206 Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  The opening sequence showed the usual terrain overviews, approach routes, and angles of a yellow-taped patch of earth. Only the tent was atypical.

  I skipped quickly through those. My interest was in bones.

  There were several photos of the skeleton lying in the pit, taken from a distance of at least six feet. Because the victim lay twisted to one side, the right hand and arm were difficult to see.

  I tried a magnifying glass. It didn’t help much.

  I continued flipping through prints.

  There were excellent close-ups of the skull, rib cage, pelvis, and all four limbs. In the grave. Beside the grave, lying on plastic.

  Sixty-two pictures. Not a single tight shot of the hands or feet.

  I sat back, dismayed.

  Had I failed to recover key bones? I’m always painstakingly careful when working a scene. Some call me anal. But I had to admit to the possibility. It was hot in the tent. Cramped. Lighting was poor.

  Then why the full count on the inventory sheet?

  Had I lost the phalanges here at the lab? I’d been tired on Saturday. Awash in self-pity. Pinky phalanges are tiny little buggers. Had I rinsed them down a drain while cleaning my hands? Carried them off on a hem or cuff? Crushed them under a heel or gurney wheel?

  Did it really matter? The bones were clearly not present. The question was, now what?

  Hubert would be miffed if I’d left the phalanges in the grave. A return to Oka would involve additional expense and effort. The tent. The heater. The van. The personnel.

  If I’d lost them after recovery, forget miffed. Hubert would be furious.

  Bury the camptodactyly? After all, the crooked finger had been a long shot for an ID. The condition wasn’t entered in Villejoin’s chart. Simply tell Hubert my lead had not panned out? That was true. Sort of.

  A zillion cells in my brain tossed a flag on the field.

  Foul.

  Ethics.

  Crap.

  Knowing it was futile, I tore the autopsy room apart, rifling drawers, emptying cabinets, running my fingers along baseboards and under counter ledges. Finding only detritus I don’t want to describe, I gave up and walked every inch of the corridor, eyes to the tile.

  No phalanges.

  Hubert would want me to proceed with trauma analysis before reporting to him.

  Delay of game.

  Crap.

  Moving slowly, I covered the bones. Removed my gloves. Washed my hands, carefully cleaning under the nails. Combed my hair. Recombed it into a ponytail.

  Unable to stall any longer, I took the elevator up to ten.

  The chief coroner was at his desk, jacketless now. His shirt was a coffee-stained pink that clashed badly with his red and green tie. Christmas trees with tiny banners screaming Joyeux Noël!

  I tapped my knuckles on the door frame.

  Hubert looked up. A cascade of chins disconnected.

  “Ah, excellent.”

  A pudgy hand flapped me into the office.

  Flashback. Perry Schechter. I made a note to inquire about Rose Jurmain. Kill two birds and all.

  “Bonnes nouvelles?” Hubert asked.

  “Actually, the news isn’t so good.”

  Hubert slumped back, pushing the pink polyester to its tensile limit. The hand now flapped at a chair.

  I sat.

  Brushed lint from the knee of my scrubs.

  Inhaled deeply.

  “Are you familiar with camptodactyly?” I began.

  “No.” Coroners in Quebec are either doctors or lawyers. Hubert was among the latter.

  I described the condition, then recapped my conversation with Sylvain Rayner.

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Except for one thing.”

  Hubert waited.

  “I don’t have the right little finger phalanges.”

  “Why not?”

  “Either they weren’t collected or they’ve been misplaced.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I explained the tally I’d done on-site. And my fruitless search downstairs.

  “Only those three are missing?”

  “And the distal phalange from the right third digit.”

  “An error in recovery, documentation, or processing. An error that could compromise an identification. And you’re uncertain which.”

  “Yes.” I could feel my face flame.

  “This is very disappointing.”

  I said nothing.

  “This is a homicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “If the woman downstairs is Christelle Villejoin, this case will go very high profile. If a third old woman is dead, this Marilyn Keiser, that profile will go into the startosphere.”

  Feeling correction would not be appreciated, I held my tongue.

  “Maybe these phantom phalanges were never there. Maybe the killer hacked off this woman’s finger.”

  “Why would I record a total of fifty-six?”

  “Carelessness?”

  “I’ll check the fifth right metacarpal for cut marks.” I didn’t believe I’d find any. I’d have noticed while sorting.

  English speakers profane by reference to body functions and parts. Don’t need to elaborate. French Canadians rely on liturgical reference. Ostie: host. Câlice: chalice. Tabarnac and tabarnouche: tabernacle.

  “Ostie.” Hubert pooched air through his lips. “What about trauma?”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Actually, there could be four,” I said.

  “Four what?” Hubert looked at me as though I’d been sniffing glue.

  “Elderly women murdered in the Montreal area. If Marilyn Keiser has been murdered. And we don’t know that, of course—”

  “Who’s the fourth?”

  “Rose Jurmain.”

  “Who?”

  “Last March a female skeleton was found near Sainte-Marguerite. Turned out to be a woman missing two and a half years.”

  Hubert shot forward. Rolls large enough to hide squirrels tumbled his torso.

  “Of course.” A finger jabbed the air. “Jurmain was a wealthy American. The father had connections. How could I forget? The old man was a pain in my shorts. You and Ryan just transported the bones to Chicago. But that woman wasn’t so old.”

  “Fifty-nine.” I explained Rose’s prematurely aged appearance.

  “Tabarnac.”

  Hubert’s face was now the color of his shirt. I decided to delay querying about my problem with Edward Allen.

  “I could cut bone samples from the skeleton downstairs. Submit them for DNA testing.” I knew it was dumb as soon I said it.

  “Christelle Villejoin had one relative, a sister, now dead. You tell me she never had surgery, so we won’t get lucky with hospital-stored gallstones or tissue samples. It’s been two and a half years. The house has undoubtedly been cleaned of toothbrushes, combs, tissues, chewing gum. To what would we compare this DNA?”

  “I thought there was family in the Beauce. Have attempts been made to locate those relatives?”

  Hubert didn’t bother to answer. Then I remembered. Ryan said that had been done. But done well? I made a note to ask him to double-check.

  “Marilyn Keiser has offspring somewhere out west,” I said. “We could at least establish that the skeleton is or is not hers.”

  “And if it’s not we’re still up shit creek.”

  “We could exhume Anne-Isabelle.”

  “Cremated.” Hubert packed an encyclopedia of disdain into one little word.

  “I’m happy to go back out to Oka.”

  Now the hand flapped at me.

  The small office filled with tense silence.

  What the hell? I was already on Hubert’s list.

  “This may not be the time, but I’d like to discuss an issue arising from the Jurmain case.”

  Hubert’s stare was beyond stony and out the back door. Ignoring it, I began to explain my dilemma concer
ning Edward Allen’s informant.

  The phone chose precisely that moment to ring.

  Hubert answered, listened, the scowl never leaving his face. Then, palming the mouthpiece, he spoke to me.

  “I want your trauma report as quickly as possible.”

  A not so subtle kiss-off.

  18

  THE REST OF THAT DAY WAS DEVOTED TO THE OKA woman.

  Four hours with the bones revealed no further indignities to her person. No cut marks. No stab wounds. No bullet holes. No postcranial trauma of any kind.

  The skull fracture, however, was a doozy.

  When I surfaced at five, it had been dark for an hour. No new Demande d’expertise en anthropologie form lay on my desk. There were no urgent phone messages from cops or prosecutors. No update from Ryan.

  Zipped, mufflered, booted, and gloved, I headed out.

  The snow mounding curbs and sidewalks had already turned black. Along my route to the metro, aggravated drivers herniated themselves disinterring their cars. Exhaust fumes glowed red against a backdrop of traffic-stalled taillights. Salt crunching underfoot, I congratulated myself on my choice of mass transit.

  Without Birdie or Charlie, my condo seemed dark and empty. For company, I popped in a Dorothée Berryman CD. Singing duets with Dorothée as she covered tunes by Mercer, Vaughan, and Fitzgerald, I whipped up a concoction of linguini, pine nuts, tomatoes, and feta. It wasn’t bad.

  After supper, I logged onto the Net.

  Few things have improved my life more in recent years than the reinstatement of US Airway’s incredibly fabulous direct nonstop service between La Belle Ville and the Queen City.

  Good-bye, connection in Philadelphia! Hello, luggage in Charlotte!

  Within minutes, I’d booked a seat on Thursday morning’s flight. As I closed the laptop, my face wore a smile with the wingspan of a 747.

  “Going home, going home, I’m a-going home.”

  Dorothée did not begrudge me my solo.

  * * *

  Tuesday I was up at seven, in the lab by eight.

  The morning’s autopsies included a worker crushed in a microbrewery and a bookkeeper who’d used timers and wrist leads to electrocute herself. Conscientious even in death, the lady had pinned a note to her sweater warning of potential hazard.

  By ten, I’d drawn and photographed the Oka woman’s cranial trauma and composed my report. Then I photocopied my diagram and printed superior, lateral, and interior views of the skull.

  After downing a mug of very bad coffee, I hiked downstairs to the Bureau du coroner.

  Hubert was in his office. The day’s shirt was lavender, the tie still red and green. Candy canes and holly had replaced Monday’s tree and banner motif.

  “She was struck once from behind, once after she was down.”

  Hubert laid aside his pen.

  Circling the desk, I placed the prints and diagram on his blotter. On each, I’d labeled the fractures alphabetically.

  Using my finger, I traced a jagged break running from right to left across the back of the Oka skull.

  “Letter A marks a radiating fracture caused by a blow to the right posterior parietal.”

  I indicated an indentation beside the sagittal suture at the top of the vault. A starburst of cracks spread from its center.

  “Letter B marks a crush fracture.”

  “Caused by a blow to the crown.”

  “Yes.”

  A pudgy finger came down on an in-bending paralleling one side of the crush fracture. “Bonjour.”

  “I’ll come back to that. The letters C mark radiating and concentric fractures associated with B. Notice that every C terminates at A.”

  Hubert made a noise in his throat.

  “Once formed, a crack will propagate until its energy is dissipated. In other words, when it hits an opening, it’s done. So fracture A preexisted fracture B, and all its progeny, the Cs.”

  Hubert got it. “The crown was hit after the parietal.”

  “Exactly. The first blow may have been lethal, but the killer was taking no chances. After she fell, he blasted her again to make certain she wasn’t getting up.”

  “With what?”

  I indicated the edge of the depression fracture that had caught Hubert’s attention.

  “The shape of the in-bending suggests a cylindrical object that widens into a flat surface with a raised central ridge.”

  Hubert studied the image. The phone rang. He ignored it.

  Finally, “Une pelle?” A shovel?

  “That’s my take.”

  Selecting the interior view, I pointed to dark staining adjacent to both fracture sites.

  “Hemorrhage.” Taut. “Her heart was still pumping.”

  I nodded agreement.

  Hubert did not raise his eyes to mine.

  “A helpless old woman is forced to walk naked and barefoot through the woods. To watch her grave dug. Then she’s bludgeoned with a shovel.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Câlice.”

  * * *

  Despite Hubert’s pessimism, I returned to the lab, cut a bone plug from the Oka woman’s femur, and delivered it to the DNA section. Then, with that case in limbo, I was free to focus on sniffing out Jurmain’s informant.

  Since I was currently not topping Hubert’s hit parade, I decided to start with the case file. Perhaps somewhere in the minutiae of the investigation I’d find a clue to the identity of my accuser.

  Dossiers are kept five years at the LSJML, then sent to a mountaintop in Mogadishu for permanent storage. Fortunately, Rose had disappeared only three years earlier.

  After dropping my report in the secretarial office, I continued down the same side corridor to the library. Félicité Hernandez, a large woman with a penchant for Gypsy fashion and hair like Cher’s after the bleach job, greeted me. We exchanged pleasantries, accompanied by much clacking. Félicité likes her accessories large and dangly.

  I requested the master file for LSJML-44893, then took a seat. Five minutes passed. Ten. Though pleasant and thorough, Félicité is not speedy.

  Finally, a corrugated binder hit the counter. Saying merci, I lugged the thing to my office.

  For the next two hours I returned to Sainte-Marguerite, L’Auberge des Neiges, the yellow-taped mound in the pines. I reviewed the findings of pathology, toxicology, odontology, and fiber experts. Police incident reports. Witness statements. Information provided by family members.

  I jotted names. Wondered with each. Did this person hint at professional dissatisfaction? At personal offense?

  When finished I was as frustrated as when I’d begun. No answer had emerged. No theory as to motive had formed in my head.

  Call the chief?

  No way. I wouldn’t interrupt LaManche’s convalescence by drawing him back into the world of death.

  I talked to Ayers, then Morin, then Santangelo.

  Each laughed, said the allegation of wrongdoing on my part was ridiculous. Forget it, they counseled. The Jurmain case is closed. The old man is dead.

  True.

  Still.

  I knew myself. Until I learned the identity of my accuser, the thing would keep eating at me. I’d never feel settled. Never be able to fully shut the door. And have no assurance that something similar wouldn’t arise again.

  Without mentioning specifics, I floated questions in the Service de l’identité judiciaire. In the morgue. In admin. In the secretarial office. No one had overheard or received complaints about me. No ruffled feathers. No bruised egos. No gripes.

  Out of ideas and out of sorts, I went home.

  The next morning, I flew to Charlotte.

  * * *

  On December 26, while Katy and I were diving off Ambergris Caye, Ryan sent a text message to my BlackBerry.

  Break in Keiser. Call.

  That evening, as Katy showered, I went out to the terrace and phoned. Ryan told me the following:

  On Christmas Eve, a homeless man found a purse in a
Dumpster behind a Pharmaprix drugstore on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. The contents included a comb, a hanky, and a nail file with the logo of a Hollywood, Florida, hotel.

  Since the purse was found in Montreal, the SPVM caught the call. Hearing about it, and hoping for a Keiser connection, Claudel, the lead investigator on the case, went right to work. And scored.

  At nine o’clock Christmas morning, Myron Pinsker identified the purse as belonging to his stepmother, Marilyn Keiser. Pinsker claimed to have given Keiser the file along with shampoos and lotions he’d bagged while vacationing at the Hotel Ocean Sunset in Florida the previous summer.

  “Claudel says that after IDing the handbag Pinsker blanched and started shaking like he had the DTs. Claudel got him a glass of water, did the head-below-the-knees thing. As he’s rebagging the evidence, Pinsker keels, the glass shatters, and blood flies everywhere.”

  “I assume Claudel did a deck dive, too.”

  “I see sun and sand have mellowed your take on humanity.”

  “Come on, Ryan. You know Claudel freaks at the sight of blood.”

  “I have to admit, Charbonneau’s account was hilarious.”

  Michel Charbonneau is Luc Claudel’s longtime partner.

  “Picture this. Claudel’s struggling not to toss his cookies, dialing for a medic, but his fingers are jumping all over the keys. Pinsker’s on the floor with a shard up his ass. Or wherever. Claudel starts hollering for backup. Pinsker comes to, sees the purse, goes apeshit all over again, rocking and howling like a dingo.”

  “Genuine grief?”

  “Precisely my question to Claudel.”

  “His answer?”

  “ ‘Do I look like a freakin’ shrink?’ ”

  I thought for a moment.

  “How often is the Dumpster emptied?”

  “Twice weekly. But the purse handle was hooked over an interior piece. There’s no telling how long the thing was in there.”

  “The homeless man?”

  “Harmless. Hoped his find would score him a six-pack.”

  “Latents?”

  “Negative. The purse is fabric.”

  “So this big break is actually a nonstarter.”

  “So far.”

  “And the pension checks?”

  “Cashed all at once at one location. No one remembers who brought them in. Signature’s nothing like Keiser’s. Name’s illegible.”