Bones of the Lost

looked ghostly white against the backdrop of oil-darkened gravel, blacktop, and mottled vegetation.
    A thought struck me.
    “She had no jacket.”
    I sensed Slidell shake his head.
    “It was forty-eight degrees last night.” I added the obvious.
    No one replied.
    I moved on, through close-ups of the battered face, the crushed hands, the sad little boots.
    “The height of the hamstring bruising will allow us to estimate front-bumper height. We should be able to narrow vehicle type from that,” Larabee said.
    “Find any paint on her?” I asked.
    “None,” Larabee said. “But there’s a smear on the purse. Black. Could be from the vehicle. I’ll send it off for analysis.”
    “Any scraping on her back from the undercarriage?”
    “No.”
    “Do you have a maximum anterior-posterior body width? For vehicle clearance?”
    “Pelvis nineteen point one centimeters. If she’s lying flat on her belly.”
    “Injuries to the chin and fingers suggest that was the case,” I said.
    “What’s that in inches?” Slidell asked.
    “Seven and a half.”
    “Nothing on wheels rides lower,” Slidell said. “’Cept maybe a skateboard.”
    “Anything noteworthy about the bruising across her thighs?” I asked.
    “Two inches top to bottom,” Larabee said. “No patterning.”
    “So no grill,” Slidell said.
    Good one, Skinny.
    Slidell finished jotting. Punctuated his note with a tap of the pen. Then, “So lemme get this. The kid’s running—”
    “Or walking,” Larabee cautioned.
    “The bumper slams the back of her thighs. She goes down. Her chin smacks the pavement. Her arms fly out. The vehicle rolls over her, crushing her fingers.”
    I could see her in the darkness, a silhouette backlit by double beams fast closing in. Lungs burning. Heart hammering. Goose-bumped skin slick with sweat. High-heeled boots wobbly on her feet.
    “So what killed her?”
    “Though I see no fracture, the cranial X-rays suggest devastating trauma. When I open her skull I’m certain I’ll find subdural, subgaleal, and intracerebral hematoma accompanied by massive edema in the parieto-occipital region.”
    Slidell just looked at him.
    “A blow to the head caused bleeding into her brain.”
    Slidell thought about that. “The kid’s hit from behind and goes belly down with her brain busted bad. How’s she end up so far off the pavement?”
    “Perhaps the force of the impact.”
    “Or?” Slidell picked up on something in Larabee’s tone.
    “Hematoma doesn’t necessarily cause death right away.”
    “You suggesting she might have dragged herself some?”
    Larabee nodded glumly.
    “If the bastard had pulled over, the kid would have lived?”
    “Medical intervention might have saved her life. Might have.”
    Intent or not, that’s murder in my book. I didn’t need to say it.
    I see violent death on a regular basis. I know the cruelty and stupidity and insensitivity of which humans are capable. And yet, every time, the same question.
    How?
    How could someone run down a kid and leave her to die? Unless that was the plan.
    The men watched me walk to the drying rack and pick up the skirt. The skirt that would have ended just above the impact site.
    I turned to Slidell.
    “Have this tested.”
    “For what?”
    “Paint.”
    “What are the chances—”
    “DNA, parsley, fucking life from Mars! Just have it tested!”
    Many males are embarrassed in the presence of strong female emotion. Most have mastered the art of nonreaction. The averted eyes. The shifting feet. The unneeded cough.
    Slidell went to his fallback, the pointless wristwatch check.
    Larabee returned to the table and, unaided, repositioned the girl on her back.
    “I’m sorry.” I was. “That was uncalled for.”
    “I’m sure you noticed these.” Larabee proceeded as though my outburst had never taken place.
    I rehung the skirt and walked to his side. Slidell followed.
    Larabee lifted and rotated one of the girl’s arms.
    Angry ridges snaked the flesh of her inner elbow.
    “Well, that goes to motive.” Slidell was so close I could smell his sweat and hair oil. “Kid probably crossed her pusher and the prick took her out.”
    “There’s something else,” Larabee said quietly.

“ KILL THE LIGHTS , please.”
    Slidell clumped to the wall, back to the table.
    Larabee clicked on a small UV light and directed it toward the girl’s inner left thigh.
    A scatter glowed blue-white on her skin.
    Semen.
    As Larabee slowly moved the beam, some stains