Bones of the Lost

Afghanistan. Pictures of the missing woman, Cheryl Connelly, and her kids; background on her movements immediately prior to her disappearance; and a hint she might have had mental issues.
    So Connelly was still whereabouts unknown as of two days ago. Great. Unless she’d turned up or was found on Monday, Slidell would still be distracted.
    I took the papers to the recycling bin. Two empty Heineken bottles lay at the bottom.
    Hm.
    I went to the study. A PC sat on my desk, plugged into a wall switch. A Dell, minimally a decade out of date.
    Pete and I have opposing views on cars and computers. I see the former as a means of transportation, the latter as a slick on-ramp to the knowledge of the world. My Mazda is too old to have resale value. My Mac is fast and new and will be gone as soon as an updated model comes out.
    For my ex, automotive trumps cyber speed every time. I knew who’d been in my house. Suspected the reason.
    I dialed Mrs. Flowers.
    “Mecklenburg County Medical Examiner.”
    “It’s Dr. Brennan.”
    “My, my, bless your heart. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard you’d gone to that terrible place. How are you?”
    “I’m well, thank you.”
    “Did you see any of those dreadful Taliban?”
    “I was mostly on base.”
    “I prayed for you every day. Will you be coming into the office soon?”
    “Perhaps later. I just arrived home last night.”
    “Unpack right off. If you let it go, who knows what creatures will crawl out and move in with you. Happened to a friend of mine.” Mrs. Flowers’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I won’t mention what took up residence in her house.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    “You have several phone messages.”
    “I’ll get to them first thing.”
    “And a new case.”
    Mrs. Flowers gave me a thumbnail. It involved hooligans, an outhouse, and a noggin in doo-doo. I have to admit. I do enjoy her prose.
    “Thank you. Could you transfer me to Dr. Larabee?”
    “Certainly.”
    A soulless version of “Sailing” bridged me over until Larabee picked up. What is it with institutions and Muzak?
    “Tempe, glad you’re back. How was it?”
    “I’ve got boundless respect for our troops.”
    “That bad?”
    “Just tiring.” And bugs, and body armor, and burial alive.
    “Were you able to see Katy?”
    “Yes. She’s really something.”
    “The kid always was. Listen, I didn’t respond to your messages because I didn’t want to be a distraction.”
    “No problem.”
    “The DNA trace came up empty on our Jane Doe. She’s not in the system.”
    “No big surprise.”
    “No. But you never know until you try.”
    I asked if he’d seen Allison Stallings’s article. He had.
    “Still no one’s come forward.”
    “So we’re no farther ahead than when I left.”
    “Au contraire. I got results back on the semen analysis. We were right. It came from more than one individual.”
    I sat up straighter in my chair. “This is where you tell me the DNA has names attached.”
    “The DNA has names attached. Two cold hits right here in the North Carolina database. I’ll leave the reports on your desk. I’ve already forwarded them to Slidell.”
    “This could be big.”
    “Could be. I found something else which may or may not be big.”
    I waited.
    “While going back over the X-rays, I spotted a small streak of radio-opacity near the right parieto-occipital junction. Hematoma was pretty extensive in that part of the brain, and the cortical bone is very thick there, so I hadn’t noticed it at first. I double-checked,and sure enough something had gotten caught up when I retracted the scalp. Prob—”
    “What did you find?”
    “Looks like a sliver of bone. Pierced the scalp but didn’t penetrate the ectocranial surface. I left that on your desk, along with the two DNA reports.”
    The line beeped.
    “Hold on a sec.”
    As Larabee clicked over to answer the incoming call, I considered the implications of a bone fragment in a victim’s scalp. A fall? A blow? Some sort of hair accessory? Before I got far, Larabee was back.
    “Gotta go. Double suicide. Myers Park of all places. Thought the gentry were too well-bred to off themselves with rat pellets.”
    “I’ll be in shortly.”
    “Good. You’ve got a skull from a crapper.”
    I hung up, totally pumped. About the DNA, not the latrine find.
    When I left Charlotte, the hit-and-run case was going cold fast. Now there were leads. The names of men who’d had sex with the victim. Forced? For love? For