PLATO LOWERY WAS YOUNGER THAN I EXPECTED, EARLY EIGHTIES at most. His hair was the kind that turns L.A. waiters into stars. Though white with age, it winged thick and glossy from a center part to swoop down over his ears.

But Lowery’s eyes were what grabbed you, black as wormholes in space. His gaze seemed to laser straight into your soul.

Lowery watched as I called a halt to the digging. Others in the assembly: the backhoe operator; two cemetery workers; two coroner’s assistants; a reporter from the Robesonian; another from WBTW; a Lumberton cop; an army lieutenant who looked all of sixteen.

It was Tuesday, May 11. Two days since my call from Danny.

Though the time was barely 10 a.m., the temperature already nudged ninety. Sun pounded the cemetery’s psychedelically green lawn. The scent of moist earth and cut grass floated heavily on the air.

I squatted for a closer look at one side of the freshly opened grave.

Stratigraphy told the story.

The uppermost layer was a deep black-brown, the one below an anemic yellow-tan. Four feet down, the bucket’s teeth had bitten into a third stratum. Like the topsoil, the dirt was rich with organic content.

I gestured the tractor back and the cemetery workers to action. Collecting their spades, the men hopped in and began shoveling dirt from the grave.

In minutes a coffin lid took shape. I noted no protective vault, only the remnants of a crushed burial liner. Bad news.

A vault, whether concrete, plastic, or metal, completely encloses a coffin. A burial liner covers only the top and sides and is less sturdy. Dirt is heavy. The absence of a vault boded ill for the integrity of a box forty years underground.

In an hour a casket stood free within the excavated grave. Though flattened at one end, it appeared largely intact.

While I shot pictures, one of the coroner’s assistants drove the van graveside.

Under my direction, a plank was positioned beneath the bottom and chains were wrapped around the casket’s head and foot ends. With the cemetery workers directing movement with their hands, the backhoe operator slowly raised the box up, swung left, and deposited it on the ground.

The coffin looked jarringly out of place on the emerald grass in the warm spring daylight. As I made notes and shot pictures, I thought of John Lowery’s other sun-drenched resurrection far to the north.

And of the buoyant young man in the photo from Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.

I’d read the entire IDPF that morning, the Individual Deceased Personnel File, including paperwork sent by the military back in 1968. DD Form 893, the Record of Identification Processing Anatomical Chart; DA Form 10–249, the Certificate of Death; DD Form 1384, the Transportation Control and Movement Document; DD Form 2775, the Record of Preparation and Disposition of Remains.

I understood the acronym TSN-RVN. Tan Son Nhut–Republic of Vietnam. Lowery’s body had been identified and readied for transport at Tan Son Nhut, one of two U.S. military mortuaries in Vietnam.

The preparing official, H. Johnson, probably a GS-13 civilian identification officer, had listed John Lowery as the decedent on the DD 893, and provided Lowery’s grade and service number. He’d checked both “decomposed” and “burned” for condition of the remains.

In the front and back body views, Johnson indicated that Lowery’s head was severely injured, and that his lower arms and hands and both feet were missing. He diagrammed no scars or tattoos.

In the remarks section, Johnson stated that Lowery was found wearing army fatigues but no insignia, dog tags, or ID. Odd, but not unheard of. I’d handled one such case during my time consulting to the CIL. Since villagers had been caught looting bodies in the area, Johnson suggested these items had probably been stolen before Lowery’s body was found.

A medical officer with an indecipherable scrawl had completed the DA 10-249, listing cause of death as “multiple trauma.” Again, a common finding, particularly with victims of plane and chopper crashes.

Finally, a mortician named Dadko had signed the section titled Disposition of Remains. Dadko had also handled the DD 2775.

The DD 1384 listed Saigon as Lowery’s point of exit from Vietnam, and Dover Air Force Base, Delaware, as his point of arrival onto home soil.

No form detailed the basis for the positive ID.

Who, I wondered, had we just raised from this grave?

Ordering the chains removed, I took a few final pictures. Then, with much grunting and sweating, the plank was lifted by joint effort of the cemetery workers, the cop, the backhoe operator, the army lieutenant, and one less-than-enthusiastic television journalist.

I glanced at Plato Lowery as the coffin was transferred to the coroner’s van. Though his face remained rigid, his body jerked visibly at the sound of the slamming doors.

When the vehicle pulled away, I walked over to him.

“This must be very difficult.” Banal, I know, but I’m lousy at small talk. No, that’s being generous. When it comes to offering condolences, I totally suck.

Lowery’s face remained a stone mask.

Behind me I could hear car doors closing and engines starting up. The journalists and the cop were heading out.

“I promise to do everything I can to sort this out,” I said.

Still no response. Consistent. When we were introduced earlier, Lowery had neither spoken to me nor offered a hand to shake. Apparently I was one of the targets of his anger. For my role in Quebec? For intruding into his world to unearth his dead son?

I was about to try again when Lowery’s eyes flicked to something over my shoulder. I turned.

The lieutenant was hurrying our way, a gangly man with close-cropped hair and olive skin. Guipani? Guipini? Undoubtedly he’d been sent from Fort Bragg to put the best possible spin on a bad situation.

“Dr. Brennan. Mr. Lowery, sir. I’m so pleased this went well.” Sun glinted off bars on his shoulders and a plaque on one pocket. D. Guipone. “We’re all pleased, of course.”

A nervous smile revealed teeth that should have worn braces.

“The army knew that it would, of course. Go well.”

Not a muscle fiber stirred in Lowery’s face.

“My colleagues at the Central Identification Laboratory say Dr. Brennan is the best. That’s how this will be handled, sir. Only the best. And total transparency, of course.”

“Of course.” Lowery’s voice was gravel.

“Of course.” Firm nod from Guipone.

“A horse is a horse.”

“Sir?”

“Of course.”

Guipone cast a confused glance my way.

“Of course,” I said, deadpan as the old man.

Guipone was either too young or too dumb to realize he’d been made the butt of a joke.

“Well then.” Again the snaggletoothed smile, directed at me. “What happens now?”

“This morning, using cemetery records and the grave marker, I established that this was, indeed, the plot assigned to John Lowery.” I gestured toward the open grave. “Now, in the coroner’s presence, I’ll open the coffin, record the condition of the remains, then seal the body in a transport container. As soon as the army completes arrangements, the remains will be flown to JPAC for analysis.”

“My son died a hero.” Taut.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. We will get to the bottom of this.”

Turning his back to Guipone, Lowery spoke to me. “I want to see him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” As gently as I could.

The ebony eyes bore into mine. Seconds passed. Then, “How do I know my son will be treated with the respect he deserves?”

Reaching out, I placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“My husband was a marine, Mr. Lowery. I am a mother. I understand the sacrifice made by the man in that coffin. And by those who loved him.”

Lowery tipped his face to the sun and closed his eyes. Then, lowering his head, he turned and walked away.

Medical examiners are appointed. Most are physicians, preferably pathologists, ideally board-certified forensic pathologists.

Coroners are elected. Candidates can be mechanics, teachers, or unemployed pole dancers. Most are morticians or funeral home operators.

In 1965, the North Carolina General Assembly passed legislation allowing individual counties to abolish the office of coroner and to appoint medical doctors to investigate deaths within their borders.

Today North Carolina has a centralized death investigation system. County MEs are appointed for three-year terms by the chief medical examiner in Chapel Hill.

Sound progressive? Actually, the setup is not so hot.

In counties lacking willing or capable doctors, nonphysicians—sometimes registered nurses—still serve. Instead of coroners, they’re now called “acting medical examiners.”

And get this. On its Web site, the North Carolina Medical Examiner System describes itself as a network of doctors who voluntarily devote their time, energy, and medical expertise.

Read between the lines. Doctors or dog walkers, in North Carolina, MEs are paid zilch.

Robeson County’s acting medical examiner was Silas Sugarman, owner and operator of Lumberton’s oldest funeral home. By prearrangement, following exhumation the casket would go from the cemetery to Sugarman’s facility.

I’d driven from Charlotte to Lumberton in my own car, departing as the first tendrils of dawn teased the Queen City awake. Though careful timing was required, I managed to shake Guipone and leave alone from the cemetery.

It wasn’t just that I found the lieutenant annoying. I had a plan.

Over the years, I’ve driven countless times from Charlotte to the South Carolina beaches. The back route I favor involves a long stretch on Highway 74 and brings me close enough to Lumberton for a barbecue detour. That was my target today. Being already in Lumberton, it only made sense to score some “que.”

I headed straight for Fuller’s Old Fashioned BBQ. A bit of a diversion, but I wasn’t due at the funeral home until two. And my stomach was broadcasting deprivation distress.

At one fifteen, most of the lunch crowd was gone. Ignoring the buffet, I ordered my usual. Barbecue pork, coleslaw, fries, and hush puppies. A tumbler of sweet tea the size of a silo.

OK. No smiley heart. But the owners, Fuller and Delora Locklear, know how to do pig.

Exiting the restaurant was like stepping into the molasses I’d left untouched on my table. The temperature inside my Mazda was 150.

After cranking the AC, I punched an address into my portable GPS and wound south toward Martin Luther King Drive. Within minutes the robotic voice was announcing arrival at my destination.

Sugarman’s Funeral Home looked like Tara on steroids. Redbrick. White antebellum pillars and trim up and down. Elaborate drive-through portico in front.

The interior could only be described as rose. Rose carpet. Rose drapes. Rose floral wallpaper above the wainscoting and beadboard.

In the main lobby, a faux-colonial placard listed two temporary residents. Selma Irene Farrington awaited mourners in the Eternal Harmony Room. Lionel Peter Jones cooled his heels in Peace Ever After.

A young woman materialized as I was pondering the relative merits of harmony versus peace. When I requested directions to the owner’s office, she led me past the Lilac Overflow Reposing Room and the Edgar Firefox Memorial Chapel.

Sugarman was seated at a massive oak desk with carved pineapples for feet. At least six-four and three hundred pounds, with greasy black hair and a crooked nose, he looked more mafioso than mortician.

Also present were the good lieutenant and a small, rat-faced man with short brown hair parted with surgical precision.

The trio was chuckling at some shared joke. Seeing me in the doorway, they fell silent and rose.

“Dr. Brennan. It is indeed an honor.” Sugarman’s voice was surprisingly high, his drawl as thick as the Fuller’s molasses.

Sugarman introduced rat-face as his brother-in-law, Harold Beasley, sheriff of Robeson County. Beasley nodded, repositioned a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth. No comment, no question. Obviously he’d been prepped on my role in the day’s activities.

“And you know the lieutenant.”

“Yes.” I resisted the impulse to add “of course.”

Sugarman arranged his beefy features into an expression of appropriate solemnity. “Ma’am, gentlemen. We all understand the sad business the Lord has chosen to send our way. I propose we get to it without further ado.”

Sugarman led us down a hall and through a door at the back of the facility. No name plaque. Everlasting Embalming? Perpetual Preparation?

The room was windowless, and maybe fifteen by twenty.

From the west wall, a door opened to the outside. Beside it, metal shelving held the usual array of instruments, chemicals, cosmetic supplies, plastic undies, and fluids whose purpose I didn’t really want to know.

A deep sink jutted from the south wall. Aspirating and injection machines sat on a counter beside it. So did a crowbar and small electric saw.

Dressing and embalming tables had been snugged to the north wall. An open casket yawned ready inside an aluminum transport case on a gurney pushed up to them.

The exhumed coffin rested on the collapsible gurney on which it had ridden from the graveyard. Though fans did their best, the smell of mildew, moldy wood, and decomposing flesh permeated the small space.

Sugarman removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves. He and I donned gloves, aprons, and goggles. Beasley and Guipone watched from the doorway. Both looked like they’d rather be elsewhere. I hoped I was more discreet.

The old coffin was mahogany, with sculpted corners and a domed top, now collapsed. Both swing bars and most of the hardware were gone. The metal that remained was eroded and discolored.

I made notes and took photos. Then I stepped back.

Sugarman raised both brows. I nodded.

Crossing to the gurney, the big man inserted one end of the crowbar and levered downward. Rotten wood cracked and flew.

Kicking aside splinters, Sugarman heaved again. And again. As fragments detached, I tossed them to the floor.

Finally, sweat rings darkening both armpits, Sugarman laid down his tool.

I stepped close.

Guipone and Beasley moved in beside us.

Breathing hard, Sugarman lifted what remained of the top half of the coffin lid.

Beasley’s hand flew to his mouth.

“Sweet baby Jesus.”