She bit her lower lip. “Judging by the slight pitting and sharpness of her ribs at her sternal area, I would estimate her age between twenty-five and thirty years when she died.”
“I meant the age of the bones. Are they ancient or are they fresh?”
“I can’t answer that without a full examination.”
“And what does that entail?”
“It means sectioning this site off to search for any clothing, jewelry or artifacts that might give me a ballpark date of burial.”
“Too long. I need something to go by now.”
She scooped a handful of sand away from the pelvis area. A few more scoops and she pulled up something rusty. “How about a zipper? Not your typical ancient woman’s attire.”
The doctor grabbed a plastic bag from her case, but before she dropped it in the bag, she placed it back where she found it and snapped a picture of it with her camera. Then she stood and handed him the bag with the zipper in it to study.
“I’m going to need more proof than a zipper to tell me that we’re not dealing with an old corpse. Zippers have been around for at least a century.”
Dr. Muir met him at eye level. She really was quite tall if she came close to his six-five height. Even if they were nearly equal in height, they weren’t in width. With her hands on her slim waist, elbows jutting out at her side in sharp points, she looked as though the whipping wind could take her for a ride.
“Sheriff, I won’t be able to determine her age until I get the remains back to my lab and analyze their nitrogen level. The higher the level, the younger the age. Anything younger than twenty years will require an investigation, whether you like it or not.”
“You seem pretty smart, Doc. Surely you have something in that kit of yours that can push this along. Give you one of those ballparks you mentioned.”
Dr. Muir pinched her trembling and purpling lips, reminding him that she wasn’t as smart as he gave her credit for. The fool woman didn’t even know how to dress adequately for the climate, and now the cold was settling into her own bones.
Wesley ripped off his coat. “Put this on before you freeze.”
She questioned him with raised eyebrows, but her lips relaxed at his offer. She took his heavy uniform coat without a fight and quickly stuffed her arms into the sleeves and zipped up.
She went back to her tool kit. “I suppose it’s getting dark enough that I could use my ultraviolet flashlight to give you a guess, but this is off the record. I won’t put it in writing.” She turned back with a small black flashlight. “Fresh bones glow a blue color under UV light. Time causes the fluorescence to diminish from the outside in, giving a relative age at each stage of glowing. Bones older than a hundred years won’t glow at all.” She clicked the light on and beamed it on the skull.
Neither of them said anything as vivid blue fluoresced, illuminating the facial features straight through. Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose at the truth staring back at him. He didn’t need the doctor to state anything off the record. And denying the facts wouldn’t change them. These weren’t pirate bones, and treasure hunters were the least of his worries. These bones were fresh ones buried in a shallow grave.
The doctor looked up from her crouched position. “Less than ten years, and these markings on the rib cage—” she pointed at the tiny lines “—are lacerations made by a knifelike instrument. It would appear a crime has occurred on your island, Sheriff Grant. And my assessment says it’s murder.”
TWO
“Dr. Webber, I’m certain these bones are less than ten years old.” Lydia spoke quietly into her cell phone from the back porch of Deputy Matthews’s home, where he and his wife had generously offered to put Lydia up for the night.
Stepping Stones didn’t have a hotel or a motel or any type of boardinghouse really. If it weren’t for their offer, Lydia would have been sleeping in one of the two cells at the sheriff’s station. This huge captain’s house perched on the top of a ledge overlooking the sea, capped with its own widow’s walk and porches, was much better digs. Mrs. Matthews even offered her a lovely room with an ocean view, and Lydia knew come daylight when she could see it, she would love it even more.
Lydia faced the black sea and continued her conversation. “I also see evidence of multiple lacerations on the rib cage. This looks like a murder, and I’m recommending a full investigation.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Simon Webber grumbled nasally. “Your job was to assess the situation and report back to me. I will determine if an investigation is in order. You have not been authorized, Miss Muir.”
“It’s Doctor Muir, and you authorized me to make this call when you sent me here.”
“My mistake. It won’t happen again. Unfortunately, I am still detained with museum business. Tag and categorize the remains and bring them back to me. I’ll determine if the coroner needs to be called in. You are not to call him.”
“Sir, I am not an intern any longer. I—”
“Bring the remains to me, Miss Muir. Or you will regret it.”
The phone went dead, and Lydia heaved a sigh. She leaned forward against the railing and blew out her frustration. Waves roared over and over in the dark night. The sound lulled her as she angled her head over her shoulder and eyed Deputy Matthews and Sheriff Grant through the doorway to the kitchen.
They stood around the breakfast island conversing in their own hushed tones and using sign language for the benefit of the deputy’s deaf wife, also leaning against the yellow Formica countertop. Lydia pulled her coat tighter around her to ward off the slicing air and pocketed the phone.
Her lips pressed tight to regain her composure before facing the officers with the change of plans. As it turned out, this wasn’t her big break after all. It wasn’t her time to shine. God had not prepared her way here as she’d thought. Today would end no differently than any other. More than anything Lydia wanted to fade out of Deputy Matthews’s home. She didn’t want to have to tell them she’d been trumped. Again.
But she couldn’t let them see her failure. Professionalism through and through. That’s the way it had to be. Always, and under every circumstance. She would not let Dr. Webber break her down. She’d come this far with all his comparisons, pitting her against her father. As if she’d ever win that prize. She’d accepted a long time ago that she would never be as brilliant as the great scientist, her father, Dr. Gerard Muir. Apparently Dr. Webber thought she would be when he hired her.
If only she could show him what she was capable of with this case. She may not be her father, but if he would give her a chance, he would see she was a good forensic anthropologist. He would see she was a good candidate for the directorship position. If only.
Lydia breathed deep and exhaled a condensed cloud of air into the cold night, accepting the position wasn’t to be so for her.
“Problem?”
Lydia whipped around to find Sheriff Grant standing there. How long had he been there?
“Everything’s fine,” she blurted out and averted her eyes to look
