The Bone Bed

rather work with Jefferson at Boston P.D.,” Marino then says, as if it’s up to him to pick a homicide detective and sidestep what I have a feeling will end up being the FBI. “Technically, the outer harbor is Boston.”
    “I’m not sure of that at all,” I reply. “It depends on the latitude and longitude, and I don’t know enough about navigation to tell from the coordinates we got whether the water she was recovered from might be within the seaward boundary of Hull, Cohasset, or even Quincy. Add to that the question of where she went in and also where she died, where she was abducted from, assuming she was abducted. It probably will end up being FBI, no invitation needed.”
    “They’ll sink their teeth into it like a damn pit bull and take over the investigation on prime time.” He reaches up to the visor and presses the remote control that opens our gate. “I’m sure Benton will love getting his hands on this one,” he adds, as if my FBI criminal intelligence analyst husband leads a sheltered life.
    “Nobody wants something like this,” I reply, as the gate slides open. “That’s my bigger worry. That everyone will treat it like a hot potato. But more important than any of this is what we can do to establish her identity as quickly as possible. We need to enter a physical description of her and her personal effects into NamUs.”
    The National Missing and Unidentified Persons System is a relatively new central database for people who have vanished. It’s a chance at least to connect the missing with the unidentified or unclaimed dead, but again, I have a strong feeling this woman’s disappearance hasn’t been reported.
    “No matter what, we’ll do that before the day’s end. We’ll want to e-mail radiographs, her dental charts, any distinct body features,” I continue going down the list as we drive into the back lot. “Put in a call to Ned or whoever might be available later this afternoon.”
    Ned Adams is one of several area dentists also certified in odontology and on call for us.
    “We need to get some pictures before court.” Marino parks the Tahoe in front of the bay.
    “Absolutely.” I reach down to pick up the trash bag of my wet field clothes.
    “And her temp, since we didn’t do that on the boat,” he says. “Probably the same as the bay, fifty-one degrees. Maybe one or two degrees higher, because the Coast Guard boat and back of the van will be warmer than the water.”
    “Yes, we’ll get it now, and then I need a few minutes to change back into my suit. I sure can’t go like this.” I climb out clad in the gray fleece liner, my orange down coat, and wet boots with no socks.
    “Not unless you want everyone to think you’re a whack job,” Marino says, as the bay door begins to clatter up, the white windowless van stopping in front of it.
    “We need photos, and most of all, swabs, because the quicker we can get her DNA profile in NamUs and especially NDIS, the better.” I continue going through what needs to be done immediately.
    “PERK her, clean up really fast, and get to court.” I hold on to a thread of hope that law enforcement somewhere has entered this missing woman into the National DNA Index System.
    “Tell Bryce to contact Dan and let him know we just got back from a difficult scene and I’m hurrying as fast as I can. Damn waste,” I then mutter. “Ridiculous. Pure harassment. Unadulterated effort to interfere and create a spectacle.”
    “Yeah, you’ve only said it fifty times.” Marino grabs the scene cases out of the back of the SUV, and I gather the evidence bags of the fishing gear Pamela Quick gave to me and the barnacle I extracted from the leatherback.
    We walk into the bay, the van rumbling in behind us and parking. The driver’s door swings open, and Toby hops out in his investigative uniform, a baseball cap pulled over his shaved head, a fad I’m sure Marino started, and it never fails to amaze me the influence he has without seeming to be aware of it. At least half of my male investigators now shave their heads as glossy smooth as cue balls and have got tattoos, including Toby, whose left arm is a solid sleeve of what reminds me of subway graffiti.
    No one is immune to the Marino effect, as I’ve come to call the need his investigators have to emulate him for better or worse. I’m told that Sherry’s gotten
Mortui vivos docent
tattooed on her back and has taken up boxing, and Barbara now rides a Harley.
    “What’s the