As the room was without proper radiation protection, only one lead-clad technician was permitted to risk his reproductive future while the x-rays were being taken. The remaining FBI technicians and their samples had retreated to their mobile laboratory. The funeral director made himself scarce elsewhere in the building, leaving the three of them waiting for the bad news in a room so quiet you could hear dust settling to the carpet. Jackson Craig got to his feet and began to pace the room. Seemed like seasons passed before the door at the far end of the waiting room hissed open. The technician had shed his lead apron. He carried his laptop before him like a bouquet as he entered the room. Everyone crowded around the screen. “Nine inch titanium rod in the right leg,” he pronounced, pointing at the image on the screen. “Seven screws holding the device in place. Recent. Past ten months or so.” He looked directly at Craig.
