One Grave Too Many

hyoid bone was intact, which indicated that he was probably not strangled, but she couldn’t rule it out either. There was nothing but the severe injury to the shoulder and underlying bones. Although not a fatal blow in itself, he could have bled out from such an injury, or gone into shock and died. But there was no way to know.
    She looked at the gentle curve in the femora. Blacks tend to have straight femora; other races have a slight curve to them. She punched up the measurements in her computer and ran ratios through her program. She knew what they would reveal, but she always liked to check her conclusions against her math. As she thought, the race was probably white.
    Comparing the length of his long bones with the chart for white males, she estimated his height to be six feet, two inches. Before she left the vault, her gaze lingered on the skeleton—tall, avid sports player, young, five years dead. She turned and went out, thinking about the parents he had somewhere.
    The lab was warm compared to the vault storage room. She pulled off her gloves and washed her hands. Korey’s staff was hard at work.
    “Any news on the fingerprints?” they asked.
    “Nothing yet.” Actually, they were still in her office drawer waiting . . . waiting for her to give to Frank.
    Korey was in his office on the phone. She poked her head in and thanked him for the use of the storage area. “I’m going to leave the bones out for a while. If you have time later, would you help me photograph them?”
    He put his hand over the receiver and nodded. “Sure thing. Let me know.”
    On her way to the stairs she met Mike Seger. “Mike,” she said, “I owe you an apology.”
    He looked at her for a moment before he spoke. “Thanks. The whole thing’s strange.”
    “Melissa’s furious with me at the moment.”
    “Me too,” he said. “But I can’t figure out why. I don’t understand it. It’s too weird for me. I just can’t hack it.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s a relief, really. You know, I like her music. I wish . . .” He shrugged, letting the sentence go. “I convinced Dr. Lymon of the virtues of her office space.”
    “I’m happy about that.”
    “She’s not going to be here that much anyway.” He paused. “I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”
    “She does have to be here a specific number of hours, and a curator does have responsibilities that go along with the title, but we’ll see how it works out. I’m sure the collection manager will let me know if he feels put-upon.”
    When Diane got to her office, she found Frank’s partner sitting in Andie’s office, his legs crossed, reading a copy of Museum News . He stood up when she entered.
    “This is Ben Florian,” said Andie.
    “We met briefly at the hospital.” She opened her door and motioned him in.
    He followed her, holding a cup of coffee in a museum mug.
    “Good to see you again,” she said. “I was going to call you. I’m glad you came by.”
    He stood in the middle of the room and looked around. “Nice office.”
    “Thank you. Have a seat.” Diane sat down behind her desk. “I just saw Frank this morning. I guess you know he had a setback, but he’s doing well.” She kept telling everyone he’s doing well—it was as if it was only her positive declaration that was keeping him alive.
    He frowned. “I hadn’t heard. What happened?”
    “Infection.”
    “Oh, that’s bad. My old sergeant got an infection after open-heart surgery. Wouldn’t heal. They ended up putting sugar in the wound and it finally healed up. Of course, that was a long time ago. I’m sure they have more modern methods now. Like I said at the hospital, Frank’s tough.”
    “His brother tells me he’s responding well to antibiotics.”
    As she said it, she realized that was not what he said at all. In fact, he hadn’t really told her anything—she simply kept pulling positive notes from what he said. The thought alarmed her.
    “I’m sure he’s right.” He must have seen the expression on her face.
    Ben looked to be about ten or fifteen years older than Frank. He wore the same gray suit he had worn at the hospital. He ran a hand over his short brown hair and pulled out a small notebook and a sheaf of papers from a pocket inside his coat.
    “I suppose this is a smoke-free building.”
    “Yes,” said Diane. “Museums have to be.”
    He nodded. “I have the results from some tests Frank wanted processed.” He handed the papers to her.
    They