I am constantly asked why I've chosen such a morbid vocation. Why I work with the mutilated and decomposed.

Through time and introspection, I have come to understand my choices. I want to serve both the living and the dead. The dead have a right to be identified. To have their stories drawn to a close and to take their places in our memories. If they died at the hands of another, they also have a right to have those hands brought to account.

The living as wel deserve our support when the death of another alters their lives: The parent desperate for news of a missing child. The family hopeful of remains from Iwo Jima or Chosin or Hue. The vilagers bereft at a mass grave in Guatemala or Kurdistan. The mothers and husbands and lovers and friends dazed at an overlook in the Smoky Mountains. They have a right to information, explanations, and also a right to have murderous hands brought to account.

It is for these victims and the mourners that I tease posthumous tales from bones. The dead wil remain dead, whatever my efforts, but there have to be answers and accountability. We cannot live in a world that accepts the destruction of life with no explanations and no consequences.

Of course, an ethics violation would end my career in forensics. If the lieutenant governor had his way, I would effectively be barred from pursuing my profession. An expert witness under an ethical cloud is roadkil on cross-examination. Who would have confidence in any opinion of mine?

Anger replaced self-pity. I would not be driven out of forensics by unfounded accusations and innuendo. I couldn't give in. I had to prove that I was right. I owed it to myself. Even more, I owed it to Primrose Hobbs and her mourning son.

But how?

What to do?

I tossed and turned, feeling like that spider in the rain. My world was under attack by forces stronger than me, and I lacked the power to keep it together.

Sleep finaly came, but there was no relief.

When agitated, my brain weaves thoughts into psychedelic colages. Al night disjointed images floated in and out of focus.

I was in the incident morgue, sorting body parts. Ryan ran past. I caled out, asking what had happened to the foot. He didn't stop. I tried to chase him, but my feet wouldn't move. I kept shouting, reached out, but he drew farther and farther away.

Boyd raced around a cemetery, a dead squirrel hanging from his mouth.

Wilow Lynette Gist and Jonas Mitchel posed for a wedding picture. In her hand the Cherokee bride clutched the foot I'd taken from coyotes.