“So there’s no way to track prints through a film processing company.” Slidel .

“And the cal was probably placed at a pay phone.” Rinaldi. “Would you like us to order surveil ance for you?”

“Do you think that’s warranted?”

I had expected indifference, perhaps impatience. The sincerity of their responses was unsettling.

“We’l step up patrols past your place.”

“Thank you.”

“How about your kid’s crib?” Slidel .

I saw Katy, relaxed and unaware on a front porch swing.

“Stepped up patrols would be good.”

“Done.”

When they’d gone I checked again with Mrs. Flowers. Stil no fax from Cagle. She assured me she would deliver the report the second it finished printing.

Returning to my office, I tried to concentrate on a backlog of mail and paperwork. Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. I nearly knocked my soda to the floor snatching up the receiver.

It was Mrs. Flowers.

Cagle’s fax with the Lancaster skeletal report had not arrived, but Brian Aiker’s dental records had. Dr. Larabee had requested my presence in the main autopsy room.

When I arrived, the ME was arranging radiographs on two light boxes, each set consisting of twelve tiny films showing teeth in the upper and lower jaws.

Joe Hawkins had taken one series on the privy skul and jaw. Brian Aiker’s dentist had provided the other.

One look was enough.

“Don’t think we’l need a forensic dentist for this one,” Larabee said.

“Nope,” I agreed.

Brian Aiker’s X rays showed crowns and posts in two upper and two lower molars, clear evidence of root canal work.

The privy skul X rays showed none.

Wal y Cagle’s report did not arrive on Friday. Nor did it come on Saturday. Or Sunday.

Twice each day I visited the MCME. Twice each day I cal ed Cagle at his office, his home, and on his cel .

Never an answer.

Twice each day I checked my e-mail for the scanned images.

Bad news and good news.

No photos from Cagle.

No photos from the Grim Reaper.

I spent the weekend wondering about the Lancaster bones. If the skul and postcranial remains belonged to the same person, it wasn’t Brian Aiker. Who was it?

Did the privy skul real y go with Cagle’s skeleton? I’d been so sure, but it was just instinct. I had no hard data. Could we actual y have two unknowns?

What had happened to Brian Aiker? To Charlotte Grant Cobb?

I also pondered the whereabouts of Tamela Banks and her family. The Bankses were unsophisticated people. How could they simply disappear? Why would they do so?

On Saturday morning I made a quick visit to the Bankses’ home. The shades were stil drawn. A pile of newspapers lay on the porch. No one answered my rings or knocking.

Ryan phoned daily, updating me on the condition of his sister and niece. Things were not sunny in Halifax.