Bones of the Lost

a two-centimeter segment of rib. Though incomplete, the circular shape was classic. I set the segment aside.
    Seven minutes later I found another partial defect. Then another.
    With growing excitement, I identified and oriented four roughly triangular shards that, in life, had made up the sternum.
    My heartbeat ratcheted up.
    Moving carefully, I flipped and reconnected the shards in order to observe the back of the bone.
    And had to restrain myself from raising the roof.
    Bang! Bang!
    My head swiveled to the window. The tall man had struck it with his fist. Blanton was trying to talk him down. I could no longer see Welsted.
    I was too pumped to care what their issue was.
    I’d send the bones for X-ray. Wouldn’t matter.
    I knew what had happened.

AN HOUR AFTER finishing, I was at the blond oak table in the conference room at base ops headquarters. The observers had been dispatched with promise of a full report and permission to transport Aqsaee and Rasekh back to Sheyn Bagh for reburial.
    The others were in the exact same chairs they’d occupied on Tuesday. So was I. Weird how people do that.
    Large crescents darkened Blanton’s pits, mimicking the bags hanging under his eyes. He’d disappeared after we left the hospital. I wondered where he’d gone. What he’d done to work up such a sweat.
    “You okay?” I asked, more to pass time than out of concern for Blanton’s health. As before, we were waiting for Colonel Fisher.
    Blanton shrugged one shoulder. “Might be coming down with something.”
    After that, we all sat in silence. Minutes passed. Blanton, Welsted, and I knew what we’d found. Noonan did not. He was tense.
    Noonan and Welsted half rose when Fisher appeared. Blanton and I remained seated.
    Fisher closed the door and took her place at the head of the table. “So.” Quick smile to me. “You’ve finished.”
    “I have.”
    “I understand you saw some action out there.”
    “It wasn’t dull.”
    “Proceed.” Fisher leaned back, hands folded in her lap.
    “It’s the ever-popular good news and bad news,” I said.
    “Hit us with the bad.”
    “Mr. Rasekh’s remains were far too damaged to allow any conclusion concerning bullet trajectory. Concerning cause or manner of death at all.”
    Fisher offered a tight nod. “And the good news?”
    “Mr. Aqsaee was in better shape. Though postmortem damage was extensive, gunshot trauma was evident in the thoracic region. I was able to observe, describe, and record partial entrance and exit wounds on two rib fragments, one vertebra, and on the anterior and posterior surfaces of the sternum.”
    One of Fisher’s brows arched slightly.
    “His breast bone.”
    “Go on.”
    “Do you want a full biomechanical description of the fracture patterning?”
    “Save that for your report. For our purposes, the bottom line will do.”
    “Second Lieutenant Gross did not shoot Ahmad Ali Aqsaee in the back.”
    Though quiet before, the room now went deathly still.
    A beat, then Fisher said, “Maybe we could use a little more than that.”
    “I was able to identify three entrance wounds and two exit wounds. Together these impact sites described at least two bullet paths. The trajectory in both cases was anterior to posterior.”
    Same eyebrow.
    “The bullet entered Mr. Aqsaee’s chest and exited his back.”
    “A finding that corroborates Second Lieutenant Gross’s account of the incident.”
    “Yes.”
    “How confident are you of your conclusion?”
    “Very.”
    “Based on some little nicks in the bone?”
    “In addition to the entrance and exit holes, metal fragments were visible on X-ray. Their orientation supports a conclusion of front-to-back movement.” I’d spotted this when viewing the films of Aqsaee’s unwrapped and semi-rearticulated bones.
    Noonan leaned forward. “You’re saying that the younger victim is a hundred percent?”
    “Nothing is ever a hundred percent.”
    “Within reasonable medical certainty.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Noonan ran a hand over his jaw. Exhaled through his nose.
    Fisher still had questions.
    “What about ricochets? Could a bullet go in from behind, bounce around the ribs or sternum or whatever, and double back?”
    I shook my head. “Bullets don’t boomerang like that. If a round enters through a victim’s—”
    “Can we stop calling them victims now?”
    The sharpness of tone startled everyone. Fisher responded.
    “What would you prefer, Mr. Blanton?”
    “Insurgents? Or how about