Page 16 of Cold, Cold Bones
Ignoring Slidell’s callous remark, I hurried to George and checked his carotid and breathing. Both were good.
“Lift his right leg,” I ordered, rolling George to his back.
“No way.” Slidell looked like I’d asked him to lick the floor of a holding cell.
“Just do it!”
He did. Grudgingly.
Together we raised George’s legs above the level of his heart. After eight seconds the kid opened his eyes. Slidell dropped the skinny limb as though he’d been scalded.
Rising on knees popping in protest, Slidell stepped back. Mercifully, he said nothing.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
“I think a spider bit me,” George said, reaching for his hat.
“That’s probably it,” I replied, knowing there’d been no spider. “Why don’t you relax for a while? Detective Slidell and I will deal with this.”
Nodding, George got to his feet and withdrew to what he considered an odor-free distance.
Slidell and I returned to the bag and its grisly contents.
With the handles untied and the plastic laid back, the smell of putrefaction was overwhelming.
I looked at Skinny.
He pulled out his phone and hit a preprogrammed key.
“Homicide,” he barked.
By three-thirty I was in an autopsy room. The remains, designated MCME 213-22, lay on a stainless-steel table, snugged between two rubber bolsters. The plastic bag sat on a counter labeled and packaged for transport. X-rays glowed on a computer screen. The back porch eyeball waited in a nearby cooler. Its label read MCME 210-22.
Slidell and I had killed the hour waiting for a crime scene unit by searching the immediate area. Found nothing else of interest. When the team arrived, we left. Nguyen had authorized me to bring the remains to the MCME, so we’d tucked the bag into the back of the 4Runner and headed to Charlotte.
Throughout his tenure with the CMPD, Slidell’s vehicles had always looked and smelled like rolling dumpsters. Since he was driving his own SUV, Skinny now insisted on lowering every window. The ride was chilly. On many levels.
I’d just finished viewing the X-rays when I got a call from reception. A detective named Henry was asking to see me. I directed Mrs. Flowers to issue a pass and send him to my office.
Slidell had been right about prioritization. The case was being assigned to the newbie of whom he’d spoken so highly.
I threw blue plastic sheeting over the remains, removed my protective gear, and washed up. Then I headed out through the bio-vestibule and crossed the lobby to the other side of the building.
Detective Henry was not what I’d expected. She was at least six feet tall, blond and blue-eyed, and totally ripped.
Yeah. She.
Henry was sitting in the chair facing my desk. Popped to her feet when I came through the door.
“Temperance Brennan.” I smiled and extended a hand.
“Donna Henry.” Her grip was in the range of an industrial vise.
I circled my desk and sat.
First impression. Detective Henry spent a lot of time in the gym. And a lot of money on clothes. She wore ankle boots, black skinny jeans, and an Alexander McQueen blazer over a cream silk blouse. A Burberry scarf and puffer lay across her lap.
Second impression. Detective Henry had logged far too much time in the sun. Or needed a higher SPF blocker. Her face was tan. That looked good. The skin was wrinkled beyond what it should have been at her age. That didn’t look good. I guessed she was hovering on either side of thirty.
