Bones of the Lost

pronto.
    “Please state your address.”
    I did. “That’s at Sharon Hall,” I added, just to be affable. Nineteenth-century manor, red brick, white pillars, magnolias. My unit is the annex to the carriage house. Can’t get more Old South than that. I offered none of that.
    “How long have you resided in Charlotte?”
    “Since I was eight.”
    “Does anyone live at that address with you?”
    “My adult daughter has at times, but not now.” The bracelet Katy gave me hung loose on my wrist, a delicate silver band engraved MOM ROCKS .
    “Your marital status?”
    “Separated.” Complicated. I definitely didn’t add that.
    “Are you employed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Please state your employer.”
    “State of North Carolina.” Keep it simple.
    “Your occupation?”
    “Forensic anthropologist.”
    “What is the educational requirement for that profession?” Stiff.
    “I hold a PhD and am certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.”
    “So you perform autopsies.”
    “You’re thinking of a forensic pathologist. Common mistake.”
    Jett stiffened.
    I offered a smile. The counselor didn’t.
    “Forensic anthropologists work with the dead for whom normal autopsies are impossible—the skeletal, mummified, decomposed, dismembered, burned, or mutilated. We’re consulted on many issues, all of which are answered through analysis of the bones. For example, are the remains in question human or animal?”
    “That requires an expert?” Restrained skepticism.
    “Some human and animal bones are deceptively similar.” I pictured the mummified sets awaiting me at the MCME. “Fragmentary remains can be especially difficult to assess. Are they from one individual, several, humans, animals, both?” The bundles I was not examining because I was sitting here, feet bloating like corpses in water.
    Jett flicked a manicured hand, impatient for me to continue.
    “If the remains are human, I look for indicators of age, sex, race, height, illness, deformity, or anomaly—anything that might be of use in establishing ID. I analyze trauma to determine manner of death. I estimate how long the victim has been dead. I consider postmortem body treatment.”
    Jett raised one questioning brow.
    “Decapitation, dismemberment, burial, submersion—”
    “I think that covers it.”
    Jett’s gaze dropped to her scribbled questions. A long, long list.
    My eyes found my watch, then wandered to the unfortunates still waiting to be grilled. I’d dressed to look respectful, to project the image expected of a representative of the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner’s Office. Tan linen pantsuit, silk turtleneck. Such was not the case for all my fellow captives. My personal favorite was the young woman in a tight sleeveless turtleneck, jeans, and sandals.
    Not haute couture, but I suspected her feet felt better than mine. I tried to wiggle my toes inside the torturous pumps. Failed.
    Ms. Jett took a deep breath. Where was she headed? I didn’t wait to find out.
    “As forensic anthropologist for the state, I’m under contract to both UNC Charlotte—I teach an upper-level seminar there—and to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Chapel Hill and the Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner here in Charlotte. I also provide expertise to the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaries et de médecine légale in Montreal.” Read: I am busy. I consult to police agencies, the FBI, the military, coroners, and medical examiners. You know the defense attorney will excuse me if you don’t.
    “Do I understand correctly? You work regularly in two countries?”
    “It’s not as odd as it sounds. In most jurisdictions, forensic anthropologists function as specialty consultants. As I’ve stated, my colleaguesand I are only called in on cases where there’s insufficient flesh for an autopsy, or the remains—”
    “Right.”
    Jett finger-scanned the endless lineup on her yellow pad.
    I stretched—
tried
to stretch—my unhappy phalanges.
    “In the course of your work with the medical examiner’s office, do you come into contact with police officers?”
    Finally. Thank you.
    “Yes. Often.”
    “Prosecuting or defense attorneys?”
    “Both. And my ex-husband is a lawyer.” Sort of ex.
    “Do you personally know anyone involved in this litigation, the defendant, his family, the police investigators, the attorneys, the judge—”
    “Yes.”
    And I was excused.
    Ignoring my protesting pedal digits, I hobble-bolted from the