yielded results. At 10:47:22 EST, I was finally able to fully extend Brighton Hallis’s right leg. I checked in with Larabee. “You’re doing fluoroscopy?” His muffled voice told me he was shoulder-snugging the phone, doing something else. “Yes.” “You’ll have to work alone.” “Fine.” It wasn’t. “Ditto if you’re ready to roll her for prints.” “I think the fingers are thawed enough to rehydrate.” “Any thoughts on what happened to her?” “Hypothermia, hypoxia, HACE, exhaustion, exposure, head trauma…” I ticked off the lineup of suspects. “A brain scan may be in order if you want to nail specific cause of death.” Soft tissue and organs are Larabee’s department. He grunted and hung up. Or dropped the phone. Hard to tell. Suited and gloved, I organized my approach. Prints first. Then radiography. Then. I wasn’t quite sure about the next then. Maneuvering free the accessible hand, I clamped the shears around the thumb and squeezed firmly, using both palms as before.
