Bones of the Lost

nothing.
    “May I see the CSU photos?” Stripping off and tossing, not so gently, my latex gloves.
    Larabee collected a stack of five-by-sevens from the counter and handed them to me. Frame by frame I viewed the desolate spot where the girl had lived her last moments.
    The photos told the same story.
    It was no accident.
    The girl had been murdered.

“MURDERED?” SLIDELL’S BARK ricocheted off the stainless steel and glass surrounding us.
    “Legally that would imply intent,” Larabee said.
    “Screw legal definitions.” I jammed a finger at the devastated body. “Some bastard killed this kid.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?” Slidell was shifting surprised eyes between Larabee and me.
    I gestured Slidell to the X-ray showing the left arm bones. Larabee joined us and offered his pen. I took it and pointed to the humeral shaft, four inches below the shoulder joint.
    “See this dark line?”
    “A broken arm don’t mean the kid was capped.” Slidell was peering at the gray-and-white image, doubt crimping his already dubious expression.
    “No, detective. It doesn’t.” I shifted to indicate the hand. “Note the medial and distal phalanges.”
    “Don’t go all jargony on me, doc.”
    “The finger bones.”
    Slidell leaned in and studied the illuminated fragments at the tip of my pen.
    “The middle phalanges should look like small tubes, the distal ones like tiny arrowheads. They underlie the fingertips.”
    “Looks like wood shavings.”
    “The bones have been crushed.”
    Slidell made a noise in his throat I chose not to interpret.
    I moved on to the cranial X-ray.
    “There are no skull fractures. But note the mandible, especially the mental eminence.” I would leave discussion of soft-tissue injuries to Larabee.
    Slidell pooched air through his lips.
    “The chin,” I explained.
    “How come it’s called mental when the brain’s up top?”
    “Some people think with their mouths.”
    Larabee smiled. Almost. My sarcasm was lost on Skinny.
    “Fine.” Slidell’s skepticism was turning his tone gruff. “Her chin’s broken, her arm’s broken, and her fingers are smashed. How’s that add up to murder?”
    “The tread marks on her thighs tell us this is a vehicular death. But it’s no regular hit and run. The victim wasn’t standing along the side of the road. Not hitchhiking. Not waiting on the shoulder for a ride from a friend. She was hit square in the back.”
    Larabee nodded in confirmation of the conclusion he too had reached but had yet to voice.
    Slidell continued staring at the film.
    “Picture this,” I said. “She’s walking, maybe running. A car comes at her from behind. Maybe she tries to escape. Maybe not. Either way, the car plows into the backs of her legs.”
    Slidell said nothing. Larabee kept nodding.
    “She goes down hard, arms outstretched. Her chin impacts the pavement. She’s forced beneath the chassis. The left tires roll over her left hand, crushing her fingers.”
    “You sure about this?”
    I gestured an upturned palm at Larabee.
    “Typically, a pedestrian hit by a vehicle is slammed onto the windshield or thrown sideways and outward, receiving injuries to the head, upper torso, or legs,” he said. “This victim has no cranial or thoracic trauma consistent with a windshield impact or rapid deceleration angled to the left or right.”
    Slidell still looked unconvinced.
    I snatched up the crime-scene photos, chose two, and handed them to him. He studied both, then slowly exhaled through his nose.
    “No skid marks.”
    “Exactly. The driver never hit the brakes.”
    “Sonofabitch.”
    I turned to Larabee.
    “You’re putting PMI at seven to ten hours?” I was asking about postmortem interval.
    “To be safe. The body arrived here shortly after nine this morning. Air temp last night dropped to forty-eight. I observed lividity, but still got blanching. Rigor—”
    “Whoa, whoa. Back it up, doc.” Slidell pulled a pen and small spiral from his pocket and began taking notes.
    Larabee indicated the body. “Notice the purple mottling on her belly, the fronts of her thighs, the undersides of her arms, and the right half of her face?”
    Slidell glanced up, resumed scribbling.
    “That discoloration is called lividity. It’s due to the settling of blood in the body’s downside once the heart stops beating. When I pressed a thumb to her flesh, the vessels were pushed aside, leaving an area of pallor.”
    Slidell twisted his mouth to one