Free 206 BONES by Kathy Reichs

at me.
     
“This guy was closer to twenty when he died. But that’s not the only problem.”
     
Corcoran crossed his arms high on his chest.
     
“ML used an antiquated system for height determination, took measurements incorrectly, and relied on too few bones. He or she then chose inappropriate formulae for performing regression equations, and misinterpreted the statistical significance of the estimates those equations generated. Shall I walk you through the errors one by one?”
     
“No.”
     
“ML put height at five-seven to five-nine. I put it somewhere between six feet and six-three.”
     
“Bottom line?”
     
“Twenty-eight-seven-July-oh-five was a six-foot white male who died at roughly twenty years of age.”
     
“Like Lassie.”
     
“You’ve got it. Did the navy send antemortems so you’d have them in case you got an unknown fitting Tot’s description?”
     
Corcoran hiked and dropped his shoulders, indicating he didn’t know. “I can check. It’s been less than five years. If we received Tot’s records, they’d still be here.”
     
There was a beat as we each thought about that.
     
“Any idea as to manner of death?” Corcoran asked.
     
“I saw nothing obvious.”
     
“It doesn’t make sense. Thornton is southwest of the city. Great Lakes is practically in Wisconsin. If this is your friend’s grandson, he either went or was taken on a fairly long ride, and I think you told me his car was found north of the city.”
     
Another beat passed. I pictured old Cukura Kundze, rheumy eyes eager behind the untrendy lenses. Deep down, I knew the victim in the box was Laszlo Tot.
     
Suddenly, I felt drained. I looked at my watch. Five fifty. I’d been at the morgue for almost eight hours. And mańana wouldn’t be a cookie and album day, either.
     
“I can sort the trauma tomorrow,” I said. “After I deal with Jurmain.”
     
“That would be good.”
     
Corcoran blushed.
     
I knew what was coming.
     
“Walczak won’t pay you.”
     
“No worries,” I said. “This one’s pro bono.”
     
Snow was falling when I left the CCME, covering the dark muck frozen in the gutters along Harrison Street. Driving west on the Eisenhower, I let my thoughts wander.
     
Where had Laszlo Tot gone his last hours on earth? What had he done? Had he invited death by some act of stupidity? Of carelessness? Of greed? What was the day of the baseball game he missed? Friday night, Saturday, Sunday? Where had he intended to sleep?
     
Again, I saw old Cukura Kundze. If I could stop the pain barreling her way, I would. If I could magically morph 287JUL05 into someone else’s sweetheart’s dead grandson, I would do that, too.
     
I could do neither. Instead, I would search for answers. For justice. For Cukura Kundze. For Mr. Tot. For Lassie. Every person deserves to be accounted for. Old Horton, again.
     
Edward Allen Jurmain. What sleaze had filled the old man’s ear with tales of my incompetence? My corruption? Why?
     
My grip tightened on the wheel.
     
How would I persuade Jurmain to share what he knew of his mysterious informant? Should I phone? Drive up to Winnetka? Could I manage to wangle my way into Jurmain’s presence?
     
I thought about Pete and his melon-breasted, twenty-something fiancée, Summer. Were their wedding plans still on track? Did I give a rat’s ass?
     
Katy. I knew my daughter wasn’t enjoying her job at the Mecklenburg County Public Defenders Office. Had she quit? If so, to do what?
     
Ryan. I wondered if his flight had gone smoothly. If I missed him. I was heading home to Charlotte on Sunday. Would I want him to come for a visit? Would things ever be as they once were? Could they?
     
My head hurt. It had been a long day.
     
I pictured Vecamamma, busy at her ancient Tappan range. Today she was cooking lamb with carrots and cabbage. I wondered if she’d gone ahead and baked the cookies herself.
     
I smiled, happy someone was making me dinner. I didn’t know who the other diners would be, or how numerous, but I was glad I