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level, or below.”
    “The toes.” Morris gestured. “You see how they’re slightly curled, slightly overlapped?”
    “From shoving them into shoes that were too small.”
    DeWinter beamed at her. “Exactly! Poverty or neglect, and likely both.”
    “This is helpful, but I need faces. I need names. Cause of death.”
    “And you’ll have them. Elsie may have something for us. Elsie Kendrick does our facial reconstruction, and will very likely be faster than the DNA extraction.”
    “Faster’s what I’m after. Can you tell when they died—from the bones?”
    “Yes, within a reasonable span. They’ve been working on determining the age of the wall, the materials, in Berenski’s area.”
    Dick Berenski, Eve thought, known as Dickhead for a reason, would get the work done. It also occurred to her that he’d likely been sitting in a pool of drool since he’d gotten a load of DeWinter.
    “Give me a range.”
    “Given the method and material used to wrap them, the variance in temperature inside the building seasonally, the—”
    “Just a range,” Eve repeated.
    “There are factors,” DeWinter insisted, just a little on the testy side. “My initial analyses indicate a range of fifteen to twenty years. Berenski’s initial tests indicate twelve to fifteen.”
    “That’s good enough. It’s going to be on the low side of yours, the high side of his.”
    “We haven’t yet determined—”
    “It’s what makes sense. The last tenants vacated fifteen years ago last September, and that opens opportunity. At least some of these vics are going to connect to that last tenant—a shelter for kids—runaways and wards of court. It’s what fits.”
    “It does.” Morris nodded. “You’ll find, Garnet, Dallas excels at finding the fit.”
    “All well and good, and most certainly possible. But TOD is yet to be verified by the science.”
    “You go ahead and verify,” Eve invited. “And if it’s not right about fifteen years, let me know. Where’s the reconstructionist?”
    “I’ll take you. I’m having more tables brought in,” DeWinter continued as she started out. “I feel it will be helpful to have them all in one space as we continue the work.”
    She turned into the music. “Elsie! How can you think with this so loud?”
    “It helps me think. Mute music.” Elsie levered herself out of a chair, set the sketchbook and pencil she held aside. She wore her blue-streaked blond hair in dozens of thin braids that ended in tiny beads. She looked about sixteen in an ankle-skimming dress swirling with color, if you overlooked the fact that she was hugely pregnant.
    “How are the twins?”
    “Active.” Elsie rubbed her belly the way Eve had observed pregnant women did.
    “Sit.”
    “No, I’ve got to move around, too.”
    “But not overdo.”
    “Don’t say overdue!”
    “How far along are you?” Peabody asked.
    “Oh, I’m sorry. Detective Peabody, Lieutenant Dallas, Elsie Kendrick.”
    “Welcome. I’m at thirty-three weeks, four days. I’m going to start counting hours soon. I feel like I’m carrying a couple of small, frisky ponies.” She pressed a hand to the side of her belly. “Wow. With really strong hooves. It’s taken me a while to get started, so sorry right off. Hormones, I guess. Reconstructing little girls. Mine are both girls. I had to have a little meltdown first.”
    “Children always hit harder,” Morris said.
    “Boy, don’t they? I was just finishing the first sketch. I always do a sketch, kind of a tribute, after a reconstruct. Let me show you the first girl.”
    “Victim One?” Eve asked.
    “Yeah, Garnet said to start in numerical.” She moved to the holo-table, tapped buttons. I got a ninety-six and change probability on her, so this should be close. It’ll be close enough for a match run.”
    The hologram shimmered on.
    Slim face, deep gold skin, dark Asian eyes, a short wedge of straight dark hair, full lips, strong nose, softly curved chin.
    A pretty girl,