Dance of the Bones

Suzanne appeared to be several years younger than Kent, but she was clearly in charge, and Brandon wondered if the Land Cruiser wasn’t hers as well.

Brandon went back to his car and radioed in to Dispatch. Luke told him that the M.E. van was still a good forty--five minutes out. Brandon figured that was information Kent didn’t need to have. Rolling up his window and locking the door on his patrol car, he went around to the trunk. He kept a sports bag back there loaded with spare clothing in case a quick change was needed. Dumping those out, he loaded in gloves, evidence markers, and a supply of evidence bags as well as a camera and extra rolls of film. Then, carrying the bag with him, he crossed the road and followed Suzanne into seemingly trackless desert.

With the coming storm, the temperature had dropped from midday highs of well over a hundred to something maybe ten degrees cooler in a matter of minutes, but from Brandon’s point of view, it was still plenty hot, especially with the thickening humidity. He had to bite back the temptation to repeat that old saw about “mad dogs and Englishmen.”

It was rough terrain, and Brandon was grateful to have taken Luke’s advice about wearing boots. When they had to plow back and forth across a dry creek bed, street shoes would have instantly filled with sand. To begin with, carrying the bag wasn’t a problem, but it grew heavier as they went, with Suzanne charging ahead, keeping a stiff pace, and talking as she went.

“Earlier this morning, we had been combing both sides of the canyon,” she explained. “By the time we emerged from the canyon itself, it was right around noon and hot as hell. Looking for some shade, we ducked into a grove of mesquite, and that’s where we found him.”

“What are the chances you stumbled on an ancient burial ground that surfaced during a rainstorm?” Brandon huffed, doing his best to keep up.

“It’s not an ‘ancient burial ground,’ ” Suzanne replied. “This guy had a wallet with a driver’s license in it. He’s also got gold fillings in his teeth.”

“You touched the wallet and the skull?” Brandon asked.

“Of course I touched it,” she said. “What do you think I am, some kind of sissy? Here we are, come on.”

Suzanne led the way into a grove of mesquite. Had the mesquite been left to its own devices, the branches would have grown low enough to touch the ground, but this was ranch land—-open range. Grazing cattle had trimmed the lower branches as far up as they could reach. As a result, Brandon was able to remain almost upright as he walked under the trees to where the remains of what would later be identified as Amos Warren lay scattered in dozens of pieces.

The sheltering trees were probably the reason so much of the body remained in one place rather than being spread farther afield. The scavengers who had devoured the decaying flesh had most likely been attracted to the site for that same reason. While there, they were protected from above by a canopy of branches. On the north side, the mountains kept it from view. To the south of the trees, a rugged ridge of what had likely once been molten lava had created a natural basin that, in the aftermath of rain, would create a natural water hole—-a charco—-that would provide moisture for the trees long after the monsoon season ended.

With thunder grumbling in the background, there wasn’t a moment to lose. Brandon made no effort to collect the bones. That wasn’t his job. Instead, he put down evidence markers, photographed the bones in situ, then went about the business of gathering evidence—-starting with the brittle remains of a leather wallet that contained a faded driver’s license years out-of-date and what appeared to be a perfect arrowhead.