“Life’s iffy,” she said drily. “It’s a wonder any of us make it out alive.” She was trying to joke—she was trying desperately to hang on to work and routines and normal ways of living life—but it came out sounding bitter. She must have heard the bitterness, because she apologized.
“No need,” I assured her. “Sorry I got gloomy on you. Let’s see what we can figure out about this particular mortal.” I started by leaning over and simply looking. The skull wasn’t complete; the mandible was missing, so the upper teeth rested directly on the beanbag, creating the effect of a big, almost comical overbite. After a moment I picked it up from the cushion and turned it upside down, studying the teeth and the roof of the mouth.
“First of all, can you tell if this person’s been dead for more than seventy-five years? If so, the skull goes to the state archaeologist.”
“I’d say less. For one thing, it’s in pretty good shape—not a lot of erosion or crumbling—which suggests that it’s not too old.” I gave a sniff. “So does the fact that there’s still a little tissue on it.” I held it toward her so she could sniff it, and she made a face. “But that’s not all. See that filling? Twentieth century, for sure; hard to be a lot more precise than that, unless we do a radioisotope study to find out if the person died before or after the cold war heated up.”
“What do you mean?”
“People born after the bomb—after all those H-bomb tests spread fallout all over the planet—have higher levels of carbon-14, a radioactive isotope, in their teeth and bones. It’s called bomb-spike carbon.”
“That’s scary.”
I agreed. After a closer look at the top of the cranial vault, I handed the skull back to Angie. “How about you tell me what you can figure out about this person.”
She flushed. “Gee, I don’t know. I mean, you’re the expert.”
“Best way to become an expert is to learn. Best way to learn is by testing your knowledge.” I gave her an encouraging smile. “Come on; I can’t exactly flunk you if you get a thing or two wrong.”
“Okay.” She drew a deep breath. “It looks small, so I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s a woman. The nasal opening is narrow, so that would make her a white woman.” She turned it upside down. “No wisdom teeth, so maybe she’s still a teenager. But then again, my wisdom teeth still haven’t come in, and I’m thirty-four, so I know not to put much weight on that.” She flipped it again, studying the dark zigzag seams where the plates of the cranial vault knitted together. “The skull sutures are prominent, so she can’t be very old.” She rotated the skull slowly, scrutinizing it from all angles. “No bullet wound that I can see. Looks like the dog crunched on both cheekbones before his owner took it away from him.” She gave the skull a final inspection, then shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.” She handed it back to me. “So, how’d I do? Pass or fail?”
I smiled. “Pretty well. You’re right about the race. White. And the age—it’s a young person. You get points for noticing that the third molars hadn’t erupted, and more points for realizing that the skull sutures haven’t started to fill in yet. Those don’t fully fuse and start obliterating until the thirties and forties.”
“Okay, so what’d I lose points for? Did I get the sex wrong?”
“Maybe. So yes.”
“Huh?”
“It might be female, might be male. Can’t tell—it’s too young.”
She frowned. “You’re saying it’s a dead kid?” I nodded. “Crap. Tell me what I should have looked for, to know it was a big kid rather than a little woman.”
“Well, it’s not just the size, but the proportion. Ever seen a baby’s skull?” She nodded. “So you probably remember, the cranial vault looks huge compared to the rest of the face, almost like it’s been inflated like a balloon.” She nodded again. “This cranial vault isn’t that disproportionate, but it’s still large for the facial structure, relatively speaking.” She peered at the skull again, then at my head, and then, in a mirror on the wall, at her own. “Another thing.” I pointed at the supraorbital ridge, the shelf above the eyes. “If this were an adult woman, the edge of this ridge would be sharp. Here, take off a glove and feel the difference between mine and yours.” She hesitated. “Go ahead.” She peeled off her right glove and pressed the tips of her fingers to her eyebrows, then to mine.
“Yours feel like a Neanderthal’s.”
“Well, back in the days of cavemen, guys who could shrug off a whack in the head were more likely to survive and reproduce than guys who had skulls like eggshells,” I explained. “In females, thickheadedness wasn’t as crucial to survival as prettiness was. Women’s skulls evolved to be more delicate, with thinner brows and smaller muscle markings—‘gracile’ is the nerdy anthropologist’s word for it. Looks kinda like ‘graceful’ but rhymes with ‘hassle,’ which is what women’s lives are filled with.” She smiled. “Want me to tell you more about the age?”