour feather is the large, flat feather that covers the body of an adult bird.”
“The ones Indians wear in a headdress,” said Izzy. He grinned at David.
Izzy, like Jin, liked to irritate David whenever the opportunity arose. And the main way to irritate David was to act either sophomoric or not interested in his databases.
“And down is
Similar Books
