Page 18 of Fire and Bones

I smiled and waved my free hand.

Officer Shiny Shoes did not wave back. Merely followed my progress with unreadable eyes.

Drawing close I could see that the woman’s name tag said L. Comer. Knowing cops, I wondered how many ribald jokes that surname had prompted.

“Officer Comer,” I said.

Tight nod.

“Temperance Brennan.” I set down the case and pulled an ID from my pocket. “I’m here to help with recovery.”

Comer pointed the aviators at the small plastic rectangle, my Charlotte-Mecklenburg OCME security pass, then handed it back.

“Go ahead.” Chin-cocking the scene behind her.

“I’m to contact Captain Hickey.”

“He’s here.”

“Where?”

Comer shrugged, never disengaging the thumbs. “You’ll know him. Guy looks like André the Giant.”

That reference seemed oddly dated for a thirty-something cop. Wondering, pointlessly, if Comer was knowledgeable about wrestling history, I circled the cruiser and headed toward the action.

Comer hadn’t exaggerated.

At five yards out, I could see that one form loomed larger than life amid the firefighters still present. Though the double-layered turnout suit rendered accuracy difficult, I guessed the man’s weight at two ninety, his height at six-eight in stocking feet. Which must have been size sixteen.

I slowed to observe. The team appeared to require no direction from its leader. They spoke little, each doing his or her job confidently and efficiently.

Those jobs now seemed to involve wrapping up. Stowing ladders. Coiling hoses. Rinsing and decontaminating gear.

I expected to be approached and asked for ID. Either no one noticed me, or no one cared I was there.

“Captain Hickey,” I called out.

No response.

“Captain Hickey!” Too shrill?

Hickey’s head whipped around. I imagined him taking in my boots, jeans, and white tee. My death scene recovery case.

Maybe Burgos or Thacker had briefed him. Maybe he was just curious. A word to the colleague beside him, then Hickey strode in my direction.

Big strides.

As with Comer, Hickey’s face was largely concealed, the chinstrap, visor, and earflaps on his helmet hiding his expression. Only one clue. Through the clear plastic eye guard, I noted dark brows angled down and drawn together.

In puzzlement? Disapproval?

I braced for the same hostility Burgos had shown.

While walking, Hickey removed his helmet and tucked it under one arm. The sun was higher now and, despite the smoky haze, my mind logged an itemized first impression.

Sweat- and grime-covered skin, lighter in starburst creases cornering each eye. Irises the green of a Limerick spring. Rusty hair going every direction at once.

“Declan Hickey.” An enormous hand shot my way. “I’m guessing you’re the anthropologist.”

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