in for a look and grunted. “Foul play, maybe? Someone hit in the head?”
Oh, God, another murder? And so close to Annie’s house?
“Possibly. Or it could be postmortem.” Stanish surveyed the nearby soil. “We’ll need to find the missing piece, see how it fits. Or pieces — could be more than one. If the pieces fit tightly together, that’s an indication the damage occurred here.” He held the skull up, pointing to the broken area. “These things become more brittle after death, so any break is a clean one. But in life they have a little expansion. If someone’s hit in the head strong enough to crack the skull, it’s not going to be as clean of a break.”
Jim Cisneros picked his way over to the half-emerged bone Chelsea had spotted. He lifted it for Stanish to see, his fingertips on each end. “From an arm?”
“Yeah. A humerus.”
Cisneros rotated the piece between his fingers. “Not an ounce of tissue on it. We could be looking at a difficult ID.” He looked meaningfully at Annie and she gave him a reluctant nod.
“If they can’t find out who this is,” she whispered to Chelsea, “I may have to create a facial reconstruction for the skull.”
Chelsea’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone look at a skull and determine what the person had looked like?
“I’ve never done the process on a real case before.” Annie bit her lip. “Only studied it in a classroom.”
A sick feeling oozed through Chelsea’s stomach. She surveyed the scene — an ordinary construction site now turned surreal. The upheaval of dirt almost sneered, as if its blatant disturbance had yielded what they deserved. A backdrop of blue sky and bright sun mocked in contrast to the dismal discovery.
Chetterling and Cisneros stopped searching long enough to secure the area with yellow tape sporting bold black letters: “SHERIFF’S LINE, DO NOT CROSS.” Stanish lay the skull down with care and returned to his vehicle, pulling out a long white sheet. This he spread out where dirt met pavement, as a makeshift bed for the deceased. The skull and humerus were laid upon it in deference to their placement within a full skeleton.
What a pitiful sight, Chelsea thought. Woeful, wretched, and abandoned. No one deserved to be buried like trash in a shallow grave.
Jenna’s obvious irritation had long since vanished. She gripped her arms, a pained expression creasing her face. “This is awful.”
Chelsea murmured her assent.
Stanish lifted a bone fragment from the soil. Held it up to consider.
“From the skull?” Chetterling asked.
“Yeah, think so.”
Chetterling drew a long breath. “I’m going to call Delching.”
“The forensic anthropologist,” Annie whispered to Chelsea.
Stanish stepped over to the white sheet. Chelsea bit her lip, watching as he compared the fragment in his hand with the broken cranium. “It’s a fit,” he told Chetterling as the detective clicked off the phone.
“A tight one?”
Stanish considered the skull. “Doesn’t look perfectly tight to me. Maybe this injury did happen before death. But you know it’s not my call. I’ll leave that up to Fleck.”
Chelsea gave Annie a quizzical look. “Harry Fleck’s the medical examiner,” Annie explained. “He’s the guy who determines the cause and manner of death.”
“Oh.” Chelsea drew her arms across her chest. A shooting in Redding and now this. Why was she here, in the middle of it all? God, I just want to go home!
The three men continued their search.
Upon the white sheet, the makeshift skeleton slowly formed.
Chapter 20
L arry Delching arrived within half an hour. By that time rumor, like a crooked finger, had beckoned my wide-eyed neighbors from their homes. They grouped off to the side, watching like hawks, pelting me with questions. Twice I explained what happened, then heard my story told and retold in whispers as more people appeared. Dave was not among them, but I sure didn’t want to call
Oh, God, another murder? And so close to Annie’s house?
“Possibly. Or it could be postmortem.” Stanish surveyed the nearby soil. “We’ll need to find the missing piece, see how it fits. Or pieces — could be more than one. If the pieces fit tightly together, that’s an indication the damage occurred here.” He held the skull up, pointing to the broken area. “These things become more brittle after death, so any break is a clean one. But in life they have a little expansion. If someone’s hit in the head strong enough to crack the skull, it’s not going to be as clean of a break.”
Jim Cisneros picked his way over to the half-emerged bone Chelsea had spotted. He lifted it for Stanish to see, his fingertips on each end. “From an arm?”
“Yeah. A humerus.”
Cisneros rotated the piece between his fingers. “Not an ounce of tissue on it. We could be looking at a difficult ID.” He looked meaningfully at Annie and she gave him a reluctant nod.
“If they can’t find out who this is,” she whispered to Chelsea, “I may have to create a facial reconstruction for the skull.”
Chelsea’s eyes widened. She couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone look at a skull and determine what the person had looked like?
“I’ve never done the process on a real case before.” Annie bit her lip. “Only studied it in a classroom.”
A sick feeling oozed through Chelsea’s stomach. She surveyed the scene — an ordinary construction site now turned surreal. The upheaval of dirt almost sneered, as if its blatant disturbance had yielded what they deserved. A backdrop of blue sky and bright sun mocked in contrast to the dismal discovery.
Chetterling and Cisneros stopped searching long enough to secure the area with yellow tape sporting bold black letters: “SHERIFF’S LINE, DO NOT CROSS.” Stanish lay the skull down with care and returned to his vehicle, pulling out a long white sheet. This he spread out where dirt met pavement, as a makeshift bed for the deceased. The skull and humerus were laid upon it in deference to their placement within a full skeleton.
What a pitiful sight, Chelsea thought. Woeful, wretched, and abandoned. No one deserved to be buried like trash in a shallow grave.
Jenna’s obvious irritation had long since vanished. She gripped her arms, a pained expression creasing her face. “This is awful.”
Chelsea murmured her assent.
Stanish lifted a bone fragment from the soil. Held it up to consider.
“From the skull?” Chetterling asked.
“Yeah, think so.”
Chetterling drew a long breath. “I’m going to call Delching.”
“The forensic anthropologist,” Annie whispered to Chelsea.
Stanish stepped over to the white sheet. Chelsea bit her lip, watching as he compared the fragment in his hand with the broken cranium. “It’s a fit,” he told Chetterling as the detective clicked off the phone.
“A tight one?”
Stanish considered the skull. “Doesn’t look perfectly tight to me. Maybe this injury did happen before death. But you know it’s not my call. I’ll leave that up to Fleck.”
Chelsea gave Annie a quizzical look. “Harry Fleck’s the medical examiner,” Annie explained. “He’s the guy who determines the cause and manner of death.”
“Oh.” Chelsea drew her arms across her chest. A shooting in Redding and now this. Why was she here, in the middle of it all? God, I just want to go home!
The three men continued their search.
Upon the white sheet, the makeshift skeleton slowly formed.
Chapter 20
L arry Delching arrived within half an hour. By that time rumor, like a crooked finger, had beckoned my wide-eyed neighbors from their homes. They grouped off to the side, watching like hawks, pelting me with questions. Twice I explained what happened, then heard my story told and retold in whispers as more people appeared. Dave was not among them, but I sure didn’t want to call
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