Speaking in Bones by Kathy Reichs

other, based on size, was the tip of a first, second, or third digit. The proximal articular surfaces of both phalanges were crushed and ragged, the work of an industrious scavenger and pals.
    Totally pumped, I dialed Joe Hawkins’s extension. While awaiting his arrival, I got the fingerprint kit from the storage closet and dug out an inkpad and a ten-print card. No fancy scanners at the MCME. We do it the old way, by rolling and pressing.
    Hawkins arrived, looking his usual cadaverous self. Tall and gaunt, with hollow cheeks and dyed black hair, the guy sent from central casting to play the mortician.
    I showed Hawkins his “subject” and provided the case number. He listened, face blank. Typical Hawkins. No questions, no reactions. No mistakes. Though not exactly jolly, he’s far and away the best autopsy tech in the place. Had achieved that status decades before my arrival.
    While Hawkins jotted information onto the print card, I began shooting close-ups of the hand bones. For a while the only sounds in the room were the click of my shutter release and the occasional clink or tap at the sink.
    Unless the fingers are desiccated or stiff with rigor, printing a corpse usually takes very little time. I was so engrossed with my photos I lost track of the clock. When I looked up, a full half hour had passed.
    Hawkins was still hunched over his task. Tension in his neck and back suggested something was wrong.
    “Tough going?” I asked.
    No answer.
    “I’m happy to help.” Thinking Hawkins’s hands were very large, the fingertips very small.
    Still no response.
    I noticed several print cards discarded on the counter. Each had two black ovals. I assumed the larger represented the thumb, the smaller the finger.

    Hawkins usually gets prints on the first try. Why the problem? I had no idea his age, but knew it had to be well past sixty. Was arthritis compromising his dexterity? Was he embarrassed that I’d see?
    I crossed to the counter and, casual as hell, picked up and glanced at one of the print cards.
    I picked up another.
    And another.
    Hawkins turned from the sink, gloved hands held up and away from his body. His eyes met mine, the dark comma below each crimped in confusion.
    “What the hell?” His fingers splayed in puzzlement.
    I could conjure no explanation.

D uring the second and third months of gestation, when a fetus is one to three and a half inches long, tiny pads form on the fingertips. During the third and fourth months, the skin goes from thinly transparent to waxy, and the first ridges appear on the pads. By the sixth month, when the average fetus is a whopping twelve inches long, its fingerprints are formed and fixed for life.
    Scientists aren’t in total agreement as to how it works. One theory holds that the speedier basal layer of the epidermis is scrunched between its slower-growing counterparts in the epidermis above and the dermis below. Pressure from straining against its slower neighbors causes the skin to buckle into folds. Movement in the womb then throws in a few more twists. Whatever the process, the end result is a mind-boggling amount of variation.
    Fingerprint ridging falls into one of three broad patterns: arches, loops, or whorls. Each ridge shows further individuality in the form of endings, bifurcations, and dots.
    An ending is the place at which one ridge stops and another begins. A bifurcation is the place where a ridge splits, forming a Y-shaped pattern. A dot is a segment of ridge so small it appears as, well, a dot.

    There are often hundreds of these “points” of identification on one finger. The relationship between each point and the surrounding ridge detail is so complex it is believed no two patterns are exactly alike.
    Bottom line: Fingerprints kick ass for individual ID.
    Not so for ME122-15. The little ovals on the print cards were solid black. No ridges. No dots. Not a single arch, loop, or whorl.
    “Is the skin damaged?” I asked, fearful the acetone had been