“It all fits together proportionately.”

“Yes.”

“It’s science.”

“Yes, and it’s the hand of the Creator-an intelligent design.”

“Well, I’m a man of science myself.”

“I’m a woman of science. I believe that science is a tool the Creator gives us to better understand His creation. I see no conflict between the two.”

“That’s an interesting perspective. You said the design was intelligent. Why couldn’t it be chance-the laws of nature.”

“When Frank Lloyd Wright designed a magnificent building or home where the design itself evoked an emotional response in those who viewed it, and where all of the angles and proportions seemed to fit together, melding art and function in an amazing way, people oohed and aahed and said, ‘Wow, what an amazing design. What genius!’ Do you doubt for a moment that the house or building was designed in an intelligent way, and that the design itself reflects that fact?”

“No,” he said tentatively.

“Yet these designs pale in comparison to the designs in nature, and in particular to the design of the human body, and we want to deny the genius there? We want to deny the intelligence behind the design?”

“You make an interesting point, Dr. Sullivan.”

“I think the design not only bears absolute testimony to the intelligence and the supreme genius of the Designer, I think that there is a real correlation, or harmony, between our ability to design and create, and the fact that He who created us also designs and creates. This is all the internal part of the image of Himself in us.”

“Wow. I like that very much-what you’re saying about the harmony of creative talents between us and the Creator. So, you’re saying that He has this ability, and in a lesser sense He gave us the same ability.”

“Yes-within our human limitations.”

“Then you re-create that image in your work, Dr. Sullivan.” He smiled broadly now.

“No, Dr. Carroway, I only restore an idea of the physical part of that image. The most essential part of the image in us can only be re-created by the Master Himself.”

“Requires a higher power, then, eh?”

“Requires a sacred touch,” I said.

Dr. Carroway nodded his head.

“I like that. I’ll have to think about it more when you’re gone.”

“Good.”

“But I may have lots more questions for you later,” he said, winking.

I winked back, and said, “Bring them on and I’ll do my best to give you proper answers.”

While we waited for the material to firm up around the skull, Dr. Carroway offered to show me the personal effects they had found with or near the remains.

He retrieved another box and opened the lid. Inside was part of a dog-tag chain with no dog tags, an American quarter, a button off of a flight suit and part of the pilot’s helmet. None of it was absolutely personal to Teddy. I picked up the button, turned it over in the palm of my hand and wondered. I put the button back into the box and picked up the piece of dog-tag chain.

All I could think of was what had probably happened to all the things that weren’t found with the remains. Of course, the flight suit and all the fabrics he was wearing would have burned, or deteriorated and biodegraded. Villagers carried off parts of the plane, jewelry and American dog tags. Wild animals would have carried off other things, and that’s what I just couldn’t think about now. I wanted to sit down and cry, but that wasn’t exactly a professional response. The segment of dog-tag chain slipped through my fingers back into the box.

When I looked up at Dr. Carroway again, he had a sympathetic expression on his face. My expression must have been more transparent than I thought.

I looked back down at the box of personal effects and said, “Well, none of it is absolutely identifiable as something that would have belonged to Nikolaides.”

“No,” he said softly.

If the situation continued that way, I knew that I would not be able to retain my composure, so I changed the subject-rapidly.

“Well, let’s check the mold and see how we’re doing.”

I walked back to the table where the form lay, and I put my finger in the bottom of it to check the consistency of the plastic material. It wasn’t ready yet.

“Not quite yet,” I said, praying he wouldn’t want to discuss anything relating to Ted personally.

“So, Dr. Sullivan, tell me how you got into this line of work. I know you were an artist, but how and why did you come to this work after being a nurse in the war?”

I could have hugged him.

“When I came home from ’Nam, the last thing I wanted to do was nursing. Other nurses felt differently and continued, but I couldn’t. So, I went back to school and got my art degrees. Art was my true love, so that part of it was a natural choice.”

“After getting out of nursing, why did you choose to go into something…well, that takes you into dealing with death again.”

“Good question. What I saw in ’Nam was a lot of horror, but it was bloody horror, and it was human suffering. Forensic art and sculpture isn’t bloody and the suffering is already past, at least for the departed. I don’t take care of the families or friends of the victims, so it’s totally different to me.”

Suddenly, I could hear Reverend Iordani’s words to me replaying in my head, and it hit me hard. I must have looked as if I was drifting off, because Dr. Carroway interrupted my thoughts again.

“So, you said your husband was a police officer. I’m assuming that’s what led you into this.”

“Yes, it is. Jack used to discuss his tough cases with me, and I had a knack for helping him solve them-an artist’s eye for details, I guess. Anyway, we were exposed to this new science of forensic reconstructive art, and I decided I wanted to learn it. I spent some time with two really terrific forensic reconstructive artists, and then began to do some work on my own. My artistic credentials and my husband’s connections allowed me access to the right people to teach me the skills.”

“Now you’re one of the best in the country.”

“Well, I don’t know about that…”

“No, Dr. Sullivan, you are regarded as one of the very best in the country. I checked.”

I felt myself blushing. I looked down at my feet, cleared my throat and said, “Well, I work hard and enjoy what I do.”

The material in the form was firmed up, so I cut the form open and gently lifted the skull out of the impression. It was a good impression. It would now harden fully and I could transport it back to Austin where the remainder of the work could take place.

“Wow, that’s really interesting,” Dr. Carroway remarked, looking at the fresh mold.

“Yes, the mold looks good.”

“Have you ever had one turn out bad?”

I laughed. “Oh yeah. That’s when you ditch it and start all over.”

We both smiled.

I packed up all my supplies, and Dr. Carroway called the sergeant major, who escorted me out of the building to my waiting cab. On my way back to the hotel, the memories of ’Nam began to flood in.

The first horror that revisited my mind was the smell. You never forget the smell and it’s something you really can’t describe. It’s sour and stale-a decayed smell. It was the smell that came with blood, burn wounds, infections and death. It’ll wrench your gut up into your throat. As if the smell wasn’t bad enough, the images that come along with it finish you off and you’re retching and in the dry heaves in no time flat. I already felt sick after my morning at the CILHI labs. The remembrance of that smell was compounding my queasiness. The remembrance of it was so real, it was as if it was there in the cab with me.

The dentists had the worst duty. The mortuary was nearby and a lot of the dead were burn victims-napalm and air crashes on the landing strip. They had to be identified by dental records. Those poor dentists would throw up three or four times just doing the ID on one body. I don’t know how any of them ever ate anything while they were in ’Nam.