In the Novak case, Thornton had disappointing news to relate about the radiography camera. Pipeline Services, the Louisiana company that owned the camera, had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection two weeks before—probably within days or weeks after the fresh iridium-192 source had been shipped to New Iberia and loaded into the camera. The pipeline contractor’s doors had been padlocked, and no one seemed to know the camera had gone missing. “We found a window that was unlocked,” he said, “and the door to the lab where the camera was kept had been pried open.”
“Damn,” I said. “A town that small, lots of folks would’ve known the company had gone belly-up. Almost anybody could’ve stolen it, right?”
“Theoretically,” he said, “but I doubt it. Think about it: somebody who just happens to live in Podunk, Louisiana, suddenly sees their chance to make off with a radiography camera they’ve always wanted? I don’t believe in coincidences that big. We’re combing through the personnel records, and we’ll interview all the employees. And their neighbors and friends. And all the folks who aren’t their friends. I’m flying down there this afternoon. We’re getting close,” he said. “I can smell it.”
Then it was my turn to talk about G.I. Doe. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to ID him from his teeth,” I said. Three of the soldier’s lower molars had fillings, I explained, including one of the third molars, or wisdom teeth. My hope was that the cavity in the third molar—a tooth that erupted around age eighteen—had been filled by an Army dentist. If that was the case, maybe there was a dental chart. The trick, I pointed out, would be to find it among the millions of army dental charts.
“First we found the film,” said Emert, “then we found the bones. Things come in threes. You’ll find it. G.I. Doe wants to be identified.”
When the meeting ended, Miranda, Thornton, and I headed outside. Thornton had parked in front of the building; I’d parked out back. The three of us stood together on the front steps of the municipal building. I said to Miranda, “You mind if I wander down to the library for a few minutes?”
“Why would I mind?”
“Well, you might be in a hurry to get back to campus.”
“But I rode with Thornton,” she said, “so it doesn’t matter.”
“But I thought you were riding back with me,” I said. “I thought Thornton had to catch a plane to Louisiana.” I looked at Thornton; he looked at Miranda.
“But…I dropped off my car at the Jiffy Lube on Bearden Hill on the way over here,” she said. “He…we were planning to swing by there on the way back.”
“But Bearden Hill’s just five minutes from my house,” I said. “Why don’t I just run you by there on my way home at the end of the day? That way you know they’re done. We don’t want Thornton to miss his plane.”
“It’s all right,” he said, a little quicker than necessary. “It’s practically on my way to the airport. And I’ve got time.”
“Okay, great,” I said, a little more cheerfully than I meant. Bearden was far out of his way, but there was no future in pointing that out. Clearly they wanted to be together, but didn’t want to say so. “I might just work in the library for the rest of the afternoon. Miranda, could you see about tracking something down for me later? A master’s thesis on Oak Ridge by Isabella Morgan?”
“Anthropology?”
“No, history,” I said.
“UT?”
“Yes,” I said. “Wait. Maybe not. Maybe Tulane or LSU.”
“Could you be any vaguer?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Never mind.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” I said. It might have been the first time we’d ever said something as formal as “Goodbye” to each other. Awkward as it felt, I hoped it would be the last.
I WAS STILL SLIGHTLY OFF-BALANCE as I walked into the library and back toward the Reference Desk. The chair was empty, but the telephone receiver was out of its cradle and the HOLD light was blinking, so I hoped Isabella had just stepped away to look up the answer to a caller’s question. “I’ll be right with you,” said a voice behind me, and a gray-haired woman I didn’t know stepped behind the desk, lifted the phone, and pressed the blinking light. “He was born November 13, 1955,” she said. “In St. Joseph, Missouri. Yes, I believe that was the eastern end of the Pony Express route. You’re quite welcome. Glad I could find that for you.” She smiled as she hung up the phone. “Can I help you?”
“I was actually looking for Isabella,” I said.
“She’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It’s not a reference question,” I said. “I’m…I’m a friend of Isabella’s. I was just going to say hi.”