Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [82]
“The bad news is, our murder victim here is the subject of a pop quiz. Go ahead and put your name on a piece of paper.” The murmurs gave way to scattered groans and a few whispered curses. “Don’t get excited,” I added, “it’s only three questions, and they’re purely for extra credit. You get one point added to your midterm average if you can tell me both the race and the sex of this individual; you get another point if you can tell me the manner of death—in other words, how was this person killed? If you’ve read the chapter on the cranium and didn’t miss class last week, these should be easy for you.” Judging by the expressions on the sea of faces in front of me, some of them had done the reading and stayed awake during the lecture, while others suddenly wished they had. Several students leaned forward and began scrutinizing the skull from afar. Others flipped open their texts and began scanning pages. At the back of the room, I thought I saw the door open just a crack.
“I expect a lot in this class,” I went on, “and it’s not because I like to trip you up, or keep you too busy to party. It’s because mastering this material could be a matter of life and death someday. Our dead friend here, for instance: I don’t know who committed the crime, or why, or exactly when. And until we can figure those things out, somebody’s getting away with murder.”
The mood in the classroom had turned dead serious. “I can’t pass this around, and I can’t let you touch it,” I said. “It’s forensic evidence, so it has to be protected from damage or contamination. But if you’ll line up and file past, you’ll see everything you need to see to answer those three questions. Jot your answers down quickly. For question number one, just put ‘M’ for ‘male’ or ‘F’ for ‘female. For question two, put ‘C’ or ‘N’ or ‘M,’ depending on whether you think it’s Caucasoid or Negroid or Mongoloid, and for three, just put one word that describes what you think caused the death. Hand me your paper as you head back to your seat.”
A boy at one side of the room—a quadrant from which I’d heard snores on more than one occasion—raised his hand. “Did you say Mongoloid?” I nodded. “Man, that’s harsh. Why would somebody kill a retard?”
The room erupted in groans. I checked the seating chart. “Do your reading, Mr. Murdoch!” I thundered. “In physical anthropology, ‘Mongoloid’ refers to peoples of Mongolian descent—Asians and Native Americans.” He slumped in his seat.
I motioned to the first row, and they formed a line to one side of my desk. As the students scrutinized the bones—student by student, row by row—their faces were alive with curiosity, wonder, sometimes sadness and even reverence. I was so intent on watching their reactions that I stopped keeping tabs on the line, so I was surprised when the last student filed past. I was doubly surprised to see that it was Sarah. She must have slipped in the back door after the line had formed.
She didn’t meet my eyes as she approached; I wasn’t sure whether to be worried or relieved by that. The fact is, none of the other students had met my eyes, either: they were all focusing exclusively on the skull. The only difference was, I hadn’t shared a passionate and inappropriate kiss with any of them since the last class.
Sarah lingered over her paper, scrawling considerably more than the letters “F” and “C” and a one-word description of a murder. When she handed me her paper, I saw it bore several lines of script, but I was afraid to risk reading it while standing in front of 270 students. The last thing I wanted to do was fall apart in front of them again.
“Okay, how many of you said this was a male?” A few hands shot up, Mr. Murdoch’s among them. He looked around furtively.
“Small features, sharp upper edge to the eye orbit, no external occipital protuberance at the base of the skull: class, what does that tell us?” The rest of the students called “female” in unison. “The mouth structure is vertical, rather than having teeth and jaws that jut forward,” I said. “What’s the race?” The chorus