Tim Larabee might have been handsome were it not for his addiction to running. The daily marathon training had wizened his body, thinned his hair, and leatherized his face. The perpetual tan seemed to gather in the hol ows of his cheeks, and to pool around eyes set way too deep. Eyes that were now crimped with concern.

“Next to God and the Baptist church, family has been the cornerstone of Gideon Banks’s life,” I said. “This wil shake him.”

“Perhaps it’s not as bad as it seems.”

I gave Larabee the Look. We’d had this conversation an hour earlier.

“Al right.” He raised a sinewy hand. “It seems bad. I’m sure Mr. Banks wil appreciate the personal input. Who’s driving you?”

“SkinnySlidel .”

“Your lucky day.”

“I wanted to go alone, butSlidel refused to take no for an answer.”

“Not Skinny?” Mock surprise.

“I think Skinny’s hoping for some kind of lifetime achievement award.”

“I think Skinny’s hoping to get laid.”

I pegged a pen at him. He batted it down.

“Watch yourself.”

Larabee withdrew. I heard the autopsy room door click open, then shut.

I checked my watch. Three forty-two.Slidel would be here in twenty minutes. The brain cel s did a col ective cringe. On Skinny there was cerebral agreement.

I shut the computer down and leaned back in my chair.

What would I say to Gideon Banks?

Bad luck, Mr. Banks. Looks like your youngest gave birth, wrapped the tyke in a blanket, and used him as kindling.

Good, Brennan.

Wham-o! The visual cel s sent up a new mental image. Banks pul ing a Kodak print from a cracked leather wal et. Six brown faces. Close haircuts for the boys, pigtails for the girls. Al with teeth too big for the smiles.

Zoom out.

The old man beaming over the photo, adamant that each child would go to col ege.

Did they?

No idea.

I slipped off my lab coat and hung it on the hook behind my door.

If the Banks kids had attended UNC–Charlotte while I was on the faculty, they’d shown little interest in anthropology. I’d met only one. Reggie, a son midrange in the offspring chronology, had taken my human evolution course.

The memory cel s offered a gangly kid in a basebal cap, brim low over razor-blade brows. Last row in the lecture hal . A intel ect, C+ effort.

How long ago? Fifteen years? Eighteen?

I’d worked with a lot of students back then. In those days my research focused on the ancient dead, and I’d taught several undergraduate classes.

Bioarchaeology. Osteology. Primate ecology.

One morning an anthro grad showed up at my lab. A homicide detective with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD, she’d brought bones recovered from a shal ow grave. Could her former prof determine if the remains were those of a missing child?

I could. They were.