The adult skull is composed of twenty-two bones separated by twenty-four sutures that appear as squiggly lines. Throughout adulthood, these gaps fill in and disappear. Though progress varies from person to person, the state of suture closure can provide a very general sense of age.

The John Doe’s squiggles suggested he was a middle-aged adult.

The pubic symphyseal faces also undergo change throughout adulthood. Those of the John Doe were smooth and had raised edges rimming their perimeters, suggesting an age range centering on thirty-five.

The epiphysis, or little cap at the breastbone end of each clavicle, fuses to the shaft somewhere between the ages of eighteen and thirty. Both the John Doe’s caps were solidly attached.

Bottom line. My first estimate was dead-on. In all probability, the John Doe was in his fourth decade when he died.

A bit old for Cale Lovette, but not impossible.

“So,” I said, stripping off and tossing my gloves. “It’s probably not Lovette.”

“Who’s Lovette?”

Hawkins was at the sink, untying his apron. I told him about the MPs from 1998.

“Don’t remember hearing talk of ’em.” His tone was brusque.

“Apparently no one does. Anyway, Galimore will be happy.”

Hawkins winged his wadded apron toward the biohazard receptacle. It bounced off the edge and landed on the floor. He made no move to retrieve it.

“You have issues with Galimore?” I asked.

“Damn right I have issues with Galimore.”

“You want to tell me?”

“The man can’t be trusted.” Hawkins’s mouth was crimped as though he’d tasted something bitter.

“Are you referring to his alcohol problem?”

“Suppose that’s as good a starting place as any.”

Hawkins crossed to the pail, pounded the pedal with his heel, snatched up and tossed the apron inside. Letting the lid slam, he strode from the room.

After changing to street clothes, I went in search of my boss. He was not at his desk, in the kitchen, out front, or in the large autopsy room.

I returned to my office, jotted Larabee a note about my refined age estimate, then headed out.

The afternoon was featuring the season’s current default weather. The sky was pewter, the thunderheads dark and fat as overripe plums.

On the way home, I thought about the man entombed in asphalt. Had someone filed a missing person report? When? In Charlotte or elsewhere? Had a girlfriend or wife or brother gone to a station, filled out forms, then waited for a call that never came?

I felt in my gut that the man had spent years in the drum. Wondered. Was someone still waiting? Or had all those who’d known him long since forgotten and moved on with their lives?

The first drop hit my windshield as I pulled in at the Annex. I was locking the car when I noticed the doors open on a Ford Crown Vic parked by the coach house ten yards away.