Black-Eyed Susans by Julia Heaberlin Page B

leering off a shelf like a
     grisly Barbie. The Mexicans, bless them, have always had a less squeamish, more
     realistic view of death. I’m guessing Jo can relate.
    I’m afraid to peer too closely at what
     looks like a heart suspended in a glass box, because I’m pretty sure it is a heart
     suspended in a glass box. Preserved, somehow, with a putty hue. Its dull sheen reminds
     me of my trip to Dallas with Charlie to tour the Body Worlds exhibit, where dead humans
     are plasticized in polymer so we can gawk at our complex inner beauty. Charlie fought
     nightmares for aweek after learning that this multi-million-dollar
     road show might be using corpses of prisoners executed in China.
    I’m certain, certain, certain I do not
     want to know where this heart came from, either.
    Lots of commendation plaques on the wall. Is
     that President Bush’s signature?
    Bill is scrolling through the email on his
     phone, ignoring me. He has pushed his chair so far back to accommodate his legs that he
     is almost in the doorway. My own knees are crammed against the desk, probably turning
     pink under my cotton skirt.
    This is Jo’s show, and we are
     waiting.
    She is notched into her little cranny on the
     other side of the desk with her ear to the phone. She had the chance to say, “Sit,
     please,” before it buzzed. “Uh-huh,” she is saying now, after several
     minutes of listening. “Great. Let me know when you’ve finished
     up.”
    “Very good news,” Jo announces
     as she replaces the receiver. “We have successfully extracted mitochondrial DNA
     from the bones of two of the girls. The femurs. We didn’t have luck with the
     skull. We’re going to have to try again, probably with a femur this time, although
     it was seriously degraded. We’ll keep going at it. We won’t give up.
     We’ll find the right bone.” She hesitates. “We’ve also decided
     we’re going to pull DNA from some other bones. Just to be sure there weren’t
     additional mistakes.”
    I can’t think about this. More girls.
     The Susan cacophony in my head is loud enough.
    I can, however, appreciate Jo’s
     tenacity. My iPad has been very busy since I witnessed the bone cutting. This high-tech
     forensic lab might be a well-kept secret in Fort Worth, but not to crime fighters around
     the world. The building protrudes off Camp Bowie like a silver ship hull, with a cache
     of grim treasure: baby teeth and skulls and hip bones and jawbones that have traveled
     across state lines and oceans hoping for a last shot at being identified. This lab gets
     results when no one else does.
    “That’s great,
     Jo.” There is weary relief in Bill’s voice.
    His tone reminds me that he is pushing a
     truck of bricks uphill every day with one hand and dragging me behind him with the
     other. This morning, I’d reluctantly agreed to ride along to meet the
     “expert” who is poring over my teen-age drawings. The detour to Jo’s
     office was a last-minute surprise, and welcome. I could breathe freely for a few more
     minutes before I started inspecting the swirls in a curtain for a face. That is, I could
     breathe if my eyes stopped wandering to that heart in a box.
    “That was my boss on the phone,”
     Jo continues. “As we speak, the DNA of those two girls is being input into the
     national missing persons database. I don’t want to get your hopes up. It’s a
     useless hunt, obviously, if the families of the victims haven’t also placed their
     DNA into the system for a match. The database wasn’t even around when these girls
     went missing. Their families have to be ones who haven’t given up hope, who are
     still bugging police and on their knees praying every night. You two are most definitely
     not on a movie set with Angelina Jolie, and please don’t forget it.”
    I wonder how many times she has repeated
     this. Hundreds. Thousands.
    Her left hand is doodling a drawing on the
     edge of a magazine. A DNA strand. It has tiny shoes. I