“He’ll be able to help you,” said McHenry, brightening a bit. “Not that he can verify any dental work, but he did know Mathew pretty well.” McHenry chuckled, old memories filling his fleshy face. “A regular patient, he was. The boy did know how to brawl.”

Doctor Hasler was waiting for them. As the car pulled into the small parking area in front of his combination house and office building, the small, wiry white-haired old man walked out of the front door and hobbled toward them, leaning on a cane. He wore thick glasses and hearing aids. His head was tilted to the side as he searched their faces. Moving instinctively to Condley, he held out a trembling, liver-spotted hand.

“You’re in charge,” he warbled, shaking Condley’s hand. And then he pointed at Hanson Muir. “And he’s the scientist. I’m very glad you’ve come, actually. Follow me inside, boys.”

Doctor Hasler’s office was in the front area of his home. He led them through it, past a desk area and a well-lit examination room, and then into a surprisingly well-furnished living room. Hundreds of books filled a floor-to-ceiling wooden bookcase that covered an entire wall. A new Japanese air conditioner whirred quietly from near the ceiling. They followed him to a sitting area, falling into lush leather chairs as he took his favorite place on an old leather couch. A wall just across from Condley was filled with pictures and military citations from World War Two.

Hanson Muir sighed happily, at home in these surroundings, basking in the cool breath of the air conditioner. He dropped his folder onto the sturdy mahogany table in front of the chairs.

“Thank you for seeing us, Doctor.”

“Thank you for coming,” said the old man. “I’ve been wanting to put this to rest for a very long time.”

Muir glanced quickly at Condley, surprised at the intensity of Doctor Hasler’s response. “So you knew Mathew Larkin, did you?”

“Yes,” said Hasler, his head bouncing slightly from the same tremor that caused his hands to shake. “Yes. Quite well.”

“Unfortunately, there are no dental records here, so we’re going to have to try and match up what little evidence we have from his skeletal remains.”

“What happened to him?” asked the doctor, his opaque eyes intense behind the glasses. “How did he die?”

Muir seemed to balk at the question, so Condley leaned forward in his chair, speaking quietly to the old man. “If these remains are actually those of Mathew Larkin, he was murdered.”

“How?” asked Hasler. “By whom? Why? That is, if you don’t mind. Excuse me, but I’d very much like to know.”