The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel's buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.

Best estimate: more than a year and less than a mil ennium.

Claudel would have a field day with that.

Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions.

I was rol ing out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel's arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.

"Brennan."

"Dr. Temperance Brennan?" A female voice, quavery and uncertain.

"Out."

I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rol ed over to the night service.

"I didn't expect you to actual y answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat--"

"Is there something I can help you with?" I matched her English.

There was a pause, as if the cal er was actual y considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.

"Wel , I don't know. Actual y, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you."

Great. Another citizen volunteer.

Members of crime scene recovery units are typical y not scientists.

They are technicians. They col ect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit's involvement is over.

No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveil ance. No hot lead shootouts.

Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.

« 36 »

But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hol ywood myth needs a kick in the pants.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process."

"Oh." I heard a sharp intake of air.

"If you stop in the personnel office, I'm certain that printed material exists giving job descnpt--"

"No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in Le Journal yesterday.

I phoned your office."

Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.

Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The cal was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.

"This may sound crazy." Nervous throat clearing. "And I know how very busy you must be."

"Actual y, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.--?"

The name was distorted by static. Gal ant? Bal ant? Talent?

"--bones you dug up."

Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.