“At Liberty Valance eating.”
“Thank you for getting back to me so quickly,” I irritably said.
“Gee, Doc. It must’ve been lost in space somewhere, because I just got it. What the shit’s going on?”
I could hear the background noise of people drinking and enjoying food that was guaranteed to be heavy and rich but worth it.
“Are you on a pay phone?” I asked.
“Yeah, and I’m off duty, just so you know.”
He took a swallow of something that I figured was beer.
“I’ve got to get to Washington tomorrow. Something significant has come up.”
“Uh oh. I hate it when you say that.”
“I found something else.”
“You gonna tell me or do I have to stay up all night pacing?”
He had been drinking, and I did not want to talk to him about this now.
“Listen, can you go with me, assuming Dr. Vessey can see us?”
“The bones man at the Smithsonian?”
“I’ll call him at home as soon as we get off the phone.”
“I’m off tomorrow, so I guess I can squeeze you in.”
I did not say anything as I stared at the simmering pot and turned the heat down just a little.
“Point is, count me in,” Marino said, swallowing again.
“Meet me at my house,” I said. “At nine.”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
Next I tried Dr. Vessey’s Bethesda home and he answered on the first ring.
“Thank God,” I said. “Alex? It’s Kay Scarpetta.”
“Oh! Well, how are you?”
He was always a bit befuddled and missing in action in the minds of the hoi polloi who did not spend their lives putting people back together again. Dr. Vessey was one of the finest forensic anthropologists in the world, and he had helped me many times before.
“I’ll be much better if you tell me you’re in town tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ll be working on the railroad as always.”
“I’ve got a cut mark on a skull. I need your help. Are you familiar with the Warrenton fire?”
“Can’t be conscious and not know about that.”
“Okay. Then you understand.”
“I won’t be there until about ten and there’s no place to park,” he said. “I got in a pig’s tooth the other day with aluminum foil stuck in it,” he absently went on about whatever he’d been doing of late. “I guess from a pig roast, dug up in someone’s backyard. The Mississippi coroner thought it was a homicide, some guy shot in the mouth.”
He coughed and loudly cleared his throat. I heard him drink something.
“Still getting bear paws now and then,” he went on, “more coroners thinking they’re human hands.”
“I know, Alex,” I said. “Nothing has changed.”