rime scene pictures provide a cheap peek into the secrets of strangers. Unlike photographic art in which lighting and subjects are chosen or positioned to enhance moments of beauty, scene photos are shot to capture stark, unadorned reality in vivid detail. Viewing them is a jarring and dispiriting task.

A shattered window. A blood-spattered kitchen. A woman spreadeagled in bed, torn panties covering her face. The bloated body of a child in a trunk. Horror revisited, moments, hours, or days later.

Or even months.

At nine-forty Xicay delivered the Paraiso prints. With no bones to examine, these shots offered my only hope of constructing an accurate victim profile, of perhaps linking the septic tank skeleton to one of the missing girls.

I opened the first envelope, afraid, but anxious to know how much anatomical detail had been saved.

Or lost.

The alley.

The Paraiso.

The dilapidated little oasis out back.

I studied multiple views of the septic tank before and after uncapping, before, during, and after draining. In the last, shadows crossed the empty chambers like long, bony fingers.

I replaced the first set and switched to another envelope.

The top print featured my ass pointed skyward at the edge of the tank. The second showed a lower arm bone lying on a sheet in a body bag. Even with my magnifier, I could make out no detail. I laid down the lens and continued.

Seven shots down I found a close-up of the ulna. Inching my glass along the shaft, I scrutinized every bump and crest. I was about to give up when I spotted a hair-thin line at the wrist end.

'Look at this.'

Galiano took the lens and bent over the print. I pointed with the tip of a pen.

'That's a remnant epiphyseal line.'

'Ay, Dios.' He spoke without raising his eyes. 'And that means?'

'The growth cap is fusing to the end of the shaft.'

'And that means?'

'It means young.'

'How young?'

'Probably late teens.'

He straightened.

'Muy bueno, Dr. Brennan.'

The cranial series began halfway down the third stack. As I viewed image after image, my gut curled tighter than it had in the septic tank. Xicay had shot down on the skull from at least six feet away. Mud, shadow, and distance obscured every feature. Even the magnifier didn't help.

Discouraged, I finished envelope three and moved on. One by one, body parts spread across the sheet. Fusing growth caps on several long bones supported the age range suggested by the ulna.

Xicay had taken at least a half dozen shots of the pelvis. Soft tissue held the three parts together, allowing me to note a heart-shaped inlet. The pubic bones were long, and met above an obtuse sub-pubic angle.

I flipped to the side views.

Broad, shallow sciatic notch.

'Female,' I said to no one in particular.

'Show me.' Galiano returned to my desk.

Spreading the photos, I explained each feature. Galiano listened in silence.

As I was gathering the prints, my eye picked out several odd-shaped flecks on the belly side of the right iliac blade. I pulled the image to me and raised and lowered my lens above it. Galiano watched.

Tooth fragments? Vegetation? Gravel? The tiny particles looked familiar, but try as I might, I couldn't identify them.

'What is it?' Galiano.

'I'm not sure. Maybe just debris.'

I returned the photos to their envelope, and shook out another set.

Foot bones. Hand bones. Ribs.

Galiano was paged to his office. The two detectives plugged away at their boards.

Sternum. Vertebrae.

Galiano returned.

'Where the hell is Hernandez?'

No answer. I imagined two shrugs behind me.

My spine ached. I raised my arms, stretched backward, then to each side.

When I resumed my perusal, a miracle.

While I was overseeing evacuation of the tank, Xicay had returned to the skull. The last series of photographs showed top, bottom, side, and front views, taken from approximately one foot away. Despite the muck, I could see plenty.

'These are good.'

Galiano was immediately at my elbow. I pointed out features on the facial view.

'Rounded orbits, broad cheeks.'

I shifted to a shot of the skull base, and indicated the zygomatics.

'See how the cheekbones flare out?'

Galiano nodded.

'The skull is short from front to back, broad from side to side.'

'Sort of globular.'

'Well put.' I tapped the upper palate. 'Parabolic shape. Too bad the front teeth are missing.'

'Why.'

'Shoveled incisors can indicate race.'

'Shoveled?'

'Scooped-out enamel on the tongue side, with a raised border around the edge. Kind of like a shovel.'

I exchanged the basal view for a side view, and noted a low nasal bridge and straight facial profile.

'What's your thinking?' Galiano asked.

'Mongoloid,' I said, thinking back to my last fleeting view at the scene and correlating that impression with the photos in front of me.

He looked blank.

'Asian.'

'Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese?'

All of the above. Or someone whose ancestors came from Asia. Native American—'

'You talking old Indian bones?'

'Definitely not. This stuff's recent.'

He considered a moment, then, 'Were the front teeth knocked out?'

I knew what he was thinking. Teeth are often

destroyed to hamper identification. That was not the case here. I shook my head.

'Incisors have only one root. When the soft tissue decomposes, there's nothing to hold them. Most likely, hers just fell out.'

'And went where?'

'They could have filtered through the septic system. Or they could still be wedged in the tank.'

'Would they be useful?'

'Sure. These features are only suggestive.' I waved a hand at the photo.

'So who's the stranger in the septic tank?'

'Female, probably late teens, possibly Mongoloid ancestry.'

I could sense neurons firing behind the Guernsey eyes.

'Most Guatemalans would have Mongoloid traits?'

'Many would,' I agreed.

'And mighty few Canadians.'

'Native peoples, Asian immigrants, their descendants.'

Galiano said nothing for a long time. Then, 'Odds are we're not looking at Chantale Specter.'

I was about to answer when Hernandez rolled his dolly into the room. The large boxes had been replaced by two trash bags and a black canvas case.

'Where the hell have you been?' Galiano asked his partner.

Assholes didn't want to loan out their precious light. Acted like it's the crown jewels.' Hernandez's voice sounded like a jammed garbage disposal. 'Where do you want this stuff?'

Galiano indicated two folding tables by the right-hand wall. Hernandez offloaded his cargo, then parked the dolly by the remaining boxes.

'Next stuff gets moved, it won't be me.' Pulling a swatch of yellow from his pocket, he wiped his face. 'Goddamn stuff's heavy.'

Hernandez shoved the hankie into his back pocket. I watched a corner of yellow swatch storm from the room.

'Let's have a look at the photos,' Galiano said to me. 'Most are from the families. One from the embassy.'

I followed, though I had no need to see the display. I'd worked serial homicides, and knew exactly what was there. Faces: hostile, happy, puzzled, sleepy. Young or old, male or female, stylish or frumpy, pretty or homely, each caught at a moment in time, oblivious to future calamity.

My first glance made me think of Ted Bundy and his taste in victims. All four women had long straight hair, parted down the crown. There the resemblance ended.

Claudia de la Alda was not blessed with beauty. She was an angular young woman with a broad nose and wide-set eyes no larger than olives. In each of three snapshots, she wore a black skirt and a pastel blouse, buttoned to the chin. A silver crucifix rested on her ample chest.

Lucy Gerardi had shiny black hair, blue eyes, a delicate nose and chin. A school portrait showed her in a bright blue blazer and starched white blouse. In a home pic she wore a yellow sundress, and held a schnauzer in her lap. A gold cross nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat.

Though the oldest of the four, Patricia Eduardo didn't look a day over fifteen. One Kodak moment captured her fiercely erect atop an Appaloosa, eyes shiny black under a derby brim, one hand on the reins, one on her knee. In another she stood beside the horse, staring solemnly at the lens. Like the others, she wore a cross and no makeup.

While De la Alda, Gerardi, and Eduardo seemed to be operating under the influence of Our Lady the Chaste, Chantale Specter looked like a member of the Church of the Lewd. In her mug shot, the ambassador's daughter sported a midriff tank and skin-tight jeans. Her blonde hair was streaked, her makeup vampire black.

In stark contrast was the portrait submitted through official embassy channels. Chantale posed between Mommy and Daddy on a Queen Anne couch. She wore pumps, hose, and a white cotton dress. No booking number, no streaking, no Bela Lugosi eyes.

Looking from face to face, I felt something go hollow in my chest. Was it possible that all four women were dead? Had we dredged one of them from the Paraiso tank? Was a psychopath on the prowl in Guatemala City? Was he already planning his next kill? Would more photos find their way to this display?

'Doesn't look like someone who'd hawk ass for drugs.' Galiano was looking at the Specter portrait.

'None of them does.'

'Anyone fit your profile?'

'They all do. Chantale Specter doesn't work for race, but that's always iffy. I'd feel more confident if I could take measurements and run them through a data bank. Even then, race can be a tough call.'

Behind me, the large detective transferred boxes to the dolly.

'What about timing?' I asked.

'Claudia de la Alda was LSA in July. The septic tank was serviced in August.'

'Last seen alive doesn't equate to date of death.'

'No,' Galiano agreed.

'If she is dead.'

'Patricia Eduardo vanished in October, Gerardi and Specter in January.'

'Anyone LSA wearing jeans and a pink floral blouse?'

'Not according to witness accounts.' He indicated a stack of folders. 'The files are there.'

'First, I'd like to take a look at the clothes,' I said.

Galiano followed me to the table, watched as I lowered the evidence bags to the floor, pulled a plastic sheet from my pack, and spread it across the tabletop.

'I need water,' I said, lifting the first bag.

Galiano shot me a questioning look.

'To clean labels.'

He spoke to one of the detectives.

Pulling on latex gloves, I untied the knot, reached in, and began extracting filthy clothing. A stench filled the room as I disentangled and spread each garment.

Detective Hair Oil brought water.

'Jesus Christ, smells like sewer slime.'

'Now why do you suppose that would be?' I asked as he left, closing the door behind him.

Jeans. Shirt. Mint-green bra. Mint-green panties with tiny red roses. Navy-blue socks. Penny loafers.

A cold prickle. My sister and I got penny loafers the fall I entered the fifth grade.

Slowly, a scarecrow took shape, headless, handless, flat and damp. When the bags were empty, I began a close inspection of each item.

The jeans were navy blue and bore no logo. Though the material was in good condition, the garment had separated into individual components.

I checked the pockets. Empty, as expected. I dunked the tag, scrubbed gently. The lettering was faded beyond legibility. The pant legs were rolled, but I estimated the size as similar to mine, a woman's six or eight. Galiano recorded everything in his spiral pad.

The blouse had no identifying labels. For now I left it buttoned.

'Stab wounds?' Galiano asked as I inspected one of several defects in the fabric.

'Irregular shapes, ragged edges,' I said. 'They're just rips.'

The bra was a 34B, the panties size 5. No brand name was visible on either.

'Weird how the jeans are falling apart but everything else is almost perfect.' Galiano.

'Natural fibers. Here today, gone tomorrow.'

He waited for me to go on.

'The jeans were probably sewn with cotton thread. But the lady had a definite fondness for synthetics.'

'Princess Polyester.'

'They may not make the best-dressed lists, but polyesters and acrylics are decomp friendly.'

'Longer lasting through chemistry.'

Sludge oozed onto the plastic as I unrolled the right jeans leg. Aside from dead roaches, I spotted nothing.

I unrolled the left.

'Luma Lite?' I asked.

What had been grudgingly lent was an alternate light source that caused fingerprints, hairs, fibers, semen, and drug stains to fluoresce brightly.

Galiano dug a black box and two sets of tinted goggles from the case Hernandez had brought. While he found an outlet and turned off the overheads, I slipped on the plastic glasses. Then I flipped the switch and moved the Luma Lite over the clothing. The beam picked up nothing until I came to the unrolled hem of the left pant leg. Filaments flared like sparklers on the Fourth of July.

'What the hell is that?' I could feel Galiano's breath on my arm.

I held the beam on the cuff, and stepped back.

'¡Puchica!' Wow!

He squinted at the jeans a full minute, then straightened.

'Hair?'

'Possibly.'

'Human or animal?'

'That's one for your trace guys. But I'd start asking about family pets.'

'Son of a bitch.'

I dug a handful of plastic vials from my pack, labeled one, tweezed up the filaments, and sealed them inside. Then I rescanned every inch of clothing. No more fireworks.

'Lights?'

Galiano removed his goggles and hit the switch.

After marking the remaining vials with date, time, and location, I scraped muck into each, capped, taped, and initialed. Right sock, exterior. Right sock, interior. Left sock. Right pants cuff. Left pants cuff. Right shoe, interior. Right shoe, sole. Ten minutes later I was ready for the blouse.

'Overheads, please?'

Galiano killed the lights.

The buttons were standard-issue plastic. One by one, I hit them with the Luma Lite. No prints.

'O.K.'

The room lit up as I slipped each button through its hole, peeled back the fabric, and exposed the blouse's interior.

The object was so small it almost escaped my notice, tangled in the recess of the right underarm seam.

I grabbed my magnifier.

Oh, no.

I took a deep breath, steadied my hands, and eased the sleeve inside out.

Another lay five inches down the sleeve.

I found another, an inch below the first.

'Sonovabitch.'

'What?' Galiano was staring at me.

I went straight to the scene photos, dumped envelopes until I found the right set. Racing through the stack I pulled out the pelvic close-up and magnified the mysterious specks.

Dear God.

Barely breathing, I examined every inch of pelvic bone, then worked my way through the other shots. I spotted seven in all.

Anger rushed through my body. And sorrow. And every emotion I'd felt in the grave at Chupan Ya.

'I don't know who she is,' I said. 'But I may know why she died.'