The Bone Bed

breathing.
    Her gastric contents are granular and dry like animal feed. I adjust the light and use a lens, moving the material around with forceps.
    “Dried out, desiccated meat,” I observe. “If I can see it grossly, it wasn’t very digested when she died.”
    “There’s very little in her small intestine,” Luke lets me know. “Almost nothing in her large intestine. It usually takes what? A good ten hours for food to completely clear?”
    “It depends on a lot of things. How much she ate, whether she exercised, her hydration. Digestion varies considerably with individuals.”
    “So if she ate and the food hardly had begun to digest before she died,” he supposes, “chances are we’re talking only a couple of hours after her last meal?”
    “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    I tell him to weigh the gastric contents and place some of it in formalin so we can process it histologically.
    “An iodine test for starch, napthol for sugar, Oil Red O for lipids. Hopefully we can pick out identifiable food particles on the stereomicroscope.” I explain the special stains I’ll want used.
    We are working side by side, our backs to the door.
    “So I’m going to make evidence rounds to tox, to histology, to trace, with special instructions,” Luke goes down the list. “What about SEM?”
    “Maybe for botanicals.” I’m vaguely aware of a shift in the air behind me. “For stomatal comparisons. For example, is it napa cabbage? Is it Chinese broccoli? Is it bok choy? Is there any evidence of arthropods such as shrimp? Are there cellular structures that might be oats? Are there cereal grains that might be wheat?”
    Luke turns around, and then I do.
    “I’m wondering how much longer,” Benton says, from the open door he holds.
    “Didn’t hear you come in,” Luke replies, as if making a point.
    “We’re actually finishing up now.” I meet Benton’s eyes, and his are wary.
    “Find anything helpful?” He stands in the doorway.
    “The long answer is undetermined for now, pending toxicology and further studies.” I untie my gown in back. “The short answer is I don’t know.”
    “Not even a guess?” Benton stares at what’s on the table, and the reason he doesn’t come closer isn’t because of the odor or the ugliness.
    He isn’t bothered by such things. He’s bothered by something else.
    “I’m not going to guess about what killed her.” I toss my gloves and shoe covers into a biohazard can. “But I can give you a long list of what didn’t.”

twenty-two
    HEAVY RAINS HAVE TURNED TORRENTIAL, THE VIOLENT storm unseasonable for fall, with high winds stripping trees of any leaves left and thunder cracking like a war going on. Water sprays the undercarriage of the SUV and splashes the glass, and Benton seems miles from me as I drive through the dark puddled streets of mid-Cambridge.
    “It’s common sense that he can’t be involved,” he says from the passenger’s seat, where he’s alert to his surroundings and not looking at me.
    “Whose common sense?” I try not to sound tense.
    “Do you want him leaving his DNA inside her house?”
    “Hopefully he wouldn’t, but of course not.” I try to sound reasonable.
    Benton’s phone glows in the dark, and he types something on it.
    “After he’s possibly already transferred his DNA to her personal effects, to her clothing?” He returns the phone to his lap. “Because I’m betting he handled all sorts of things.”
    Wipers thud and the defrost blasts.
    “I don’t care what protective shit he had on,” Benton then says. “These days you can get DNA from air.”
    “Not quite,” I reply. “But he shouldn’t search her house.” I agree with that. “Although there’s no proof he knew her, ever met her, or had a clue someone stole her identity on Twitter. There’s no shred of evidence he’s done anything wrong.”
    “It doesn’t look good.”
    “It looks like what it is.” My anger glints. “Someone intended to implicate him.”
    “We shouldn’t do anything to make it look worse.”
    “So I lose my chief investigator because he got set up and made a fool of by whoever’s involved?” I’m frustrated, on the verge of furious, that the FBI suddenly assumes it has a say in how I run my office.
    I’m angered by the suggestion that investigators I train leave their DNA everywhere.
    “He was set up because he was an intended target,” I add.
    “He needs to stay out of this case. He needs to stay away from the CFC for a