I double-stepped the last few stairs, raced to my room, and opened the file on case number 387. After jotting down the new figures, we compared Primrose's data with that which I'd already colected.

'Each of your measurements is within one milimeter of mine,' I said. 'You're good.'

'You got that right.'

Confident that inter-observer error would not be a problem, I thanked her, and asked when I could get the chapter. She suggested I meet her at the parking lot gate in twenty minutes. In her opinion, entry into the morgue was not yet an option for me.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Primrose must have been watching, for as soon as I left the highway she emerged through the morgue's back door and began picking her way across the lot, cane in one hand, plastic grocery bag in the other.

Meanwhile, the guard came forward, read my license plate, and checked a clipboard. Then he shook his head, held one hand in a halt gesture, and signaled me to reverse direction with the other. Primrose approached him and said a few words.

The guard continued to signal and shake his head. Primrose leaned close and spoke again, old black woman to young black man. The guard roled his eyes, then folded his hands across his chest and watched her continue toward my car, a five-star general in boots, fatigues, and granny bun.

Leaning on her cane, she handed the bag through the driver's-side window. Her face was serious a moment, then a smile lighted her eyes, and she patted me on the shoulder.

'Don't you pay this trouble no mind, Tempe. You haven't done any of those things and they'l see that soon.'

'Thanks, Primrose. You're right, but it's hard.'

'Course it is. But I'm keeping you in my prayers.'

Her voice was as soothing as a Brandenburg Concerto.

'In the meantime, you just take one day at a time. One damn day at a time.'

With that she turned and set off toward the morgue.

I'd rarely heard Primrose Hobbs curse.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back in my room, I puled out the chapter, flipped to Table IV, plugged in the measurements, and did the math.

The foot classified as American Indian.

I calculated again, using a second function.

Though closer to the cluster for African Americans, the foot stil fel with the Native Americans.

George Adair was white, Jeremiah Mitchel was black. So much for the missing fisherman and the man who'd borrowed his neighbor's ax.

Unless he'd wandered back to the reservation, Daniel Wahnetah was looking like a match.

I checked my watch. Ten forty-five. Late enough.

The sheriff was not in. No. They would not phone her at home. No. They would not give out her pager number. Was this an emergency? They would relay the message that I had caled.

Damn. Why hadn't I gotten Crowe's pager number?