the nondescript, fifties-functional style building housing the archaeology labs. One of Hewitt's assistants ushered them into the long, narrow room of the bone lab. The incandescent glow of the afternoon leaked in around the window-blinds, only partially warming the chill purplish glow of the fluorescent light fixtures.
The walls that weren't lined by tall shelves stacked with carefully labeled cardboard boxes were lined by low cabinets filled with similarly labeled drawers. Every horizontal surface was covered with books, papers, boxes, microscopes and other tools of technological necromancy, and a Noah's Ark of animal bones.
The only human bones— his bones—were laid out on a table in the center of the room, from the skull with its jaw properly placed down to the feet with their tiny bones in ordered rows, more tidily than they'd lain in their grave. Beneath them stretched a sheet of white paper. They were so clean only a few grains of dust dotted various pencilled remarks.
Amanda shook her head. The skeleton was nothing more than an exhibit in a museum, less personal than an old pair of slippers. James Grant had a lot more character in the flesh, no matter how insubstantial.
Bill Hewitt stood over the table holding a pair of calipers. A magnifying glass protruded from his shirt pocket. His hunched shoulders and out thrust head gave him the air of a vulture considering its prey. “Miss Witham,” he said. “Carrie."
"Hello, Dr. Hewitt,” returned Amanda. “Please, it's Amanda."
"How's it going, Bill?” Carrie asked.
"Not bad. Let me run down the checklist with you. First. Are the remains human? Yes. Any idiot can see that. Second. Do they represent a single individual or the commingled remains of several?"
Carrie and Amanda chorused, “A single individual."
"Absolutely.” Hewitt set the calipers down by the skull, where their metallic gleam emphasized the dullness of the pitted brown bone. “When did death occur? The bones are dry, cracked, and stained. Cartilage, flesh, and hair are absent. The accompanying artifacts are well decomposed. With the datable evidence of the clothing and the site of the grave I'd say our individual died about two hundred years ago."
"Revolutionary-era, then,” said Carrie.
"Sex?” Hewitt went on. “Look at the brow ridges and the shape of the pelvis. A mature male, obviously."
"Obviously,” Amanda said.
"Age?” Hewitt's forefinger indicated the skull, the pelvis, the long bones of the legs. “...symphyseal pits, iliac crest, femoral trochanter, saggital sutures,” he said, leaving Amanda far behind, and at last concluded, “Probably in his twenties."
"Nothing so far,” Carrie said, “to keep us from identifying him as a soldier in the Yorktown Campaign."
Hewitt's forefinger counseled patience. “The shape of his skull indicates European ancestry. The length of his longer bones indicated a height of about five foot eleven. Not heavily muscled, but not thin. Teeth in good condition. Right-handed. No significant anatomical anomalies. No signs of old diseases or injuries. No characteristics that are out of the ordinary. A fine male specimen of his time period."
"No diseases, no injuries, not heavily muscled. Probably from the upper classes,” suggested Carrie. “We know from the epaulette he was an officer."
"Sounds good,” Amanda said, trying to hold up her side of the discussion without offering any opinions that could all too easily turn into facts.
"Cause of death,” stated Hewitt. “A bullet in the chest."
Amanda flinched. Ow.
The archaeologist held up a small plastic bag containing a lump of lead. “The bullet was with his ribs in the grave. It must have been lodged in his chest when he was buried. You can see the nick on the breastbone. The entrance wound."
"Shot through the heart,” Amanda said.
"Probably."
"Died instantly."
Hewitt shrugged. “It's likely."
"At least he didn't linger long enough to suffer,” said Carrie. “In those
The walls that weren't lined by tall shelves stacked with carefully labeled cardboard boxes were lined by low cabinets filled with similarly labeled drawers. Every horizontal surface was covered with books, papers, boxes, microscopes and other tools of technological necromancy, and a Noah's Ark of animal bones.
The only human bones— his bones—were laid out on a table in the center of the room, from the skull with its jaw properly placed down to the feet with their tiny bones in ordered rows, more tidily than they'd lain in their grave. Beneath them stretched a sheet of white paper. They were so clean only a few grains of dust dotted various pencilled remarks.
Amanda shook her head. The skeleton was nothing more than an exhibit in a museum, less personal than an old pair of slippers. James Grant had a lot more character in the flesh, no matter how insubstantial.
Bill Hewitt stood over the table holding a pair of calipers. A magnifying glass protruded from his shirt pocket. His hunched shoulders and out thrust head gave him the air of a vulture considering its prey. “Miss Witham,” he said. “Carrie."
"Hello, Dr. Hewitt,” returned Amanda. “Please, it's Amanda."
"How's it going, Bill?” Carrie asked.
"Not bad. Let me run down the checklist with you. First. Are the remains human? Yes. Any idiot can see that. Second. Do they represent a single individual or the commingled remains of several?"
Carrie and Amanda chorused, “A single individual."
"Absolutely.” Hewitt set the calipers down by the skull, where their metallic gleam emphasized the dullness of the pitted brown bone. “When did death occur? The bones are dry, cracked, and stained. Cartilage, flesh, and hair are absent. The accompanying artifacts are well decomposed. With the datable evidence of the clothing and the site of the grave I'd say our individual died about two hundred years ago."
"Revolutionary-era, then,” said Carrie.
"Sex?” Hewitt went on. “Look at the brow ridges and the shape of the pelvis. A mature male, obviously."
"Obviously,” Amanda said.
"Age?” Hewitt's forefinger indicated the skull, the pelvis, the long bones of the legs. “...symphyseal pits, iliac crest, femoral trochanter, saggital sutures,” he said, leaving Amanda far behind, and at last concluded, “Probably in his twenties."
"Nothing so far,” Carrie said, “to keep us from identifying him as a soldier in the Yorktown Campaign."
Hewitt's forefinger counseled patience. “The shape of his skull indicates European ancestry. The length of his longer bones indicated a height of about five foot eleven. Not heavily muscled, but not thin. Teeth in good condition. Right-handed. No significant anatomical anomalies. No signs of old diseases or injuries. No characteristics that are out of the ordinary. A fine male specimen of his time period."
"No diseases, no injuries, not heavily muscled. Probably from the upper classes,” suggested Carrie. “We know from the epaulette he was an officer."
"Sounds good,” Amanda said, trying to hold up her side of the discussion without offering any opinions that could all too easily turn into facts.
"Cause of death,” stated Hewitt. “A bullet in the chest."
Amanda flinched. Ow.
The archaeologist held up a small plastic bag containing a lump of lead. “The bullet was with his ribs in the grave. It must have been lodged in his chest when he was buried. You can see the nick on the breastbone. The entrance wound."
"Shot through the heart,” Amanda said.
"Probably."
"Died instantly."
Hewitt shrugged. “It's likely."
"At least he didn't linger long enough to suffer,” said Carrie. “In those
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