In Columbia, Slidel took Bul Street and turned left at the edge of campus. Failing to locate a spot in the visitor-metered parking area, he pul ed into a faculty lot and cut the engine.

“Some egghead gets me ticketed, I’l tel him to stick it up his PHD.” Slidel pocketed the keys. “You know what those letters stand for, don’t you, Doc?” Though I indicated no interest, Slidel provided his definition.

“Piled higher and deeper.”

Exiting the Taurus was brutal. The sun was white-hot, the pavement rippling as we crossed Pendelton Street. Overhead, leaves hung motionless, like damp nappies on clotheslines on a windless day.

The USC anthropology facilities were located in a dishwater-blond building named Hamilton Col ege. Built in 1943 to spur the war effort, Hamilton now looked like it could use some spurring of its own.

Slidel and I located the departmental office and presented ourselves to the secretary/receptionist. Dragging her eyes from a computer screen, the woman regarded us through Dame Edna glasses. She was in her fifties, with a mulberry mushroom on her forehead and hair piled higher than a Texas deb’s.

Slidel asked for Cagle.

The deb informed him that the professor was not in.

When had she last seen him?

A week ago Friday.

Had Cagle been on campus since?

Possible, though their paths hadn’t crossed. Cagle’s mailbox had been emptied the immediate past Friday. She hadn’t seen him then or since.

Slidel asked the location of Cagle’s office.

Third floor. Entrance was impossible without written permission.

Slidel asked the location of Cagle’s lab.

Second floor. The deb reiterated the point about written permission.

Slidel flashed his badge.

The deb studied Slidel ’s shield, lipstick crawling into the wrinkles radiating from her tightly clamped lips. If she noticed the words “Charlotte-Mecklenburg,” she didn’t let on. She turned a shoulder, dialed a number, waited, disconnected, dialed again, waited again, hung up. Sighing theatrical y, she rose, walked to a filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, unhooked one of several dozen keys, and checked its tag.

Keeping several steps ahead to minimize opportunity for conversation, our reluctant hostess led us to the second floor, down a tiled corridor, and around a corner to a wooden door with a frosted-glass window. The wordsHUMAN IDENTIFICATION LABORATORYwere stenciled on the glass in bold, black letters.

“What exactly is it you need?” The deb ran a thumb back and forth across the smal round key tag.

“Last Thursday Dr. Cagle promised he’d send me a case report and photos,” I said. “I haven’t received them. I can’t reach him by phone and it’s quite urgent.”

“Dr. Cagle’s been in the field al summer, only comes in on weekends. Y’al sure he intended to do it right away?”

“Absolutely.”