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Authors: Julia Heaberlin
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seeing
before returning home to her Stockholm lab in two weeks: the Amon Carter for its muscled
bronze Russells and Remingtons, and for the beautiful black boy in the newspaper hat;
the Kimbell for the silvery light cascading on buxom masterpieces and for the ill-fated
young man in the company of wicked sixteenth-century cardsharps; the Sixth Floor Museum,
where Oswald angled his rifle, and a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist defiantly roamed the
sidewalk, saying,
Nope, not like that.
As Britta eyes Bill, I am thinking it is
more likely she will end up in his bed. I’d gotten a curt smile from him this
morning.
“Stephen King researched part of his
Kennedy time-travel opus at the Sixth Floor Museum archives,” Bill is telling
them.
“Great book,” Jo says.
“King’s a genius. But he never really got Texas. And I’m saying that
as an Oklahoman. Hi, Bill. Tessa. Sarita. John and Gretchen. Britta, glad you could make
it today. Looks like they are just getting started.”
The skull is now facing us, leering from its
spot on the counter. The woman in white is still unwrapping puzzle pieces. A long,
pearly leg bone, and then another in much worse shape, like a tree branch snapped off in
winter.
“Tammy’s in charge today,”
Jo says. “Running the room.” Thetwo exchange a brief wave.
Four other women dressed in sterile suits are taking their places in the lab in front of
clear glass hoods. The fluorescent light is brutal, and cold.
“Looking into a serial killer’s
refrigerator,” Bill mutters in my ear.
Jo glances our way, but I can’t tell
if she heard. “Each forensic analyst has a specific job,” she explains.
“Margaret will cut a small piece out of the bone. Toneesha will clean it with
bleach, ethanol, and water. Jen will pulverize it to a fine powder, from which we
extract the DNA. Bessie’s only role is to spray down the surfaces as we go, to
keep things as sterile as possible. It’s protocol. Always.”
Her eyes are focused on the activity behind
the window. Jo’s in her element. Brilliant, without ego. Empathetic, without
cynicism.
I am thinking that Jo remembers every single
person by name on both sides of the glass. I am thinking, she could be talking about how
to refine sugar.
“Never forget protocol.”
Suddenly stern. “Never get sloppy. Somebody accused me of that once. Worst time of
my life.”
She doesn’t extrapolate. So far, no
talk of the actual case—who these bones represent, why they are special.
“We like the skull and the denser
bones, particularly femurs,” she continues. “Gives us the longest string of
mitochondrial DNA and the best chance at retrieving information on our way to finding
out who they are. We’re lucky we’ve got these three specimens, considering
the bones have been scavenged and moved at least once.”
The skull is being tucked under one of the
hoods. The buzzing of the saw drifts through glass, like it is floating down the street
on a lazy Saturday.
When the first Susan returns to the counter,
a new one-inch-square hole glares out of the top of her head.
One more degradation in an endless string of
them.
I’m sorry,
I say silently.
But there is no toothless, hollow answer in my head.
The Dremel saw drills a leg bone while the
piece of skull isscrubbed raw in the second station. The technicians
have forgotten us, slipping into a comfortable rhythm. I don’t know what I was
expecting, but not this surreal, matter-of-fact routine.
“It must be especially exciting to
work on the Black-Eyed Susans,” Sarita says brightly. The student from Oxford. Her
voice is British, clipped. Her black heels are too high. “It must be an honor for
these techs. These must be your best.”
I can feel Jo’s body go taut as if it
is my own. “To them,” she says. “And to me, this case … these
bones … are no different than any other bone entrusted to us.
before returning home to her Stockholm lab in two weeks: the Amon Carter for its muscled
bronze Russells and Remingtons, and for the beautiful black boy in the newspaper hat;
the Kimbell for the silvery light cascading on buxom masterpieces and for the ill-fated
young man in the company of wicked sixteenth-century cardsharps; the Sixth Floor Museum,
where Oswald angled his rifle, and a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist defiantly roamed the
sidewalk, saying,
Nope, not like that.
As Britta eyes Bill, I am thinking it is
more likely she will end up in his bed. I’d gotten a curt smile from him this
morning.
“Stephen King researched part of his
Kennedy time-travel opus at the Sixth Floor Museum archives,” Bill is telling
them.
“Great book,” Jo says.
“King’s a genius. But he never really got Texas. And I’m saying that
as an Oklahoman. Hi, Bill. Tessa. Sarita. John and Gretchen. Britta, glad you could make
it today. Looks like they are just getting started.”
The skull is now facing us, leering from its
spot on the counter. The woman in white is still unwrapping puzzle pieces. A long,
pearly leg bone, and then another in much worse shape, like a tree branch snapped off in
winter.
“Tammy’s in charge today,”
Jo says. “Running the room.” Thetwo exchange a brief wave.
Four other women dressed in sterile suits are taking their places in the lab in front of
clear glass hoods. The fluorescent light is brutal, and cold.
“Looking into a serial killer’s
refrigerator,” Bill mutters in my ear.
Jo glances our way, but I can’t tell
if she heard. “Each forensic analyst has a specific job,” she explains.
“Margaret will cut a small piece out of the bone. Toneesha will clean it with
bleach, ethanol, and water. Jen will pulverize it to a fine powder, from which we
extract the DNA. Bessie’s only role is to spray down the surfaces as we go, to
keep things as sterile as possible. It’s protocol. Always.”
Her eyes are focused on the activity behind
the window. Jo’s in her element. Brilliant, without ego. Empathetic, without
cynicism.
I am thinking that Jo remembers every single
person by name on both sides of the glass. I am thinking, she could be talking about how
to refine sugar.
“Never forget protocol.”
Suddenly stern. “Never get sloppy. Somebody accused me of that once. Worst time of
my life.”
She doesn’t extrapolate. So far, no
talk of the actual case—who these bones represent, why they are special.
“We like the skull and the denser
bones, particularly femurs,” she continues. “Gives us the longest string of
mitochondrial DNA and the best chance at retrieving information on our way to finding
out who they are. We’re lucky we’ve got these three specimens, considering
the bones have been scavenged and moved at least once.”
The skull is being tucked under one of the
hoods. The buzzing of the saw drifts through glass, like it is floating down the street
on a lazy Saturday.
When the first Susan returns to the counter,
a new one-inch-square hole glares out of the top of her head.
One more degradation in an endless string of
them.
I’m sorry,
I say silently.
But there is no toothless, hollow answer in my head.
The Dremel saw drills a leg bone while the
piece of skull isscrubbed raw in the second station. The technicians
have forgotten us, slipping into a comfortable rhythm. I don’t know what I was
expecting, but not this surreal, matter-of-fact routine.
“It must be especially exciting to
work on the Black-Eyed Susans,” Sarita says brightly. The student from Oxford. Her
voice is British, clipped. Her black heels are too high. “It must be an honor for
these techs. These must be your best.”
I can feel Jo’s body go taut as if it
is my own. “To them,” she says. “And to me, this case … these
bones … are no different than any other bone entrusted to us.
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