"All the molars out?" I asked.

Emma nodded.

I picked up the collarbone.

"Medial epiphysis is fused." I lay the bone on the table. "So he's no kid."

I returned to the pelvis. Again, I was interested in the belly side, this time the face that had kissed the face of the other pelvic half during life. In young adults, these faces have topography like the Shenandoah, all mountains and valleys. With age, the mountains wear down and the valleys fill in.

"Pubic symphysis is smooth," I said. "With a raised rim around the perimeter. Let's look at the dental X-rays."

Emma flipped the switch on a light box, then dumped ten black rectangles from a small brown envelope. I arranged the films into two rows, uppers and lowers, with each tooth in proper alignment.

Throughout life, pulp chambers and root canals fill with secondary dentin. The older a tooth, the more opaque its image on X-ray. These babies shouted young to middle-aged adult. In addition, all molar roots were complete to their tips, and crown wear was minimal.

"The teeth are consistent with the bones," I said.

"Meaning?"

"Forties. But keep in mind, males are variable."

"That's being generous," Emma said. "Race?"

I returned to the skull.

Evaluating racial identifiers is usually a bitch. Not with this guy.

The lower face showed no forward projection when viewed from the side. The nasal bones met at a church-steeple angle along the midline. The nasal opening was constricted, with a sharp lower border sporting a bony spike at its center.

"Narrow, prominent nose. Flat facial profile."

Emma watched as I shined a flashlight into the ear canal.

"Oval opening to the inner ear is visible."

When I looked up, Emma's eyes were closed and she was rubbing slow circles on her temples.

"I'll run measurements through Fordisc 3.0. But this guy looks like a page from the Caucasoid picture book."

"A forty-something white male."

"To be safe, I'd go with thirty-five to fifty."

"Time frame?"

I indicated the plastic vials on the counter. "Lots of empty puparial cases, some dead beetles and shed beetle skins. Your entomologist should be able to provide a solid PMI."

"Bugs take time. I want to shoot this right into NCIC."

Emma was referring to the FBI's National Crime Information Center, a computerized index of information on criminal records, fugitives, stolen properties, and missing and unidentified persons. With such a huge database, the narrower the time frame the better.

"I originally said two to five, but to be certain you don't exclude any possibles, I'd broaden the interval to one to five years."

Emma nodded. "If nothing pops with NCIC, I'll start working local missing persons reports."

"The dentals will help," I said. "This guy had some metal in his mouth."

"Our odontologist will chart him on Monday." Again Emma rubbed her temples. Though trying hard, she was fading.

"I'll measure the leg bones and calculate height," I said.

Weak nod. "Any other identifiers?"

I shook my head. I'd seen no healed trauma, no congenital anomaly, not a single unique skeletal feature.

"Cause of death?"

"Nothing obvious. No fractures, no bullet entrances or exits, no sharp instrument cuts. I'd like to view the bones under magnification when they've been fully cleaned, but for now, nada."

"Full-body X-rays?"

"Can't hurt."

As I began measuring a femur, Emma's mobile sounded. I heard her walk to the counter and flip the cover.

"Emma Rousseau."

She listened.

"I can live with it." Guarded.

Pause.

"How bad?"

Longer pause.

"Now what?" Taut.

I looked up.

Emma had turned her back to me. Though her face was hidden, her voice told me something was very wrong.

5

EMMA TOSSED HER MOBILE ONTO THE COUNTER, CLOSED HER eyes, and went still. I watched, knowing she was trying to quell the pounding in her head.

I've traveled the migraine trail. I'm familiar with the pain. I knew, even for Emma, sheer willpower wouldn't prevail. Nothing pacifies dilating cranial vessels but time and sleep. And drugs.

I refocused on my measurements. Best to finish estimating stature so Emma could go home and crash. If she wanted to discuss the phone call, she would.

I heard the door open, click shut.

I'd moved from the osteometric board to my laptop when the door opened again. Footsteps crossed the tile as I entered the last figure and asked the program to calculate.

"I went over the clothes." Emma was at my shoulder. "No belt, no shoes, no jewelry or personal effects. Nothing in the pockets. Fabric's rotten and the labels are barely legible, but I think the pants were a thirty-eight long. Assuming they're his, the guy wasn't short."

"Five-ten to six-one." I shifted to allow her a better view of the screen.

Emma eyeballed the height estimate, then stepped to the table. Reaching out, she stroked the skull.

"Who are you, tall white man in your forties?" Emma's voice was soft, as intimate as the caress. "We need a name, big guy."

The moment was so personal, I felt like a voyeur.

But I knew what Emma meant.

Thanks to some less than meticulously researched TV crime shows, the public now views DNA as the shining Excalibur of modern justice. Hollywood has spawned the myth that the double helix solves all riddles, unlocks all doors, rights all wrongs. Got bones? No problem. Extract and let the little molecule do its magic.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way in the nameless-body business. A Jane or John Doe exists in a vacuum, stripped of everything that links it to life. Anonymity means no family, no dentist, no home to search for a toothbrush or chewing gum.

No name.

With our profile, Emma could now send CCC-2006020277 into the system, looking for missing persons matches. If the matches produced a manageable number of names, she could request medical and dental records, and contact relatives for DNA comparison samples.

Rolling the edge of a glove, I checked my watch. Four forty-five.

"We've been at this eight hours," I said. "Here's a plan. We reconvene Monday. You order full-body X-rays. I view the films and scope the bones while your dentist charts the teeth. Then you shoot the whole enchilada through NCIC."

Emma turned. The fluorescents made her face look like autopsy flesh.

"I'm perky as a hellcat," she said dully.

"What's a hellcat?" I asked.

"Not sure."

"You're going home."

She didn't argue.

Outside, the afternoon felt heavy and damp. Rush hour was in full swing, and exhaust rode the salt-air cocktail coming off the harbor. Though it was May, the city already smelled like summer.

Emma and I walked side by side down the ramp. Before parting, she hesitated, then opened her lips to speak. I thought she was going to explain the phone call. Instead, she wished me a pleasant weekend, and trudged off down the sidewalk.

The car was an oven. Lowering the windows, I popped in a Sam Fisher CD. People Living. Melancholy. Volatile. A perfect fit for my mood.

Crossing the Cooper River, I could see thunderheads elbowing for position on the eastern horizon. A storm was gathering. I decided on a quick stop at Simmons's Seafood, then dinner chez moi.

The store was deserted. Steel cases offered the remains of the day's catch on crushed ice.

Every cell in my hypothalamus sat up at the sight of the swordfish.

So did the conscience guys. Overfishing! Population decline! Noncompliance!

Fine. Wasn't swordfish supposed to be mercury-laden, anyway?

I looked at the mahimahi.

No protest from the bully pulpit in my forebrain.

As usual, I dined al fresco, watching nature perform a light show in three acts. I imagined the playbill.