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bumps, and borders that make them complete. Throughout infancy and adolescence, these fiddly bits, called epiphyses, appear and fuse to the shafts or main bony elements. The fusion takes place with age predictability.
    I shifted my attention to the skeletal X-rays. More than a decade of working with me had made Joe Hawkins savvy to the exact views I needed. As usual, he’d nailed them.
    I started with a plate showing the girl’s hand and arm bones. Slidell’s insistence she was a hooker had my nerves on edge. Knowing it would annoy him, I went all “jargony.” Petty, but I did.
    “The distal radial epiphysis is in the process of fusion, the distal ulnar epiphysis has recently fused. The rest of the hand bones are complete.”
    I moved to a film showing the shoulder and left arm.
    “The acromial epiphyses are present on both scapulae, but remain unfused.”
    I pointed to the broken humerus.
    “The medial epicondyle and the distal composite and proximal epiphyses are in the process of fusing.”
    On to the pelvis.
    “The iliac crest is present but still separate.” I was referring to a sliver of bone that would eventually form the superior border of the hip bone.
    The upper leg.
    “The femoral head and trochanter are fused. The distal epiphysis is in the process of fusing.”
    Lower leg.
    “The proximal and distal epiphyses of the tibiae and fibulae are in the process of fusing.”
    The foot.
    “The proximal phalanges—”
    “So what’s it all mean?” Slidell cut me off.
    “She was fourteen to fifteen years old when she died.”
    Far too young to catch a hint of what life had to offer. Fifteen years. She should have had eighty.
    Rotten teeth. Needle tracks. Semen stains. Fifteen crappy years.
    For a full minute the only sounds in the room were the fluorescents overhead and the air whistling in and out of Slidell’s nose.
    “Might be I could work the clothing, track down where it was sold.” Slidell shoved his notepad into his jacket. “Boots might be a goer.”
    My mind had moved from how to who. Who had left this kid facedown on the asphalt? A drunk too impaired to see her in the dark? Too callous to stop? Or a killer fully intending the result?
    “Anything else?” Barely trusting my voice.
    Larabee gave a tight shake of his head.
    Nodding to Slidell, I returned to my office. Sat at my desk. Antsy. Uneasy.
    Slidell was a good cop. But he had a habit of falling captive to defeatist mind-sets. Convinced the girl was undocumented, a prostitute, and a junkie, would he devote sufficient energy to finding her killer?
    Yes, he would, I admitted to myself. Druggie hooker or not, the kid turned up dead on Skinny’s patch, and he would look upon it as a personal challenge.
    Then why so anxious?
    Katy? My abandoned vehicle and purse? The goddamn blisters?
    Whatever.
    I crossed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Took a look in the mirror. Assessed the face looking back.
    Intense green eyes. Weary, but determined. A few starbust wrinkles at the corners, well earned. Chin and lids holding firm. Dark blond hair yanked into a pony, not having a good one.
    “Right, then. Peruvian dogs.”
    The image in the glass mouthed the same words. Nodded the same nod.
    I bunched and tossed my hand towel and headed out.
    While the new MCME facility is immense, the same is not true of my office. Were a realtor to advertise it for rental, she’d use descriptors like “cozy” and “snug.” My desk takes up most of the space. File cabinets, coat tree. If Larabee steps in, it’s crowded. If the visitor is Slidell, forget about breathing.
    I’m good with the square footage. It’s mine. No one encroaches. Mostly I use it for writing reports or examining files. Like the one lying on my blotter.
    I sat down and opened the cover. On top was a form requesting an anthropology consult. I skimmed the contents.
    Case number. Morgue number. Police incident number. Investigating officer, agency. Larabee was the requesting