Page 31 of Cold, Cold Bones
“The investigation took four months. One of the dead in the garage was, indeed, Ms. Kwalwasser. The initial ID relied largely on fingerprints but was later confirmed with DNA.”
“Why not dentals?”
The deep brown eyes locked onto mine.
“Ms. Kwalwasser’s head was not with her body.”
“Where was it?”
“The head was never found.”
“Had other corpses suffered the same kind of trauma?”
“No.”
“How did her head become detached?”
“You know what I know, Dr. Brennan. For anything further, you must speak with Detective Slidell.”
I dialed Skinny as Nguyen was disappearing through the door.
Got voice mail. Left a message.
Then I sat, agitated, a zillion questions spinning in my brain.
How had Kwalwasser lost her head? Did her neck give out due to gravity following decomposition? How was her body positioned?Did rodents or other scavengers have access to the garage? Were the cervical vertebrae gnawed? Note to self: ask Slidell if there are pics of the scene.
An uglier possibility. Was Kwalwasser intentionally decapitated? If so, by whom? Why? Note to self: ask Slidell the current whereabouts of the owner of Happy Trails.
How did Kwalwasser’s head end up behind MiraVia? Why remove it from Happy Trails? Why put it in a privy? Whythatprivy? Why stab the head in the eye with a paring knife? Why was the other eye frozen?
Who removed Kwalwasser’s eyeball? Why? Whyher?
Why deliver the eyeball tome?
Again, that subliminal nudging.
What thehellwas my subconscious teasing?
To settle my nerves, I went to the kitchen for coffee. I know. Caffeine was probably counterproductive. But all the talk of snow was making me cold. And I needed to stay focused.
I was wrapping up a prelim on the eyeball when the chief reappeared at my door. Hot damn. A visit from the boss twice in one day.
“I’ve just received a call.” I didn’t like the look on Nguyen’s face. “I truly hate to ask you this, given the weather.”
Then don’t. I didn’t say it.
“A body has been discovered in the state park up near Troutman. According to the ranger, the remains are not fresh, and the situation requires an anthropologist.”
While I appreciated the ranger’s respect for my discipline, I was less than thrilled to be going out on a recovery with a snowstorm threatening.
“He suspects it’s a suicide and fears evidence might be lost once snow starts falling,” Nguyen continued.
“Who’s going?”
“Mr. Hawkins.”
“Fine,” I said with the enthusiasm I typically reserve for plunging a toilet. “I’ll meet him outside in twenty.”
