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There should be a prosthetic here.

There isn’t.

The absence proves nothing. The remains were moved, disturbed, incompletely recovered. Hardware can separate from bone after years of decomposition and environmental exposure. It could still be at the original deposition site. It could have been lost during transport. There are several perfectly reasonable explanations for why it isn’t on my table.

There are considerably fewer reasonable explanations for why the exact bones Casey lost to a climbing accident are also missing from an unidentified skeleton that fits her biological profile.

I stop the thought before it reaches its conclusion.

Probability is not identification.

Until I have something definitive, these remains do not belong to Casey Whitmore.

No matter how thoroughly the evidence is beginning to suggest otherwise.

I should be assessing the third molar eruption, but instead, I’m hyper-aware of the fact that I’m holding this recorder like a weapon. I’m using the terminology as a shield, hoping the heavy, multi-syllabic words will keep the grief at bay.

“Estimated age at death: sixteen to eighteen years,” I conclude. “Pending dental eruption patterns—specifically the status of the third molars—to tighten the developmental window.”

I’m about to reach for the calipers when the silence is fractured by Mara’s voice from the hallway. “You can’t be back here! How did you even get in here?”

I was seconds away from a definitive measurement, and now my focus is splintered. Mara’s vocal pitch is higher than usual—indicative of a stress response.

Evan follows a beat later. “I’ve had enough of your snooping around. You are not authorized to be in this area, and if you don’t leave right now, I will arrest you for trespassing on government property.”

“You’re the one who fucking let us in,” a man’s deep timbre snaps back. “Go ahead and try. I’d love to see how that works out for you.”

There’s a shuffle of feet, the unmistakable sound of a smack echoing off the walls.

Tamsin and I look at one another—a collision of eyes that confirms neither of us is prepared for the incoming drama.

“Don’t fucking touch me, you badge-polishing hall monitor,” the man says.

Evan fires back with something about public decency and municipal codes, which only seems to inspire them.

Another man barks a laugh, “If you think for even one second I won’t punch you right in your fucking mouth, you’re dead wrong. I have bail money. Plenty of it.”

The argument moves a few feet down the hall, momentum carrying it whether anyone agrees or not, until Mara finally shrieks, “ENOUGH!”

Everyone falls silent.

“You are done. You’ve said your piece, you’ve made your point, and now you’re leaving before this turns into paperwork I don’t want to fill out. This way. Keep moving. You can complain all the way to the parking lot.” Her voice and their footsteps fade until the hallway is finally quiet again.

I glance at Tamsin, who looks utterly delighted. “Well,” she murmurs, “this feels promising.”

"The necessity for a formal identification of the interloper is minimal," I say, my voice flat as I pull my hand away from the calipers.

Tamsin’s smile widens.

I look back at the remains on the table, then shift my gaze toward the hallway where the shouting originated.

These guys are considerably more aggressive than I anticipated.

They’re also lucky. Stillwater doesn’t generate enough serious crime for Mara and Evan to have much experience with people who treat police authority as something negotiable. They’re accustomed to the badge doing most of the argumentative labor for them.

The consequences of antagonizing a cop have never been distributed equally, but the Casket Case team, it seems, is unimpressed by municipal accessories.

Typically, I would approve. But from where I’m standing, this is going to be a significant complication.