В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
Got what I expected, given no dentals, no details, and no dates.”
“Lots of hits?”
“List from here to East Bumfuck.”
“What about 38428?”
“Pulled up everything back to 1980. Broken wrist cut the numbers down. Again, a few came close, but no matches. Sure would help to know where the kid lived.”
“How about north-central California?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“I’m serious.”
All crinkling and chewing stopped.
“You’re kiddin’.”
Simplifying the biochemistry and geophysics, I told Charbonneau what I’d learned from Art Holliday.
“Luc’s gonna shit his Fruit of the Looms.”
“You’ve got to send her descriptors south of the border.”
“NCIC. Done. I’ll also roll them by the Vermont and California State Police.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“Can’t hurt anything.”
“Except your partner’s shorts.”
Charbonneau laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
“There’s something else.”
“Make my day.”
I described the nicks and grooves.
“And you think the marks were made by a scalpel?”
“Or an extremely sharp, fine-edged blade.”
“You’re talking all three skeletons?”
“Yes.
“Differ how?”
“They’re cruder. And there’s more chipping along the edges.”
“Meaning they were made by a different tool?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they were made after the bone had dried out. Or maybe they’re not the result of cutting at all. Maybe they’re postmortem artifacts mimicking cut marks.”
“Scratches caused by dragging or rolling or something?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.
“There seems to be a pattern.” I stopped, picturing the skulls and jaws in my mind. “The marks circle the right ear opening.”
“On which skeleton?”
“On all three.”
“And nothing anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Holy crap. You think someone was slicing off ears?”
The thought had occurred to me.
“I don’t know.”
After telling LaManche what I’d learned from Art Holliday, I spent the rest of the afternoon with my pizza basement girls. That’s how I’d come to think of them. My girls. My lost girls.
I reexamined every bone, bone fragment, and tooth. I studied the dental and skeletal X-rays. I rescreened the soil. I pored over the buttons.
When at last I sat back, the windows were dark and the halls were quiet. The clock said five-twenty.
I’d learned not one damn additional thing.
I closed my eyes.
I felt sadness over my failure to give names to these girls. Anger over my failure to satisfy Claudel. Frustration over my failure to understand the buttons.
