Two creases puckered the mulberry mushroom. “Man’s usual y very predictable and very reliable.” The deb hunched her whole body when she turned the key, as though revelation of the wrist movement might constitute a security breach. Straightening, she swung the door inward, and pointed a lacquered nail at me.

“Don’t disturb any of Dr. Cagle’s things.” It came out “thangs.” “Some are official police evidence.” It came out “poe-lice.”

“We’l be very careful,” I said.

“Check with me on your way out.”

Dril ing us each with a look, the deb marched off down the corridor.

“Broad missed her cal ing in the SS,” Slidel said, moving past me through the open door.

Cagle’s lab was an earlier-era version of mine at UNCC. More solid, outfitted with oak and marble, not molded plastic and painted metal.

I did a quick scan.

Worktables. Sinks. Microscopes. Light boxes. Copy stand. Ventilator hood. Hanging skeleton. Refrigerator. Computer.

Slidel tipped his head toward a wal of floor-to-ceiling storage cabinets.

“What do you suppose that meatbal keeps locked up in there?”

“Bones.”

“Jay-zus Kee-rist.”

While Slidel went through the unlocked cupboards above the work counters, I checked the room’s single desk. Its top was bare save for a blotter.

A file drawer on the left held forms of various types. Archaeological survey sheets. Burial inventories. Blank bone quizzes. Audiovisual requisitions.

The long middle drawer contained the usual assortment of pens, plastic-headed tacks, paper clips, rubber bands, stamps, and coins.

Nothing extraordinary.

Except that everything was organized into separate boxes, slots, and niches, each labeled and spotlessly clean. Inside the compartments, every item was aligned with geometric precision.

“Fastidious little wanker.” Slidel had come up behind me.

I checked the right two drawers. Stationery. Envelopes. Printer paper. Labels. Post-its.

Same ordinary supplies. Same anal tidiness.

“Your desk look like that?” Slidel asked.

“No.” I’d once found a dead goldfish in my desk drawer. Solved the mystery of its disappearance the previous spring.

“Mine sure don’t.”

Being familiar with Slidel ’s car, I didn’t want to imagine the state of his desk.

“Any sign of the report?”

I shook my head.

Slidel moved on to the lower-counter drawers, and I began on the file cabinets to the left of the desk. One held class materials. The other was fil ed with forensic case reports.

Bingo!

Across the room, Slidel banged a drawer home.

“I’ve gotta get some air.”

“Fine.”

I said nothing about the files. Better to have Slidel outside smoking than breathing down my neck.

The dossiers were organized chronological y. Twenty-three dated to the year Cagle had examined the Lancaster skeleton. I found two for the proper month, but none for a headless body.

I checked the preceding and fol owing years, then scanned the tab on every folder.

The report wasn’t there.

Slidel returned after ten minutes, smel ing of Camels, armpits, and sweaty hair cream.

“I found Cagle’s case files.”