The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

her, but for both Robinson and Pulcillo this was familiar territory. As new images appeared, they both leaned in, pointing out details they recognized.
    “There,” said Robinson. “Those are the four linen packets containing the organs.”
    “Okay, we’re now in the pelvis,” Dr. Brier said. He pointed to two pale arcs. They were the top edges of the iliac crests.
    Slice by slice, the pelvis slowly took shape, as the computer compiled and rendered countless X-ray beams. It was a digital striptease as each image revealed a tantalizing new peek.
    “Look at the shape of the pelvic inlet,” said Dr. Brier.
    “It’s a female,” said Maura.
    The radiologist nodded. “I’d say it’s pretty conclusive.” He turned and grinned at the two archaeologists. “You can now officially call her Madam X. And not
Mister
X.”
    “And look at the pubic symphysis,” said Maura, still focused on the monitor. “There’s no separation.”
    Brier nodded. “I agree.”
    “What does that mean?” asked Robinson.
    Maura explained. “During childbirth, the infant’s passage through the pelvic inlet can actually force apart the pubic bones, where they join at the symphysis. It appears this female never had children.”
    The CT tech laughed. “Your mummy’s never been a mommy.”
    The scan had moved beyond the pelvis, and they could now see cross sections of the two femurs encased in the withered flesh of the upper thighs.
    “Nick, we need to call Simon,” said Pulcillo. “He’s probably waiting by the phone.”
    “Oh gosh, I completely forgot.” Robinson pulled out his cell phone and dialed his boss. “Simon, guess what I’m looking at right now? Yes, she’s gorgeous. Plus, we’ve discovered a few surprises, so the press conference is going to be quite the—” In an instant he fell silent, his gaze frozen on the screen.
    “What the hell?” blurted the CT tech.
    The image now glowing on the monitor was so unexpected that the room had fallen completely still. Were a living patient lying on the CT table, Maura would have had no difficulty identifying the small metallic object embedded in the calf, an object that had shattered the slender shaft of the fibula. But that bit of metal did not belong in Madam X’s leg.
    A bullet did not belong in Madam X’s millennium.
    “Is that what I think it is?” said the CT tech.
    Robinson shook his head. “It has to be postmortem damage. What else could it be?”
    “Two thousand
years
postmortem?”
    “I’ll—I’ll call you back, Simon.” Robinson disconnected his cell phone. Turning to the cameraman, he ordered: “Shut it off. Please shut it off
now.
” He took a deep breath. “All right. All right, let’s—let’s approach this logically.” He straightened, gaining confidence as an obvious explanation occurred to him. “Mummies have often been abused or damaged by souvenir hunters. Obviously, someone fired a bullet into the mummy. And a conservator later tried to repair that damage by rewrapping her. That’s why we saw no entry hole in the bandages.”
    “That isn’t what happened,” said Maura.
    Robinson blinked. “What do you mean? That has to be the explanation.”
    “The damage to that leg wasn’t postmortem. It happened while this woman was still alive.”
    “That’s impossible.”
    “I’m afraid Dr. Isles is right,” said the radiologist. He looked at Maura. “You’re referring to the early callus formation around the fracture site?”
    “What does that mean?” asked Robinson. “Callus formation?”
    “It means the broken bone had already started the process of healing when this woman died. She lived at least a few weeks after the injury.”
    Maura turned to the curator. “Where did this mummy come from?”
    Robinson’s glasses had slipped down his nose yet again, and he stared over the lenses as though hypnotized by what he saw glowing in the mummy’s leg.
    It was Dr. Pulcillo who answered the question, her voice barely a whisper. “It was in the museum basement. Nick—Dr. Robinson found it back in January.”
    “And how did the museum obtain it?”
    Pulcillo shook her head. “We don’t know.”
    “There must be records. Something in your files to indicate where she came from.”
    “There are none for her,” said Robinson, at last finding his voice. “The Crispin Museum is a hundred thirty years old, and many records are missing. We have no idea how long she was stored in the basement.”
    “How did you happen to find