by Kathy Reichs
“I didn’t exactly send her.”
“You authorized a pathologist to conduct a disinterment.”
“You left half the burial behind.”
“Hardly half.”
“Dr. Briel offered.”
“A freebie.” Scornful. “On the house.”
“Dr. Briel is an accomplished young woman.”
“She may kick ass at the cha-cha-cha. But she’s not an anthropologist.”
“She has training and experience.”
I shot forward in my chair. “Amateur hour!”
Hubert drummed the desk in annoyance.
“You said it yourself. This is homicide. If the case goes to court, you think Briel will qualify as an expert because she took some bullshit short course in anthropology?”
“It’s only four bones.”
“Four critical bones.”
“Then you shouldn’t have missed them.”
“I’d have gotten them.”
“You weren’t here.”
“I suggested a return to Oka before I left town. You declined my offer.”
Hubert glared at me.
I glared back.
Seconds passed.
Hubert looked away first.
“You will analyze the phalanges, of course.”
I said nothing.
“Is that it?” Message clear. Subject closed.
“That is definitely not it.”
I yanked the Demande d’expertise form from Briel’s clipboard and sailed it onto the desk.
Hubert glanced at it, up at me.
“And?”
“Replay the tape.”
Deep sigh. So patient.
“Have you read the police incident report? Or did you storm down here totally unacquainted with the facts?”
“I read enough to know you asked a pathologist to do anthropology.”
“Câlice! Not anthropology. Osteology. Simple sorting and counting. And again, I didn’t ask. Dr. Briel offered.”
“If she offered to shave your nuts would you let her do that?”
The chief coroner worked hard at looking prim. Didn’t quite pull it off.
“There’s no need for vulgarity.”
True. But when that switch trips in my brain, civility boogies.
Hubert ran a hand down his face. Leaned back, flesh overflowing the armrests of the chair.
“Two weeks ago, SQ-Chicoutimi got a call about a man running bareass on a highway. Turns out it was some wingnut living near Lac Saint-Jean. Frontiersman type. Loner. Cops found him sitting in the snow outside his shack, gnawing on a rabbit. After bundling the guy off to psych, they tossed the property, found bones in an old storage locker.
“The coroner up there’s a gynecologist name of Labrousse. The bones looked old, so Labrousse figured they’d washed up at the lakeshore, or eroded from an abandoned cemetery or Indian burial ground. Figured the happy hermit had collected and stashed them in his trunk.
“Bottom line, the remains came to us. Since you were away, Briel offered to take a look. I figured why not?”
“Here’s why not.” I tossed the whole clipboard not so gently onto the desk. “Briel went a whole CSI episode beyond”—I hooked quotation marks with my fingers—“taking a look.”
As Hubert skimmed the pages, his brows rose, rippling his forehead.
“Eh, misère.”
“Age, sex, race, height. I’m surprised she didn’t include Social Security numbers.”
“I can see why you’re upset.”
“Insightful on your part.”
“She means well. I’ll speak to her.”
“So will I.”
Hubert picked up his pen and drummed it on the blotter, impatient for me to be gone.
I decided to power through. Why not?
“While I’m here, I’d like to discuss an issue arising from the Jurmain case.”
Hubert aimed disinterested eyes at mine.
I reminded him of Rose Jurmain, L’Auberge des Neiges, the Chicago trip. Then I described the encounter with Perry Schechter, and related the tale of Edward Allen’s tipster.
“I’m convinced the allegation came from this end, from someone with knowledge of my involvement in the case. Someone who was either too incompetent to know that no mistake was made or, worse, who wanted to embarrass me while knowing that no mistake was made.”
“Ask the old man.”
“He’s dead.”
First surprise, then irritation crossed Hubert’s face.
“Are you accusing a member of my staff?”
“I’m accusing no one. Yet. But I will find the bastard who placed that call. I’m convinced it was someone working either at the LSJML or in the coroner’s office.”
Hubert thought about that.
“I’ll pose some questions.” Insincere.
“Thank you.” More insincere.
I was at the door when Hubert spoke again.
“Dr. Briel is young and ambitious. I appreciate your understanding.”
“I have a choice?”
* * *
By noon I knew the name of the old lady from Oka.
First I called Ryan. Then Hubert.
Each listened as I described the oddly deformed finger bones. Neither cared much about the camptodactyly. Both cared greatly about the ID.
Christelle Villejoin.
While I’d examined the phalanges, Joe had maintained a frosty distance. My assistant’s fragile ego had obviously been bruised. Tough titties. Mine had also taken a hit. I knew I should have made a conciliatory gesture. Instead, I ignored the pouting.
But, as I’d worked, I’d been forced to make a not so proud admission to myself. I’d been as welcoming to Joe as I had been to Briel. Despite two years’ proximity, I knew little about him.
Quick inventory. Joe was not yet forty. He lived alone, somewhere in the burbs, often biked to work. Disliked pickles. Drank Pepsi. Gelled and bleached his hair. Worried about being too thin.
Beyond those few inconsequential facts, I was blank on my tech’s personal life. Was he divorced? Gay? Vegan? Sagittarian? I vowed to make more of an effort.
After reporting to Hubert, I went to apologize and appease. The histology, pathology, and anthropology labs were empty. Assuming Joe had gone downstairs for lunch, I did the same.
My assistant wasn’t in the cafeteria.
But Ryan was.
Not in the mood for clever repartee, I dropped my eyes, hoping Ryan wouldn’t spot me. Birdie’s trick. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Stupid.
“Expecting George Clooney?” Ryan’s form loomed above the table.
“Tiger Woods.”
“What’s the matter, buttercup?” Ryan deposited his tray and sat. “The other kids shunning you?”
I jabbed at my salad.
“Come on. Why the gloom-and-doom face?”
Christ. Where to start?
I told him about Santangelo’s resignation.
“Can’t blame a gal for moving on.”
“No. But her leaving is . . .” What? “. . . symptomatic.”
“Symptomatic?” Skeptical.
“Morale seems to have tanked in médico-légale.”
“Tanked?”
“What? Am I talking to a parrot?”
“Parrot?”
I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t help it.
“Tell me, jelly bean.”
“How’s this for a morning? An asshole at my condo is trying to get me evicted because I own a cat. I have a new pen pal who thinks I’m the spawn of the devil. I had a bastard of an argument with Hubert. I ripped Joe a new anatomical part.”
“Sparky-larky still on a rip?” We’d discussed my lunatic neighbor on more than one occasion.
I nodded.
“What’s that guy do for a living?” Ryan downed a hunk of lasagna.
“I think Winston said he’s with Montreal Public Works.”
“Who’s the pen pal?”
I shook my
head, indicating I didn’t want to pursue the subject.
“Think it could be greetings from the same creep who called Edward Allen Jurmain?”
I hadn’t thought of that.
“I doubt it,” I said.
Though few in number, I’d received hostile letters in the past. Typically, such mail was harmless venting by discontented next of kin or disgruntled convicted persons.
Full stop.
Might the letter have come from Sparky? I dismissed the thought. Anonymous intimidation wasn’t really his style.
Poop in a package?
OK. Maybe.
“Why the blowup with lardass?” Ryan had moved on to the third on my list of complaints.
I described my trifecta in Hubert’s office. The reexcavation at Oka. Briel’s being allowed to examine the Lac Saint-Jean bones. Jurmain’s nameless informant.
Ryan looked thoughtful. Or maybe he was trying to ID the brown goop oozing from the layers of his pasta.
“Lac Saint-Jean. Hm.”
“Hm?”
“Maybe nothing. I’ll do some checking, give you a call this afternoon.”
“Any movement on Villejoin or Keiser?” I changed the subject.
“Not really. Claudel checked the airlines, VIA rail, local bus and taxi companies, Montreal travel agencies. If Keiser left town voluntarily, she either drove or went via hyperspace.”
“Thumbed a ride on the Heart of Gold.” I spoke without thinking.
“Blasted off with the Infinite Improbability Drive,” he said.
Ryan and I were both fans of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. When a couple, we’d often sparred with our favorite quotes. Then it was fun. Now it just hurt.
Old habits die hard.
Ryan was smiling full on, eyes and all. Eyes like Bahamian waters. Eyes you could get lost in. Eyes I had gotten lost in.
But not again.
I looked away. “What else?”
“Claudel floated a nationwide APB on Keiser’s vehicle. He checked local hospitals, and queried amnesia admissions across Canada. Or whatever term the psychobabblers use these days. Came up empty. Now he’s looking at Keiser’s neighbors, finding out how long each has lived in the building, previous addresses, that sort of thing.”
“Keiser had an active social life.”
Ryan chuckled. “Claudel told you?”
“Told me what?”
“The merry widow thought of herself as a child of the sixties. And a player.”
“With men?”
Ryan nodded.
“She had boyfriends?”
“So she led the neighbors to believe.” Ryan’s smile could only be described as a smirk.
“Why is that funny? Because Keiser was elderly?”
Ryan formed a set of Vs with his fingers. Peace.
“Charbonneau’s yet to locate a single old beau. He’s working through the book club and knitting circle ladies. So far he’s scored a lot of tea and cookies and one interesting tidbit. Keiser liked to spend time with nature.”
“Meaning?”
“Sometimes she went off to the woods. To paint.”
“Where?”
“She’d never say. She also frequented a place called Eastman Spa in the Eastern Townships.”
It took me a moment to see the relevance.
“Retreats to the country. Sounds like Rose Jurmain.”
Ryan nodded. “I’m running staff and guests, everyone connected with L’Auberge des Neiges during the period Jurmain stayed there, cross-checking for overlap with Eastman. I’m also looking for any connection between Jurmain, Villejoin, and Keiser. So far, zilch.”
Eastman Spa was upmarket, beyond my budget. “To afford Eastman, Keiser must have had something in her pockets.”
“The estate isn’t that big, maybe fifty thousand. There’s a will. Pinsker gets five grand. The rest goes to the biological daughter and son. Claudel thinks both were genuinely shocked.”
“At the paltry sum, or that they were primary heirs?”
“Both.”
“Keiser and her offspring were estranged?”
“Yeah. Claudel’s looking into why.”
“Anyone profit from the Villejoins’ deaths?”
Ryan shook his head. “The sisters owned the house and furnishings. They left a letter specifying that any proceeds of a sale go to the Humane Society.”
Before heading upstairs, I bought a giant chocolate chip cookie.
Joe was at a microtome, slicing wax for specimen slides. I presented my bribe and did a mea culpa. Monsieur Moody seemed fractionally mollified.
I asked about his holiday. He said it was nice. Coolly. I asked if he had plans for the upcoming weekend. Exploration, he said. Really, I said. Of what? Stuff, he said, then refocused on his wax.
Okeydokey.
Conscience lightened, I turned to the Lac Saint-Jean case.
First, the evidence log that had been transported with the bones from Chicoutimi. No help there. The whole shebang had been bagged without reference to context. I assumed everything had been commingled inside the hermit’s locker.
The gynecologist, Labrousse, was correct on one point. The remains were old. Bleaching, warping, and cortical flaking suggested long-term submersion in water.
The bones were also badly damaged. Many ended in jagged spikes abraded by years of wave action.
Though much was missing, it was clear I had four individuals, two adults and two kids. Briel had nailed that. But she’d misassigned a busload of elements. The adult female got several of the adult male’s ribs and a juvenile radius. He got her right clavicle, left fibula, and sternum. Skull pieces had been jumbled all over the map.
The female looked white. Narrow nose, high nasal bridge.
From the broken facial segments, I could tell the male had remarkably wide cheekbones. Surprised, I checked maxillary fragments. All but one front tooth had been lost postmortem. I studied the lone incisor with a magnifying lens. Though abraded, the tongue surface retained a scooped-out appearance.
Interesting. Though far from definitive, flaring cheekbones and shoveled incisors were suggestive of Mongoloid ancestry.
For the kids I had too little to attempt racial assessment.
Briel came by around three, all lousy with enthusiasm. Expecting what? Praise? Thanks? Collegial discussion?
She got fiery disapproval.
Joe was cleaning beakers at the sink. He turned off the faucet. Over Briel’s shoulder, I noticed his body go still. Listening.
Briel said little during my tirade. When I’d finished, she fled, jaw set, face scarlet as a tanager.
Joe turned and his eyes met mine. Flicked away. In that moment I saw censure. And something else. Disappointment? Disdain?
Again, I knew some gesture on my part was needed. Again, I let the moment pass.
I detest confrontation. Dislike change. Hubert. Joe. Santangelo. It had been an abysmal eight hours.
I was profiling the second Lac Saint-Jean kid when the lab door opened.
I looked up.
Until then, the day had been a love fest.
21
“KEISER HAD A HIDEY-HOLE.” TYPICAL CLAUDEL. Arriving at the lab, he got straight to the facts. No Bonjour. No Comment ça va?
Surprised, I laid down the vertebra I was scoping with a hand lens.
“The building manager’s a guy named Luigi Castiglioni, Lu to his close amici. Yesterday, I’m doing follow-up with Lu, and the whole interview something’s bugging me, like he’s looking different than I remember. That, and the fact he’s jumpy as hell. When I squeeze hard, the asshole lets slip he’s just back from a six-month sojourn in the old country.”
Quick calculation. July to January. That put Lu in Italy from the time Keiser disappeared through the time Claudel began to investigate.
I started to ask a question. Claudel held up a manicured hand.
“So I ask him. How’s that work, you being overseas and here fixing toilets at the same time?
Lu admits he’s got a twin. Eddie. You believe that? Lu and Eddie. Sounds like some cheesy vaudeville routine.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“Conscientious citizen that he is, Lu doesn’t want to get canned while he’s on sabbatical, so he talks brother Eddie into acting as super in his absence. The scam flies. No one picks up on the swap. But the thing is, Lu’s worked the building for twenty-two years. Probably schmoozing for tips. Whatever. He gets to know the tenants, learns what they’re up to. Brother Eddie doesn’t know jackshit.”
I got the picture. Lu revealed something Eddie didn’t know. New search. Bingo.
“Where was she?” I asked.
Claudel shook his head, as though amazed at the foibles of his fellow man.
“Turns out the old broad kept a getaway near Lac Memphrémagog.”
I let the “old broad” reference pass. “She went there to paint.”
Claudel dipped his chin. “Yeah. The place started life as her third husband’s hunting shack.”
“Third?”
“Got the lineup from the kids, Otto and Mona. They’re a prize pair, by the way. Gotta revisit that.”
“Oh?”
“Just a gut. Problem is, both were thousands of clicks from Montreal in Alberta when Mama dropped off the radar. There’s no evidence of missing money. Still, I’m examining financials, looking for secret accounts, suspicious transfers or withdrawals, major debts, big purchases. Any flags over the past three months. Changes in routine, spending habits, income. It’s a long shot, but we’ve got no short ones. I’m also checking the possibility of nasty habits—addiction, gambling, the usual. Doing the same for the stepson, Myron Pinsker.”
“What about the three husbands?”
“Uri Keiser was numero uno. They married in ’fifty-eight, divorced in ’seventy-eight. He remarried in ’seventy-nine, moved to Brooklyn in ’eighty-two. Some bad blood there. Keiser’s been in New York ever since. Pinsker was next. Married in ’eighty-four, taken out by an aneurysm in ’ninety-six.”
“He’d be Myron Pinsker’s father?”
“Yeah. Named Myron, too. Why would you keep saddling kids with a tag like Myron? That a Jewish thing?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hubby three was Samuel Adamski. Keiser married him in ’ninety-eight. Interesting sidebar, the guy was fourteen years younger than his bride. She was sixty-one. He was forty-seven.”