Kegan squinted at the trainer and her dog. “I can't figure out what she's doing out there.”
“Neither can she.”
“She does this little skipping thing. Watch, she'll do it again. See, she calls the dog over, and then she hands it some kind of treat. Now she'll send it off again, and when she doesâthere! Did you see it? She sort of skips along beside the dog for a few stepsâlike those people at the dog shows do when they run around in circles with the dogs.”
“This isn't a dog show,” Nick said.
“It is right now.” Kegan pointed to her feet; Nick looked under the table and saw a technician curled up taking a nap.
“What time did you guys get here?” Nick asked.
“Seven, seven thirtyâshe was already here.”
“She ran you off ?”
“After about thirty minutes. She said we were a âdistracting scent.'”
“That's what she told me yesterday.”
“I can understand it with youâme, I bathe.”
“Did you get a chance to look at anything?”
“I got a quick look at the first grave.”
“And?”
“The skeleton's in pretty bad shapeâsomebody stomped all over it. The victim was a male, judging by the head of the femur and the coarseness of the eyebrow ridge. I couldn't measure the skullâit was smashed flatâbut I found the external occipital protuberance, the place where the neck muscles attach. It was large with heavy muscle markingsâ another male characteristic.”
“What about age?”
“The wisdom teeth are fully formed, so it's definitely an adult. I found a piece of the cranial vault intact; the sutures are mostly fused but still clearly visibleâthat puts him in his thirties or forties. I'm not sure about his height yetâI'll know more when I can pull the femur and put it on an osteometric boardâbut I took a quick measurement. I'd guess he was about six foot, maybe a little lessâbut that's just a guess.”
“Race?”
“The nasal opening is narrow and there's a horizontal dam at the baseâplus the tops of the molars are smooth. Those are characteristics of a Caucasoid skull.”
“Any chance of getting an ID from the teeth?”
“It's possible, but like I said, the skull was crushed flat. That means we've lost the tooth alignment and jaw structure. We've got the individual teeth, but it'll take time to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. We'll need an odontologist for thatâand even then we might have a problem.”
“What's that?”
“Time. If this skeleton is as old as I think it is, there won't be any dental records to match it with.”
“How old do you think it is?”
She frowned. “This may come as a surprise to you, but it takes more than thirty minutes to figure that out. I need more time, Nickâand I want to take a look at that second skeleton. There's probably more we can learn from the first one, but I doubt it's going to be a slam dunk. These are old bonesâthere's only so much we're going to get from them. The second skeleton might tell us moreâand so would any others that are out there. Every one we can find will give us a little more to work with.”
“Agreed. I want to get a look at that other skeleton too. The first one's pretty much a write-off for meâthey removed all the dirt from around the body. I want to set up a sieve next to the second grave and sift the dirt a layer at a time.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Insect parts and pupariaâthe little casings that maturing insects leave behind.”
“Tell me the truth: Can you really tell one fly from another?”
“Can you really tell a male skull from a female skull?”
“Of courseâmale skulls are solid.”
“Funny.”
Nick looked out at the dog and its trainer again, scurrying back and forth across the field in their matching orange vests; there were now two small red flags planted in the ground and fluttering in the breeze. “We've got to get back to work,” he said, “and neither one of us can do that until Marge and Bosco wrap things up out there. Look at thatâ two lousy flagsâthat's all they've got to show for a whole day's sniffing aroundâand I'll bet you twenty bucks that when we excavate those sites there's nothing down there.”
“I'm beginning to think you don't like that dog,” Kegan said.
“I dislike animals that dress better than I do.”
“Well, I feel sorry for them both.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It reminds me of the World Trade Center. Remember? You were thereâthere were dog teams everywhere. They were the kind that search for survivorsâonly there weren't any survivors. By the end the dogs were all getting depressed, so the firemen started hiding in the rubble just so the dogs had someone to find.”
Nick looked at her. “How do women do that?”
“Do what?”
“Manage to feel sympathy for someone who doesn't deserve it. I just can't do that.”
“Really? I feel sorry for you.”
Fifteen minutes went by.
Kegan looked at Nick and smiled. “This makes you crazy, doesn't it?”
“It drives me absolutely bonkers.”
“I think it's good for youâyou could use more patience.”
“That's another thing women do,” Nick said.
“What?”
“Take pleasure in a man's pain because it's âfor his own good.'”
“That's not true,” she said. “We just like to see men suffer.”
They watched for another half hourâthen Nick saw the trainer remove one of the two red flags from the ground.
“That's it,” he said. “I've had it.”
He took out his cell phone and dialed.
“Whiners Anonymous,” Donovan said. “What's wrong now?”
“Send me another dog,” Nick said. “A bloodhound, a poodle, one of those little Taco Bell dogs that talks with a Spanish accentâI don't care, as long as it has all five senses.”
“LookâI checked this woman out after the last time you called. The Bureau uses her all the time. This is a FEMA-certified cadaver dog teamâyou should see their credentials.”
“You should see mine,” Nick said. “I can't smell either.”
“Nickâ”
“I'm telling you, Donovan, this just isn't working out. Maybe it's the dog or maybe it's the trainer; all I know is, I'm standing here with six forensic specialists on your payroll who can't do their jobs because some dog has a sinus condition.”
“C'mon, she can't be that slow.”
“Two graves,” Nick said. “In twenty-four hours this woman has managed to find two gravesâand she just changed her mind about one of them.”
“Maybe there aren't any moreâmaybe that's what the dog is telling us.”
“Then I can go home and you can call the backhoe boys and tell them to dig inâbut I guarantee they'll find more graves when they do, and I'll be back a day laterâand we'll still need a new dog.”
“Is the dog really that bad?”
“I'm standing here with Dr. Kegan Alexander, forensic anthropologist and professor of physical anthropology at the University of Virginia. If you like, I'll put her on the phone and she can give you a second opinion.”
“Okay, I believe you,” Donovan said. “I'll see what I can doâbut cadaver dog teams are hard to find, and it won't be easy to find one with better credentials than hers. I'll put in another request, but it could take a couple of days.”
“A couple of
days
?”
“It's the best I can do, Nick. Look, I gotta goâI've got an appointment with Senator Braden in about two minutes, and these people don't like to be kept waiting.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then get yourself fifty million bucks and call me backâthat's what Braden did. Money talks, Nickâthe rest of us have to listen.”
“Tell the senator something for me, will you?”
“What's that?”
“Tell him his entire construction project has ground to a halt because of one dogâsee what he has to say about that.”
“Yeah, I'll do that. In the meantime I suggest you let this woman keep working.”
“Why?”
“Because it might just take a little longer than you think. Face it, Nick, you're a bug man, and you don't know squat about dogsânow do you?”
“I'll be waiting,” Nick said. “There's not much else I can do.”
Nick dropped the phone into his shirt pocket and looked at Kegan. “Did you hear all that?”
“Most of it.”
“Can you believe it? A couple of
days
.”
“He's right, you know.”
Nick frowned at her. “What happened to all that sympathy?”
“Entomologists are always in a hurry,” she said. “I suppose it makes sense, since you people work with things that hatch and grow up and die in just a week or two. But anthropologists work with bones, so we tend to take a longer view. Relax, Nick. These graves have been here for a long timeâthey'll be here for a couple more days.”
“You can be really annoying sometimes.”
She grinned. “Something else that women do?”
Nick glared at Marge and Bosco. They were taking a break now under the shade of a nylon lean-to set up on the opposite side of the field; the dog was lapping water from its trainer's hand. “I
hate
to wait,” Nick grumbled.
“Sorry. Looks to me like you're out of options.”
“There are always options,” he said. “It just depends on how far you're willing to go.”
“Mr. Donovan, the senator will see you now.” The woman made a come-with-me gesture with two fingers, flashing a brilliant and orthodontically perfect smile.
Donovan rose from his leather chair and followed her down the corridor. She looked to be in her early twenties, probably just out of college, like most of the aides and legislative assistants who worked on the Hill. She was probably a political science major, pre-law, trying for one more impressive entry on her résumé before she sent off her application to Georgetown or UVA. Not Harvardâdefinitely not Harvardâat least that's what she probably told the guy who hired her, since this was the office of the senior senator from Virginia, and a man with the deep roots of John Henry Braden wouldn't want a Virginia malcontent on his staff. She was probably grossly underpaid too, like most of the bright young men and women who took these staff positions. But money was beside the point here; the point was just to get a leg upâ either on the Hill or someplace else.
The corridor was lined with black-framed photographs showcasing the beautiful state of Virginia: a determined-looking man in breeches and a red hunting coat gliding across a hedge on a chestnut mare; the mist-covered Shenandoah Valley in summertime as seen from Skyline Drive; a sprawling antebellum plantation along the James River; and, of course, the glittering jewel in Virginia's crownâMonticello and its famous west front.
They're not making it up,
Donovan thought,
Virginia is one beautiful place
. Whoever selected these photos could have chosen from a hundred other scenic wonders; Donovan wondered if the Patriot Center would ever be considered one of them.
The hallway widened into a large foyer, with five separate offices that opened off of it. The walls were covered in raised panels of matched-grain cherry, giving the room an incredibly rich and aristocratic feelâ like the cigar room of some exclusive men's club that Donovan would never be asked to join. There were two secretaries' desks that faced each other, one on the left and one on the right, forming a kind of aisle-way that carried the eye directly to the door on the opposite wallâthe office of Senator John Henry Braden.
The aide turned and smiled. “Mr. Donovan, how long do you expect to be with the senator this morning?” The question was worded carefully, and it was asked in an unctuous tone of voice that seemed to suggest, “How long can we hope to enjoy your delightful company?” In reality the question meant something very different: She was asking how much of the senator's precious time Donovan intended to waste, and at what point she could interrupt and tell Donovan to take his things and clear out.
“I'm here at the senator's convenience,” Donovan said with a smile of his own. Positioned in front of the senator's door was a somber-looking man striking the unmistakable pose of a security guard: feet shoulder width apart, hands in front, one resting on top of the other, suspended just below the waist. He wore a black jacket with a matching crewneck shirt and slacks, which was a little over the top; a security officer should dress like an employee, not like Johnny Cash. He was thirtyish and lean, with broad shoulders and a muscular neck and jaw. He had thick black hair swept over to the side, forming a well-placed comma over his left eyebrow, and just enough length in back to allow a few curls to fall on his neck.