Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs

looked nothing like it, thus the reason no link had ever been suggested. But WendellC noted one striking fact. Oberlin College was less than forty miles from the farm where Quilt Girl had been found. He phoned the Cuyahoga County medical examiner and requested an autopsy photo showing close-ups of the skull. Reluctantly, the current ME complied.
    Upon viewing the image, WendellC noted another striking fact. Annette Wyant and Quilt Girl both had a marked overbite, a feature not reflected in the facial reconstruction. He again phoned the ME, stating his belief that the skeleton was that of the missing student.
    Dental records were dug from a file archived by long-departed personnel. Twenty-three years after her discovery, Quilt Girl went home to her family.
    I googled, found articles on the disappearance, more recent ones on the identification. Annette Wyant was buried with little fanfare in her hometown of Plainfield, Illinois. The Chicago Tribune ran a small story. The Cleveland Plain Dealer . In both, a middle-aged woman was pictured standing graveside. Beside her was a tall, craggy man in an ill-fitting suit. A caption identified the woman as Wyant’s sister, the man as Wendell Clyde of Huntersville, North Carolina.
    No arrest was ever made. From experience, I guessed Wyant’s cause of death remained “undetermined.”
    Intrigued, I returned to the websleuthing sites.
    In discussion after discussion, fellow amateurs praised WendellC’s brilliance and perseverance. Congratulations poured in from around the globe.

    Hazel Strike was furious and did not mince words. In post after post, luckyloo called WendellC a backstabbing snake. A pissant charlatan. A scumbucket fraud. Strike claimed she and Clyde had worked as a team. Accused him of taking credit for joint discoveries. WendellC was equally vitriolic in his responses.
    I’d have found the dispute amusing were it not for the virulent tone. I lasted another half hour. Then, repulsed by the juvenile nature of the spat, I went to bed.
    —
    I spent Friday up to my elbows in brain tissue and bloody bone fragments.
    The helicopter victim was a thirty-two-year-old man named Connolly Sanford. His first stint as a director would be his last. And his funeral would definitely be closed casket.
    While Larabee autopsied Sanford’s body, I examined what remained of his head. Which wasn’t much. Other than some portions of right parietal and occipital, the largest chunk recovered was the size of an ear. Both of which I had.
    ID wasn’t in question, since an entire film crew had witnessed the event. Nor was manner of death. Larabee just wanted confirmation that the cranial trauma was entirely the work of the chopper.
    Larabee was still at it when I finished at three. After cleaning up and changing from scrubs, I phoned Marlene Penny at WCU to ask about the Lost Cove Cliffs bones. Got rolled to voice mail. Left a message asking that she call me.
    Before leaving, I reported to Larabee that I’d found no hidden bullets, no poisoned darts, nothing to suggest any villains save the chopper blade and very bad footwork. He thanked me, looking exhausted. I wished him a good weekend, then bolted before he could remember his annoyance over the Burke County caper. Or ask how I intended to follow up.
    Ramsey called while I was brushing my teeth. I confirmed that I was good to go as planned.
    I thought about phoning Ryan. Talking to him always boosted my spirits. Always helped me rearrange my thoughts into more productive patterns. Almost always. At that moment I hadn’t the energy to deflect talk of cohabitation. Or vows. Instead, I turned off my ringer.

    My body’s exhaustion quickly overwhelmed my mind’s agitation. Sleep descended like a thick wool blanket.
    A good thing. The next day lasted about three months.

B irdie, up before the alarm, persuaded me to wake by chewing my hair.
    The cat feigned starvation, so we moved directly to breakfast. As he crunched Science Diet, I ate a bagel