9

“You have a sister? Holy moly!” Nick exclaimed from the morgue sink as he shook the excess water off his hands and reached for a paper towel. Emily had asked him, once again, to please assist her by taking pictures during the autopsy examination with Dr. Charles Payton, who had yet to arrive. Nick had eagerly agreed. After his help with the Dobson autopsy, Nick knew the ropes and she didn’t have to instruct him on how to angle up the camera equipment over the body.

“It’s a half sister.”

“How old is she?”

“I dunno. Not sure if it happened before or after he married Mom.”

“Tricky. Have you called this Anna yet?”

“I’m still trying to figure out what to say.”

“I wonder if she’s as smart and driven as you are.”

Emily appreciated the offhanded compliment. “I don’t know how I feel about her. Or how to approach this.”

“Meet her at a neutral place. Wait. Maybe it would be better if she came up here to see the house? You can show her photo albums of your dad, where he worked.”

“Maybe. It might be a lot to take in. I have no idea how she’ll react. What if she hates me?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“What if she wants to sue me for more of my dad’s estate? What if she’s bitter and angry?”

“Stop, Em. You’re spooling over nothing.”

He was right. Emily pushed the fears aside. She needed to focus on the task at hand, because Dr. Payton would be arriving any moment. “Hank Wurthers told me I needed to get board approval before hiring this forensic anthropologist. What do you think about that?”

“The county commissioners are overstuffed windbags. They like to piss on territory that’s not theirs. Don’t mean to be crude, but I call it like I see it. Hank and his buddies on the board like to lord their so-called power. They forget they’re servants of the people.”

“Hank says they’re putting the coroner position up for public vote. Although I can’t imagine who else is going to apply who’s actually more qualified than me.”

“So does that mean you’re staying here in Freeport?”

Emily glanced up at Nick. His face registered a glowing hope.

“I’m putting a pin in that decision.” Emily finished arranging the bones on the stainless-steel table. “I got a call from Dr. Claiborne, and I’m also under some pressure to make some decisions about finishing my surgical residency. Going back to the pace, the pressure … just feels a bit overwhelming right now.”

A knock at the door halted their conversation.

“Door’s open,” hollered Nick.

Emily took one look at the tall, sandy-brown-haired man entering the morgue and almost gasped out loud. He couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. He had the body of a soccer player and the even, dark tan of a surfer. Lean legs in skinny jeans. Tight torso under his slim-fit white button-down with sleeves rolled into cuffs. And tall. Had she mentioned tall? He towered a good three inches over Nick. And probably four over Brandon.

“Hello. I assume I’m in the correct location. I’m Dr. Charles Payton, the forensic anthropologist from the University of Michigan.”

“Pleasure to meet you. Thanks for driving all the way up,” said Nick.

“Hi, I’m Emily,” she said.

“Dr. Hartford, right?” he asked.

“Yes, yes … Dr. Emily Hartford. That’s me.” Why did she sound like a child answering roll call? She was suddenly and painfully aware of how untidy she must appear. Her hair covered by a net. Her thick, black rubberized apron tied loosely around her middle, doing nothing for her figure. And faded jeans that she hadn’t washed in three weeks.

“I was expecting someone with crow’s feet and gray hair,” she joked.

He smiled at her, easing her nervousness. “Hopefully I’m still a good decade away from that.”

Amazing. Those pearly whites were nearly blinding. She snapped out of her thoughts.

“My condolences on your father’s recent passing.” He continued reaching out his hand for hers, but instead of shaking it, he held it for a moment in a gesture of consolation.

“Thank you,” she managed, before her words got choked off by that mounting lump in her throat that seemed to rise at very strange moments. The lump softened, and she could swallow it away. She held on to his warm hands and inhaled a light, earthy scent. His cologne—something organic based. After just the right amount of time, so things didn’t feel awkward at all, he released his grip.

“Well then, shall we get started? Sheriff Larson prepped me on the details of where you found the remains. I’m assuming this is our person?” He moved toward the table.

“Yes, this is her,” said Nick.

“Or him,” corrected Dr. Payton.

Emily handed him a black apron and box of latex gloves. “Nick—Sheriff Larson—will be taking the photographs. I’m here to assist if you need anything at all.” There’s that willowy kid voice again.

“Thank you both. I’ll need measuring tools and forceps,” he said, moving into place at the top of the skull. “And if you wouldn’t mind taking notes, it goes much faster. If you don’t feel offended by that.”

“No, of course not.” Emily’s voice jumped ahead of any judgments she might have had about being treated like a glorified secretary.

For several hours the three of them went meticulously through every centimeter and crevice of the remains. Emily was fascinated with the process and the level of detail Dr. Payton put into examining the bones. There were areas of the bones she hadn’t realized had names. The science of anthropology took human anatomy to a new level for her that afternoon.

There were nine places where they collected hair remnants. Emily had, of course, noted this upon excavation, but she’d left the hairs to be collected during the official autopsy. She placed them individually in glass vials, marking them with the exact location they had been found on the skeleton. Most were found attached to minuscule skin remnants on the skull. There was one lodged under the third fingernail of the left hand.

After all the measurements and notes were recorded, Dr. Payton stepped back and removed his mask to reveal a calculating face. They all remained quiet as he processed the exam, flipping back and forth between notes and rechecking the surface of several bones. Finally, he spoke.

“The victim is Caucasian in ancestry. Probably between fifteen and nineteen years old. Height estimated around five feet.

He paused. Emily waited on pins and needles. She glanced over to Nick. The color had again washed from his face, and she knew what he was thinking. So far, this sounded like a description of Sandi Parkman.

“There is blunt-force trauma to the neck, right ribs, and skull. It’s clear to me that this person was the victim of trauma resulting in homicide.”

Emily had also noted that when they were retrieving the bones, but had held back from saying anything to Nick about it. She hadn’t wanted to feed any worry he already held until it could be confirmed by someone who had more experience with skeletal remains.

Nick pressed against the wall of the morgue for support. “It’s her. I know it.”

“I’m not entirely sure this skeleton is a she.”

“What? Why not?” asked Emily.

“Sex is determined by looking at size and architecture of the bone structure. For instance, the pelvis of a male is more oval shaped, while the pelvis of a female is more heart shaped. The angles are different because females give birth. And ninety-two percent of the time, males have larger bones than females.”

Nick’s pressed lips told Emily he was agitated by the doctor’s answer.

“Well, what can you tell us now? Heart or oval?” Nick said.

“I can’t say definitively without more time to measure and compare,” Dr. Payton said.

“We’ll be eagerly awaiting your results,” said Emily.

“How long will that take?” asked Nick.

“A week or two.”

“At the rate you’re charging, is there any chance you can speed it up?”

Emily shot Nick a look: Stop it. Then she turned to the anthropologist. “Thank you, Dr. Payton. Is there anything else we can do for you before you head out?”

“I’m awfully hungry. I hear Delia Andrews runs a great bakery here. Care to join me?”

“How do you know about Delia Andrews?” Emily said with surprise. Delia was a former FBI agent and longtime friend of the Hartford family. During Emily’s impromptu death investigation just a week earlier when she had been torn from her surgical residency in Chicago to tend to her father after his first heart attack, Delia had helped Emily and Nick identify the rare tool used to kill Julie Dobson.

“I’ve read a lot of her papers. Her work with the FBI on tool identification is landmark. But I’m sure you know that already. I suspect she’s a bit of a local celebrity.”

Only for her cinnamon rolls and bear claws.

Delia had kept a low profile during her FBI years and had traveled a lot internationally during her years on duty. In retirement, Delia didn’t talk about her FBI experiences. Emily assumed those cases were still classified.

Several years ago, Delia had left the FBI and slipped back into small-town life in Freeport, where she had elevated pastries to a mouthwatering, edible art form. She was definitely better known for those than for her academic articles.

“Yes, she owns Brown’s Bakery. On Main Street. I can take you there,” said Emily. Did I really just offer that? “I mean, not that you can’t find it on your own. Freeport’s small, and there aren’t any other bakeries in town.”

“I’d love for you to show me,” said Dr. Payton with a look that lingered on Emily. Twitters and tingles jumped through her insides as if she were a star-struck thirteen-year-old. What’s wrong with me?

“Then let’s get this body put back to rest for safekeeping,” said Emily, trying to keep it professional.

“Do you still need me, Em?” Nick said from the corner of the room as he packed up the camera equipment. Emily’s eyes jumped to his. She had almost forgotten he was there.

“I think we’re good here. Thanks for your help,” her voice chirped at him.

“Sheriff, I was wondering if you could download those pictures and put them on a jump drive for me,” said Dr. Payton.

“Make a copy for me, too,” Emily added as she and Dr. Payton covered the bones with a protective tarp. She didn’t mean for her request to sound condescending. “Please.” But Nick snapped a glare at her.

“Just to confirm, Emily, you aren’t releasing the body yet?” asked Nick.

“Of course not. We don’t even know who it is,” said Emily. There was that tone again.

Nick breezed by and handed her the camera with one word. “Here.” Then he exited promptly.

Emily hoped Dr. Payton hadn’t heard the tension between them.

Dr. Payton turned around from where he was washing his hands, shaking the water off.

“Where did Sheriff Larson go?”

“Emergency call,” Emily fibbed.

“I owe you for bringing me such a fascinating case study. It’s not often I get out onto the field anymore, given my teaching load and lab responsibilities.”

Emily smiled and removed her apron and hairpiece. Bringing him a case study. Interesting choice of words. To someone in this community, these remains had once been their daughter or son. Not an academic study.

A text pinged Emily’s phone. Cathy. Darn!

“Ah, hey, about that offer,” she said to Dr. Payton. “I forgot I promised a good friend that I’d help her with something today.” Cathy had hired a moving truck and was moving back into her apartment above the funeral home a few days sooner than planned.

“I’m sure I can find Brown’s Bakery on my own,” said Dr. Payton, peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash bin. “But I was looking forward to it. Hopefully our paths cross again soon.”

Emily nodded. “Enjoy your lunch. And be sure to take some bear claws back to your department.”

“Good tip. It’ll keep me in their good graces.”

“They’ll consider you a hero,” she laughed.

“Hope I don’t get too used to the view atop the pedestal,” he joked in return, but there wasn’t a shred of pretention in his tone.

He opened the door for her, and Emily noted a twinge of disappointment forming. It might be nice to spend a little more time getting to know a forensic anthropologist, especially one this easy on the eyes.