Bones of the Lost by Kathy Reichs Page A

photographs, but our office must retain the originals.”
    “That will be sufficient.”
    “Do you know where the MCME facility is located?”
    “Yes. Half an hour, then.”
    Dead air.
    And you have a nice day, too, Agent Dew.
    As my palm smacked the gearshift, a warning growl rose from my gut.
    Quick time check. Almost two. I’d catch a bite when Dew left. Maybe hop out for a burger and fries.
    Who was I kidding? The chance of lunch was less probable than that of finding Birdie in an apron cooking dinner tonight.
    Grab something at the Yum-Tum? I wasn’t that hungry. Never would be.
    I popped in a Scott Joplin CD, cranked the volume, and tapped the wheel to the beat of the “Maple Leaf Rag.”
    •  •  •
    Twenty minutes and a Circle K stop later, I swung into the MCME lot. Mrs. Flowers buzzed me through, smiling as always.
    I waited for her usual decorous briefing.
    “You have no new phone messages. Dr. Larabee is out. No one else has requested time with you.” The “i” in time was three miles long.
    “Thank you. Someone from Immigration and Customs Enforcement will be here shortly. Special Agent Luther Dew.”
    “The mummified dogs?” The penciled brows lifted a millimeter on the powdered forehead.
    “Has Joe completed the X-rays?”
    “He placed them in the small autopsy room.”
    “Thanks. Please give me a heads-up before sending Dew back.”
    “Of course.”
    En route to my office, I glanced at the case board. Nothing new for me.
    I was checking my inbox when the phone rang.
    Great.
    “Your special agent is here.” No tremble, no quivery breathing.
    Point of information. Though as refined as any Daughter of Dixie, in the presence of the tall, dark, and handsome, Mrs. Flowers not only blushes, she goes all Marilyn breathless.
    So. Dew wasn’t much to look at.
    “Can you hold him ten minutes before sending him back?”
    “Certainly.”
    In the small autopsy room, each light box held a film, and large brown envelopes lay beside three of the four plastic tubs.
    Shifting from box to box, I flicked switches and viewed X-rays of the contents of the first bundle.
    Good.
    Removing those images, I moved on through the other three series. I was peering at the last film when footsteps clicked down the corridor.
    I turned.
    A pink beluga filled the open doorway. No fedora, bow tie, or suspenders.
    Dew wore a white shirt, blue tie, and pinstriped navy suit. A very large one. I put him at six two, minimally three hundred pounds.
    I stepped forward and extended a hand. “Tempe Brennan.”
    “Luther Dew.” Firm grip, but not a testosterone crusher.
    Dew’s eyes flicked past me, came back.
    “Thank you for making time.” The high voice sounded wrong emanating from the supersize body.
    “Of course.”
    Again, Dew’s gaze went to the X-rays. I noted that his eyes had oddly violet sclera.
    “Please.” I gestured him to the nearest light box. “Come closer.”
    Dew’s fleshy neck stacked into layers as his head tilted left then right to make sense of the superimposed long bones, ribs, and other anatomical parts.
    “It doesn’t look human,” he concluded.
    “Canine all the way. Note the snout, the teeth, the tail vertebrae.” I pointed to each.
    “The others are similar?”
    I nodded. “Though I’ve made only preliminary observations.” Now there was an understatement. “One appears to be a puppy.”
    Dew spent a few more moments studying the compressed skeleton glowing white on the film.
    “I appreciate your limiting your examination to noninvasive methods.”
    “Unless I spot something suspicious I shouldn’t have to disturb the wrappings.”
    “The Peruvian archaeologists will appreciate that.” Dew pulled out and waggled a small point-and-shoot Nikon. “May I?”
    I switched X-rays until he’d photographed all four sets. Then he shot pics of the unopened bundles.
    When he’d finished, we both stood a moment, regarding the dogs.
    A thought struck me. What the hell?
    “The