“Claire was sitting in the squad car parked right outside the crime scene barriers, waiting for the bone guy to show up, a forensic osteologist. An official member of BARFAA, of all things. What a name. Stood for Bioarcheology and Forensic Anthropology Association—either they had a great sense of humor, or hadn’t figured out what the acronym would spell out. The bone expert was coming all the way from Madison, so he might not show up for another hour or so. Dr. Herman Pinkers. What a weird name,... she thought. But then, what a weird profession, staring at bones all day long, trying to get them to tell you a story. Maybe not so different from what she did—examining shards of a leftover life, trying to figure out how and why it ended. An old Volvo station wagon pulled up and a very tall, very thin man with silver-framed glasses perched on his nose got out. He was wearing khaki pants, a black turtleneck, and a vest with a million pockets. On his head was a broad-brimmed canvas hat. She opened her car door and got out, saying, “Dr.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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