Normally the procedure is grindingly tedious. Using a very sharp diamond blade, you cut cross-sectional slices of bone measuring one hundred microns in thickness. Or, at least they used to. The micron was officially abolished in 1967 by the CGPM, the intergalactic council on weights and measures. The micron is now the micrometer. No matter. The little bugger is still.00004 of an inch. That’s why the slices are called thin sections.

Once placed on slides, the thin sections are eyeballed with a light microscope at a magnification of 100X. Then you count stuff.

Here’s the premise. Bone is a dynamic tissue, constantly repairing and replacing itself. Throughout life, the microscopic bits increase in number. Therefore, a tally of osteons, osteon fragments, lamellae, and canal systems provides a means of evaluating adult age.

My scores supported my initial estimate of sixteen to eighteen years. No surprise.

But something else was.

While counting, I noticed odd discolorations in several of the Haversian canals, the tiny tunnels that allow nerves and vessels to traverse a bone’s interior.

Some sort of invasive microorganism? Soil staining? Mineral deposition? Microfracturing?

Though I doubled the magnification, the irregularities still weren’t clear. The defects could be meaningful or nothing at all. To be certain I’d need mongo magnification. That meant scanning electron microscopy.

Grabbing my cell, I dialed a colleague in the optoelectronics center at UNCC. A cheery voice told me its owner would return on Tuesday and wished me an enjoyable holiday weekend.

In addition to tired and frustrated, I once again felt like the world’s biggest loser.

I was leaving a decidedly less chirpy message, when a call beeped in. I finished and switched over.

Slidell was at the front door. Waiting. Impatiently.

I looked at the clock. Mrs. Flowers had been gone for hours.

Walking to the lobby, I admitted Slidell.

“Thought I’d maybe die of old age out there.”

“I’m working two cases at once.” I ignored Slidell’s dig.

“Got an age on the Lake Wylie kid?”

“Sixteen to eighteen.”

“Cuttin’ tool?”

“Power saw, circular blade.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Slidell pooched out his lips, nodded, then slipped a paper from his pocket.

“Got something you’re gonna like.”

I held out a hand.

He was right.

I liked it.

SLIDELL HAD OBTAINED A WARRANT FOR CUERVO’S SHOP.

“I’m impressed.” I was.

“Erskine B. Slidell don’t let no grass grow. And, by the by, Thomas Cuervo’s a card-carrying citizen of these United States.”

“Really?”

“Looks like Mama managed to slip ashore, give birth, collect little Tommy’s papers, then hightail it back to Ecuador. In the eighties, Cuervo started traveling in and out of the country regularly. Been here steady since ninety-seven. INS has no permanent address for him, either here or south of the border.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“After a second, decidedly shitcan session with Roseboro, I cruised by Cuervo’s little pharmacy. Place was closed, but I shopped his picture around. Thought I was in Tijuana, for Christ sake.”

Slidell made a gesture whose meaning was lost on me.

“Finally smoked out a pair of hombres” – pronounced home-brays – “admitted to a passing acquaintance. Boys had some trouble speaking English, but whaddya know, flashed a couple twenties, their communication skills took a sharp upward turn. Seems hawking tonic and weed are but two of Señor Cuervo’s talents. The guy’s some kinda hotshot faith healer.”

“A santero?”

“Or maybe that other thing.”

“Palero?”

Slidell nodded.

Palo Mayombe.

Mark Kilroy.

I pushed the thought to deep background.

“Where’s Cuervo now?”

“Cisco and Pancho were a bit vague on that. Said the shop’s been closed for a couple of months. Suggested Cuervo may have gone back to Ecuador.”

“Does he have family here in Charlotte?”

“Not according to the two amigos.”

“How did you get a judge to cut paper?”

“Seems old T-Bird had other reasons for making himself scarce. Little matter of an outstanding warrant.”

“Cuervo failed to show for a court hearing?” I guessed.

“Drug charge. August twenty-ninth.”

“Any luck with his cell phone?”

“Records show no incoming or outgoing calls since August twenty-fifth. Tracking individual numbers will take some time.”

“You going to toss the shop now?”

Slidell shook his head. “Tomorrow. Tonight I gotta run Larabee’s prints.”

That made sense. The Lake Wylie case was definitely murder. We weren’t even certain the Greenleaf cellar involved criminal activity.

I retrieved the print forms from the main autopsy room and gave them to Slidell.

“I want to be there,” I said.

“Eh,” he said.

I took that as assent.

When Slidell had gone, I looked at my watch. Eight forty. Apparently Skinny’s social life was as pathetic as mine.

I was rebagging the skull when a ping sounded in my brain. You know. You’ve had them. In comics they appear as overhead bulbs with radiating lines.

Prints.

Wax.

What are the chances?

It happens.

Using a scalpel, I cut intersecting lines in the wax coating the top of the skull, outlining a roughly two-inch square. With some teasing, a flake lifted free.

I repeated the process until the entire wax cap lay in pieces on a stainless steel tray. One by one I viewed each under the scope.

I was three-quarters through when I saw it on the concave side of a segment that had adhered to the right parietal. One perfect thumbprint.

Why the undersurface? Had the wax lifted the print from the underlying skull? Had the perp’s finger contacted the hot wax as it was poured or as it dripped from a candle?

It didn’t matter. The print was there and it could lead to a suspect.

Feeling pumped, I dialed Slidell. His voice mail answered. I left a message.

After photographing the print with direct then angled light, I examined every flake twice, upside and downside. I found nothing.

The clock said 10:22.

Time to go.

I was pulling into my drive when Slidell called.

His news trumped mine.

“James Edward Klapec. Went by Jimmy. Seventeen. Looks better with his head. But not much.”

Slidell’s comment irked me even more than usual. We were talking about a dead child. I said nothing.

“Parents live down east, near Jacksonville,” Slidell continued. “Father’s a retired marine, pumps gas, mother works in the commissary at Camp Lejeune. Dropped a dime, found out little Jimmy split last February.”

“Did the parents know he was living in Charlotte?”

“Yeah. The kid phoned every couple months. Last call came sometime in early September. They weren’t sure the exact date. Keep in mind, these folks ain’t checking the mail for an invite from MENSA.”

I wondered how Slidell knew about MENSA, but let it go.

“The Klapecs didn’t come to Charlotte to take their son home?”

“According to Dad, the kid was sixteen and could do as he pleased.” Slidell paused. “That’s what he said, but this shitbird read like an open book. The kid was queer and Klapec wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Called him a faggot.”

Clear enough.

“Why was Klapec in the system?”

“Kid was a chicken hawk.”

That made no sense. In the parlance of my gay friends, chicken hawks were older gay men looking for young blood.

“I know you’re going to explain that,” I said.

“Punks that hang around gay bars waiting for prey. You know, circling, like chicken hawks. Great lifestyle. Do a john, score some dough, get wasted.”