Page 66 of Cold, Cold Bones
The sack was lavender. Stitched onto the silk were the wordsUntil we meet again. Seemed more in line with a Happy Trails pitch, but who am I to judge.
I typed all relevant data into a case form. The decedent’s name was Edgar Seymour Stokely. He’d died of prostate cancer at age seventy-two.
“Paperwork” completed, I poured the contents of the sack onto the plastic-backed sheeting I’d spread across the autopsy table. There wasn’t much to pour.
The cremation process is quite thorough. A cremator—a high-energy furnace fueled by propane gas—reaches a temperature of 1800 degrees F. Which is damn hot. After burning, the bone fragments that remain are allowed to cool, then magnetically scanned to extract metals, things like melted bits of dental restorations or appliances, surgical implants, or casket hardware. Following scanning, the fragments are ground into what looks like gray or white sand.
I once had a client who expected actual ashes and, upon finding the grainy material, suspected she’d been scammed by her husband’sfamily. She’d asked me to determine if the cremains they’d given her were, in fact, kitty litter. They weren’t. Hubby was in there.
On average, human cremains weigh about five pounds. Due to greater bone density, those of men may weigh slightly more than those of women. Cremains equal roughly 3.5 percent of one’s body weight in life.
Everything looked good for Edgar. Except for the cancer, of course.
I was wrapping up when Mrs. Flowers rang to say that Detective Henry was at reception. I told her to pass along that I’d be there in ten.
My office has a window. I consider that one of the triumphs of my career. Throughout my tenure at the previous facility, I’d had none. I’d camouflaged the unbroken walls with a pair of blowups, one a street scene in Old Montreal, the other a wide-angle shot of the dunes and Atlantic Ocean on Isle of Palms. I’d captured each image by shooting through an open window. Crafty.
I was surprised to find Henry in my office. She wasn’t admiring my precious view but studying a picture lifted from my desk. Katy and Charlie Hunt at some social function years back.
Hearing my footsteps, Henry turned.
“Holy shit, your face. Does it hurt?”
“No.” It did.
“Good.” Wagging the framed photo in her hand. “Is this your daughter?”
“It is.”
“She looks heavy-duty. What does she do?”
Heavy-duty? “Katy is just out of the army, temporarily volunteering at a homeless shelter.”
“You two look so much alike. Who’s the studly fella next to her?”
“Charlie Hunt. Post-college, my daughter worked for him at the Public Defender’s Office.”
“The dude looks smokinghot.”
“He’s an old friend.” Inexplicably, I was finding Henry’s comments annoying. Maybe her tone.
Henry sensed my irritation.
“Sorry, Doc.” Gently replacing the photo. “Touching your stuff was over the line.”
“Not at all. I’m a little off today.”
“I get it. Have you seen a doctor? Did you need stitches?”
“What can I do for you, Detective?” As I circled my desk.
“There I go again.” Tight shake of the head. “Sometimes I suck at boundaries. But I do recognize that I suck.”
I indicated that Henry should sit. She took the chair facing me. Today she wore a cropped black leather jacket over a red silk blouse.
“Kwalwasser’s going nowhere, and things are quiet, maybe because of the friggin’ cold, so I asked if I could help Detective Slidell with the suicide and the bus sitch. The guy’s a legend. My LT was good with it.”
Skinny?
