Bones of the Lost

featureless, all detail lost to the camera’s limited depth of field.
    The moment could have been captured at any one of a hundred villages across Southwest Asia. Perhaps a thousand.
    My mind shifted again. To the photographer.
    Slim chance a local farmer would possess an instant camera. But it was possible. A gift from overseas. Maybe from one of the allied forces who’d visited the village.
    Perhaps the photographer was a U.S. service member. Maybe picture taking was a ploy used to schmooze the locals. To win hearts and minds, as the military put it.
    I moved my gaze from face to face. The girls looked excited but shy, the way kids are around strangers. That tracked with the soldier theory.
    I flipped the sleeve and read what was written on the back of the print. A list, inked in block letters, all caps.
    LAILA. KHANDAN. MAHTAB. ARA. TAAHIRA. HADIYA.
    Six girls. Six names.
    Definitely not Katy’s handwriting. Her scrawl looked like tracks left behind by a snail on a bender.
    What intrigued me was the fact that the names were written in English. Pashto and Dari both use versions of the Persian alphabet.
    Perhaps a soldier or marine had taken the shot, then written the names as the girls provided them. That also tracked with the hearts-and-minds theory.
    I pictured the scene. Wondered. Had adults looked on in silent disapproval? Had they enjoyed the smiles of their children? Had the girls agreed to a quick pic while off the parental radar?
    I flipped the photo back and forth. Faces. Names. Did the order of the names match the lineup in which the girls stood? Was that order meaningful?
    To which girl had the photo been given? Had she been allowed to keep it? Or had it been taken from her?
    Another possibility. Had the soldier kept the photo, perhaps to mail to family back home? To give them a sense of the place. To assure a mother or a wife the locals were just ordinary people.
    Or perhaps photos were taken for record keeping. More hearts-and-minds maneuvering. On the next sweep through the village, ask about the kids by name. Every parent loves that.
    But it was all speculation. And no theory explained how the photo had ended up in my pack. At least I could eliminate or confirm one suspect.
    Descending to the study, I slipped the print from its sleeve, photographed it with my iPhone, and attached it to an e-mail. Then I wrote the following note to Katy.

Found this in my backpack. Your work? If so, thanks. If you met these girls I’d love to know the story. BTW, the print looks like a Polaroid. Are instant cameras common over there? (In other words, I’m curious why you didn’t send the image by e-mail.)

    Returning the three-by-five to its sleeve, I was struck by a realization. Whoever had taken the photo, and wherever, and for whatever reason, someone had cared enough to seal it in plastic. To preserve it.
    So why give it to me?
    Still puzzled, I placed the photo on my desk, stashed the empty backpack, dressed, and headed out.
     
    I arrived at the MCME just past noon. The public area was deserted and there wasn’t a pathologist, death investigator, or technician in sight.
    Mrs. Flowers was not at her post. I guessed she was downing her usual tuna or chicken salad sandwich, or tending her section of the staff container garden in the courtyard. Her specialty was lettuce and basil.
    I went straight to my office. The message light on my phone was flashing, and files and papers covered my desk.
    After stowing my purse, I started on the mound. A request for expertise in anthropology lay on top. Mrs. Flowers’s outhouse was actually a Porta-John, and the noggin was actually a partial cranium. Doo-doo needs no translation.
    Though the prospect was unappealing, I hoped Joe had left cleaning of the skull to me. One never knows what might be trapped in adhering material. Shit happens?
    I opened a file and placed the request in it. Then I dug out the reports on the semen. Each listed the case number under which the sample had been submitted, the name, age, last known address, and criminal history of the person whose genetic profile it matched.
    The first DNA hit named Cecil Converse “CC” Creach. Creach’s adult priors included multiple bumps for distribution of meth and weed, two for vandalism, and one for B&E. Of his forty-two years on the planet, Creach had spent seventeen behind bars. His juvie record was sealed and would require a warrant to open.
    Creach’s LKA was in an area of town known as Five Corners,