Let the bones talk
The kid was dead. No doubt about that. The 911 caller thought so. The ER reported her DOA. The toxicologist showed cause. The ME signed the certificate. The kid was dead. That wasn’t the question. The phone rang. I ignored it.
Beyond my window, the sky was a chaos of gunmetal, smoke, and green. The wind was blowing angrier by the second. I’d have to go soon. The palette on my screen mirrored the turmoil outside. Within the grey backdrop of flesh, the bones burned white as Arctic snow.
I’d been analysing the X-rays for almost two hours, my frustration escalating with the storm.
One last glance at the final plate in the series. The hands. Then it was adios. I forced myself to concentrate. Carpals. Metacarpals. Phalanges. Suddenly, I sat forward, the gusts and thickening darkness forgotten.
I zoomed in on the right fifth digit. The left.
The phone rang. Again, I paid no attention.
I shifted back to the cranial views.
A theory
