Sarah Armstrong - 01 - Singularity Read Online Free PDF Page B

to work with abused children. Obviously my life took a detour. These days my psychology training is an asset in my profiling. As for my art? Well, that, too, has taken a rather dark turn.
    In the workshop, I grabbed a brown cardboard box off the shelf. It was from the Houston M.E.’s office, and inside was a human skull mounted on a sturdy wooden base.
    I admit it’s an unusual way to relax, but in my off time, especially when I’m mulling over a case, I do facial reconstructions on unidentified remains. Maybe it’s not as odd as it sounds. I’ve always found sculpting in clay soothing, and unlike live models, the dead don’t complain that I made them look ten pounds heavier or didn’t get their smile right.
    A woman scavenging dried weeds to make wreaths had discovered the remains on the bank of a Houston bayou. Insects, heat, and humidity had eaten away the tissue, muscle, and flesh. Animals had scattered most of the bones. Little was found, only the skull, one thigh bone, and the delicate bones of an arm and hand. From the still-forming joint cartilage, the medical examiner estimated that the bones were of a small child, probably not older than five. Even with an entire skeleton, it’s difficult to determine sex at such a young age. One worn Superman tennis shoe found near the body initially suggested we were viewing the remains of a boy, an assumption that was later confirmed with DNA.
    A week earlier I’d wired together a three-inch fracture, a patch of skull at the hairline nearly crushed by a powerful blow, the presumed cause of death. I’d then cut twenty-one rubber stubs to match the depth of the boy’s missing skin and muscle, a thicker stub for the cheeks, thinner on the forehead and the chin. Positioned on the skull, the stubs would serve as guides to the depth of the clay. Along with the boy’s DNA, the generous spread of his nasal aperture and the slight elongation of his lower face suggested he was black, leading me to choose clay the color of dry coffee grounds and two plastic eyes with irises so dark they swallowed up the pupils.
    Throughout the night, I lost myself in my work, enjoying the quiet and the feel of the clay in my hands as I carefully coated the skull. Well after sunrise, seven hours after I’d started, I was finishing up, using a small trowel to reshape his lips. The boy had a wide mouth, and I fashioned a mischievous grin and a small nose wrinkled in laughter. I sized up my handiwork: full cheeks, thick eyebrows, and a crooked front tooth jutting out from under a frozen smile. He was a good-looking kid.
    “I’ll call you Ben,” I said, wishing the boy could tell me who he was and who had murdered him.
    How easily life ends
, I thought. If nothing else, the last year had taught me that.
    “Mom?”
    I didn’t respond.
    “Mom,” she said again, only louder. “Gram says it’s time to get ready or it’ll be too late to go to the museum.” Peering in the workshop door, my eleven-year-old was scowling, a look Maggie reserves for me, I know, when I’m not being quite the perfect mother, which is often.
    “Magpie, tell Gram I’ll be right there.”
    “You better hurry,” she warned. “Gram’s pretty mad.”
    “Hmmm,” I said. I walked over and planted a wet kiss on the top of her head, thinking of the Lucas boy from the night before. Then I held her tight.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked, squirming.
    “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I said, as she pushed away. “But I guess if Gram’s upset, I’d better be on my best behavior?”
    “She’s baking,” Maggie said, imparting what we both knew was a serious clue to my mother’s state of mind.
    “Uh, oh, that’s not good.” I chuckled. “Tell her I promise that I’ll be right there.”
    “She’s not going to believe me,” Maggie said, shuffling off.
    Mom had the right to be miffed. I’d promised I wouldn’t let work interfere, that we’d make it to the museum before lunch. I knew I should go. But I hesitated.