Free Final Grave by Nadja Bernitt Page A

County.”
    Mendiola added, “Possibly the victim’s daughter.”
    Uberuaga said, “And you’ve stepped into the investigation from hell.”
    # # #
    Meri Ann felt an instant rapport with the short stocky man and his absurd paintbrush mustache.
    “It is hellish for me. That’s for sure.” She unzipped her backpack and retrieved the paper evidence bag. “Here’s the hair sample.”
    He took the bag and looked inside. “This will do just fine. Thanks.”
    “Are you going to draw my blood?”
    “I’m elected. Step into my parlor.” Uberuaga nodded in the direction of a stainless steel counter to their right. He had everything set up, two packages of needles and the accompanying tubes and vials. She hated the vein search, but peeled off her jacket, then Becky’s sweater. She rolled up the sleeve of her cotton turtleneck and offered an arm.
    Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mendiola checking his pager, then his cell phone.
    She took a deep breath, catching a whiff of hospital chemicals but nothing as strong as Sarasota’s morgue. “You do autopsies here?”
    “Not usually.” Uberuaga reached for the rubber tourniquet, snapped it, and tied it on just above her elbow. He eyed her pile of clothing. “You got enough clothes for an army in the Alps.”
    He busied himself, feeling for a vein, thumping at the crook of her arm.
    “I haven’t adjusted to the cold yet. Sarasota’s in the high seventies this time of year. Snowbirds on their way down, flowers blooming… .” She jumped when he stuck her.
    “Sorry.”
    Deep red blood flowed into one vial, then another. He undid the tourniquet, then taped cotton to the puncture. “That’s all I need.”
    Mendiola folded his cell and returned it to his belt. “Then we can head back.”
    She rolled down her sleeve, determined not to let him rush her. She spoke to Uberuaga, “How long before we know the results?”
    “Realistically, I’d say three months.”
    Her shoulders dropped a notch. “Three, you say?”
    “Be grateful. It could be so much worse than that, but I’ve got an extra four thousand in the budget for a private lab. The technology’s exploded. The FBI lab’s backed up for two years. Every convicted felon in America wants a new trial based on DNA.” He gave her a sympathetic nod. “What can you do? Mitochondria are minuscule little buggers and contaminate at the drop of a dust mite. It’d be different if we could use nuclear DNA, but after ten, fifteen years it deteriorates. The basic test takes a minimum of six weeks, start to finish, and you’re not at the top of the list.”
    She put the heavy sweater back on, straightened her collar. “I suppose I’d better resign myself to the wait or go nuts.”
    He patted her back, like her basketball coach used to do after they’d lost the game. But she wasn’t through.
    “If it’s all right, I’d like to see the bones. Are they here?”
    Uberuaga ruffled his mustache with his forefinger, a thoughtful, slow ruffling. “Don’t see a problem with that. How about you, Jack? Got a problem?”
    “Nope.” He checked his watch. “I’ll be out by the soda machine.”
    The doctor led her into an adjacent room.
    Windows stretched along one wall, the panorama like a mural. A jagged blade of distant mountains divided the sky from earth. The sun hid behind clouds, and a somber gray light filled the room. The chemical smell was here, too, but laced with a scent of older decay, like the pervasive odor in a natural history museum.
    Uberuaga motioned her closer to a bank of white Formica cabinets. He placed his hand on a stainless steel drawer handle. “We don’t have a complete skeleton.”
    “I know,” she said, moving beside him.
    He opened the drawer, revealing a collection of loose bones.
    Her heart in her throat, she stared at them. “They’re so brown. Were they buried?”
    “Buried or not, bones oxidize.”
    “And you know it’s a woman?”
    He pointed to the pelvic bone. “That we