Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  Victim number two, though equally dead, was more intact. Some of the skin was blackened and split, but in most places it was merely smoked. Tiny white lines radiated from the corners of the eyes, and the ears were pale on the insides and underneath the lobes. The hair had been reduced to a frizzled cap. One arm lay flat, the other was flung wide, as if reaching for its partner in death. The outstretched hand had been reduced to a bony, blackened claw.

  LaManche’s somber monotone droned on, describing the room and its lifeless occupants. I half listened, relieved that I wouldn’t be needed. Or would I? There were supposed to be kids. Where were they? Through the open window I could see sunshine, pine trees, and glistening white snow. Outside, life went on.

  Silence interrupted my thoughts. LaManche had stopped dictating and replaced wool gloves with latex. He began to examine victim number two, lifting the eyelids and observing the inside of the nose and mouth. Then he rolled the body toward the wall and raised the shirttail.

  The outer layer of skin had split and the edges were curling back. The peeling epidermis looked translucent, like the delicate film inside an egg. Underneath, the tissue was bright red, mottled white where it had lain in contact with the crumpled sheets. LaManche pressed a gloved finger into the back muscle and a white spot appeared in the scarlet flesh.

  Hubert rejoined us as LaManche was returning the body to its supine position. We both looked a question at him.

  “Empty.”

  LaManche and I did not change expression.

  “There are a couple of cribs in there. Must be the kids’ room. Neighbors say there were two babies.” He was breathing hard. “Twin boys. They’re not in there.”

  Hubert took out a hankie and wiped his chapped face. Sweat and arctic air are not a good combination. “Anything here?”

  “Of course this will require a full autopsy,” answered LaManche in his melancholy bass. “But based on my preliminary, I would say that these people were alive when the fire broke out. At least this one was.”

  He indicated body number two.

  “I’ll be here another thirty minutes or so, then you may remove them.”

  Hubert nodded and left to tell his transport team.

  LaManche crossed to the first body, then returned to the second. I watched in silence, breathing warmth onto my mittened fingers. Finally, he finished. I didn’t have to ask.

  “Smoke,” he said. “Around the nostrils, in the nose and air passages.” He looked at me.

  “They were still breathing during the fire.”

  “Yes. Anything else?”

  “The lividity. The cherry red color. That suggests carbon monoxide in the blood.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “The blanching when you applied pressure. Livor isn’t fixed yet. Blanching only occurs for a matter of hours after lividity first develops.”

  “Yes.” He looked at his watch. “It’s just past eight now. This one could have been alive as late as three or four A.M.” He pulled off the latex gloves. “Could have been, but the fire brigade got here at two-thirty, so death was before that. Livor is extremely variable. What else?”

  The question went unanswered. We heard commotion below, then feet pounded up the stairs. A fireman appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathing hard.

  “Estidecolistabernac!”

  I ran through my québécois lexicon. Not there. I looked at LaManche. Before he could translate the man went on.

  “Someone here named Brennan?” he asked LaManche.

  The hollow feeling spread to my innards.

  “We’ve got a body in the basement. They say we’re going to need this Brennan guy.”

  “I’m Tempe Brennan.”

  He looked at me for a long time, helmet under one arm, head tipped. Then he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and looked back at LaManche.

  “You can go down there as soon as the chief clears you through. And better bring a spoon. There’s not much left of this one.”

  THE VOLUNTEER FIREMAN LED US DOWN THE STAIRS and into the back of the house. Here, most of the roof was gone and sunlight poured into the gloomy interior. Particles of soot and dust danced on the wintry air.

  We stopped at the entrance to the kitchen. On the left I could make out the remains of a counter, sink, and several large appliances. The dishwasher was open, its contents black and melted. Charred boards lay everywhere, the same giant pickup sticks I’d seen in the front rooms.

  “Keep back by the walls,” said the fireman, gesturing with his arm as he disappeared around the doorjamb.

  He reappeared seconds later, working his way along the west side of the room. Behind him, the countertop curled upward like a giant licorice twist. Embedded in it were fragments of shattered wine bottles and unidentifiable globs of various sizes.

  LaManche and I followed, sliding along the front wall, then rounding the corner and moving down the counter. We stayed as far from the center of the room as possible, picking our way through burned rubble, imploded metal containers, and scorched propane tanks.

  I stopped next to the fireman, back to the counter, and surveyed the damage. The kitchen and an adjacent room were incinerated. The ceilings were gone, the separating wall reduced to a few charred timbers. What had been the floor was now a yawning black hole. An extension ladder angled from it in our direction. Through the opening I could see men in hard hats lifting debris and either flinging or carrying it out of sight.

  “There is a body down there,” said my guide, tipping his head at the opening. “Found it when we began to clear rubble from the floor collapse.”

  “Just one, or more?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know. It doesn’t hardly look human.”

  “Adult or child?”

  He gave me a “lady, are you stupid?” look.

  “When can I get down there?”

  His eyes slid to LaManche, back to me. “That’s up to the chief. They’re still clearing the area. We wouldn’t want anything to split your pretty skull.”

  He gave me what he no doubt felt was an engaging smile. He probably practiced it in the mirror.

  We watched as firemen below pitched boards and tramped back and forth with loads of debris. From out of sight I could hear banter and the sound of things being dislodged and dragged.

  “Have they considered that they might be destroying evidence?” I asked.

  The fireman looked at me as if I’d suggested the house had been hit by a comet.

  “It’s just floorboards and shit that fell down from this level.”

  “That ‘shit’ may help establish sequence,” I said, my voice as chilly as the icicles on the counter behind us. “Or body position.”

  His face went rigid.

  “There could still be hot spots down there, lady. You don’t want one flaring up in your face, do you?”

  I had to admit I didn’t.

  “And that guy’s past caring.”

  Inside my hard hat I could feel a throbbing along the side of my pretty skull.

  “If the victim is as burned as you suggest, your colleagues could be obliterating major body parts.”

  His jaw muscle bunched as he looked past me for support. LaManche said nothing.

  “The chief’s probably not gonna let you in there, anyway,” he said.

  “I need to get in now to stabilize what’s there. Especially the teeth.” I thought of baby boys. I hoped for teeth. Lots of them. All adult. “If there are any left.”

  The fireman gave me a head to toe, sizing up my five-foot-five, one-hundred-twenty-pound frame. Though the thermal outfitting disguised my shape and the hard hat hid my long hair, he saw enough to convince himself I belonged elsewhere.

  “She’s not really going down there?” He looked to LaManche for an ally.

  “Dr. Brennan will be doing the recovery.”

  “Estidecolistabernac!”

  This time I didn’t need translation. Fireman Macho thought the job required testicles.

  �
��Hot spots are no problem,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “In fact, I usually prefer to work right in the flames. I find it warmer.”

  With that he gripped the side rails, swung onto the ladder, and slid down, never touching the rungs with his feet.

  Great. He also does tricks. I could imagine what he was scripting for the chief.

  “These are volunteers,” said LaManche, almost smiling. He looked like Mr. Ed in a hard hat. “I must finish upstairs, but I will rejoin you shortly.”

  I watched him weave a path to the door, his large, hooded frame hunched in concentration. Seconds later the chief emerged on the ladder. It was the same man who’d directed us to the upstairs bodies.

  “You’re Dr. Brennan?” he asked in English.

  I nodded once, ready for a fight.

  “Luc Grenier. I head up the St-Jovite volunteer squad.” He unsnapped his chin strap and let it dangle. He was older than his misogynous teammate.

  “We’re going to need another ten, fifteen minutes to secure the lower level. This was the last section we put down, so there could still be hot spots.” The strap jumped as he talked. “This was a pisser, and we don’t want a flare-up.” He pointed behind me. “See how that pipe’s deformed?”

  I turned to look.

  “That’s copper. To melt copper you’ve got to get up over eleven hundred degrees centigrade.” He shook his head, and the strap swung back and forth. “This was a real pisser.”

  “Do you know how it started?” I asked.

  He pointed to a propane tank near my feet. “So far we’ve counted twelve of those suckers. Either someone knew exactly what he was doing, or he really fucked up the family barbecue.” His face reddened slightly. “Sorry.”

  “Arson?”

  Chief Grenier shrugged both shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “Not my call.” He snapped his chin strap and gripped the sides of the ladder. “All we’re doing is moving debris to be sure the fire’s completely cold. This kitchen was full of junk. That’s what provided the fuel to burn right through the floor. We’ll take extra care around the bones. I’ll give a whistle when it’s safe.”

  “Don’t spray any water on the remains,” I said.

  He gave a hand salute and disappeared down the ladder.

  It took thirty minutes before I was allowed into the basement. During that time I went to the crime scene truck to collect my equipment and arrange for a photographer. I located Pierre Gilbert and asked to have a screen and spotlight set up below.

  The basement was one large open space, dark and damp and colder than Yellowknife in January. At the far end loomed a furnace, its pipes rising, black and gnarled, like the limbs of a giant dead oak. It reminded me of another cellar I’d visited not long ago. That one had hidden a serial killer.

  The walls were cinder block. Most of the large debris had been cleared and heaped against them, exposing a dirt floor. In places the fire had turned it reddish brown. In others it was black and rock-hard, like ceramic tile fired in an oven. Everything was covered by a thin membrane of frost.

  Chief Grenier took me to a spot on the right edge of the floor collapse. He said that no victims had been found elsewhere. I hoped he was right. The thought of sifting the entire basement almost made me weep. Wishing me good luck, he left to rejoin his men.

  Little of the kitchen sun made it this far back, so I took a high-powered flashlight from my kit and shone it around me. One look caused adrenaline to report for duty. This was not what I’d expected.

  The remains were strewn over an area at least ten feet in length. They were largely skeletonized, and showed varying degrees of heat exposure.

  In one cluster I could see a head surrounded by fragments of differing shapes and sizes. Some were black and shiny, like the skull. Others were chalky white and looked ready to crumble. Which is exactly what they would do if not handled properly. Calcined bone is featherlight and extremely fragile. Yes. This would be a difficult recovery.

  Five feet south of the skull an assortment of vertebrae, ribs, and long bones lay in rough anatomical position. Also white and fully calcined. I noted the orientation of the vertebrae and the position of the arm bones. The remains were lying faceup, one arm crossing the chest, the other flung above the head.

  Below the upper arms and chest lay a heart-shaped black mass with two fractured long bones projecting distally. The pelvis. Beyond this, I could see the charred and fragmented bones of the legs and feet.

  I felt relief, but some confusion. This was a single, fully grown victim. Or was it? Infant bones are tiny and extremely fragile. They could easily be hidden below. I prayed I’d find none when I sifted through the ash and sediment.

  I made notes, took Polaroids, then began to sweep away soil and ash using a soft-bristle paintbrush. Slowly, I exposed more and more bone, carefully inspecting the displaced debris, collecting it for later screening.

  LaManche returned as I was clearing the last of the muck that lay in direct contact with the bones. He watched silently as I took four stakes, a ball of string, and three retractable measuring tapes from my kit.

  I hammered a stake into the ground just above the cranial cluster, and hooked the ends of two tapes onto a nail I’d driven into the top. I ran one tape ten feet south and pounded in a second stake.

  LaManche held that tape at the second stake while I went back to the first and ran the other tape perpendicular, ten feet toward the east. Using the third tape, I measured off a hypotenuse of fourteen feet one and three-quarter inches from LaManche’s stake to the northeast corner. Where the second and third tapes met, I hammered in a third stake. Thanks to Pythagoras, I now had a perfect right triangle with two ten-foot sides.

  I unhooked the second tape from the first stake, hooked it to the northeast stake, and ran it ten feet south. LaManche brought his tape ten feet east. Where these tapes met I hammered in the fourth stake.

  I ran a string around the four stakes, enclosing the remains in a ten-by-ten-foot square with ninety-degree corners. I would triangulate from the stakes when taking measurements. If needed, I could divide the square into quadrants, or break it into grid units for more precise observations.

  Two evidence recovery techs arrived as I was placing a north arrow near the cranial cluster. They wore dark blue arctic suits, SECTION D’IDENTITÉ JUDICIAIRE stamped on their backs. I envied them. The damp cold in the basement was like a knife, cutting right through my clothes and into my flesh.

  I’d worked with Claude Martineau before. The other tech was new to me. We introduced ourselves as they set up the screen and portable light.

  “It’s going to take some time to process this,” I said, indicating the staked-out square. “I want to locate any teeth that might have survived, and stabilize them if necessary. I may also have to treat the pubes and rib ends if I find any. Who’s going to shoot pics?”

  “Halloran is coming,” said Sincennes, the second tech.

  “O.K. Chief Grenier says there’s nobody else down here, but it wouldn’t hurt to walk off the basement.”

  “There were supposed to be kids living in this house,” said Martineau, his face grim. He had two of his own.

  “I’d suggest a grid search.”

  I looked to LaManche. He nodded agreement.

  “You’ve got it,” said Martineau. He and his partner flicked on the lights on their hard hats, then moved to the far end of the basement. They would walk back and forth in parallel lines, first proceeding north to south, then crisscrossing east to west. When they’d finished, every inch of floor would have been searched twice.

  I took several more Polaroids, then began to clear the square. Using a trowel, a dental pick, and a plastic dustpan, I loosened and dislodged the filth that encased the skeleton, leaving each bone in place. Every pan of dirt went into the screen. There I separated silt, cinders, fabric, nails, wood, and plaster from bone fragments. The latter I placed on surgical cotton in sealed plastic containers, noting their provenance in my notes. At some poin
t, Halloran arrived and began shooting.

  Now and then I glanced at LaManche. He watched silently, his face its usual solemn mask. In the time I’d known the chief, I’d rarely seen him express emotion. LaManche has witnessed so much over the years, perhaps sentiment is just too costly for him. After some time, he spoke.

  “If there is nothing for me to do here, Temperance, I will be upstairs.”

  “Sure,” I responded, thinking of the warming sun. “I’ll be at this awhile.”

  I looked at my watch. Ten past eleven. Behind LaManche I could see Sincennes and Martineau, creeping along shoulder to shoulder, heads down, like miners seeking a rich vein.

  “Do you require anything?”

  “I’m going to need a body bag with a clean white sheet inside. Be sure they put a flat board or a gurney tray under it. Once I get these fragments out I don’t want everything slumping together in transport.”

  “Of course.”

  I went back to troweling and screening. I was so cold I was shaking all over, and had to stop now and then to warm my hands. At one point the morgue transport team brought the tray and body bag. The last firemen left. The basement grew quiet.

  Eventually, I had exposed the entire skeleton. I made notes and sketched its disposition, while Halloran took photos.

  “Mind if I grab a coffee?” he asked when we’d finished.

  “No. I’ll holler if I need you. I’ll just be transferring bones for a while.”

  When he left I began to move the remains to the body bag, starting at the feet and working toward the head. The pelvis was in good condition. I picked it up and placed it on the sheet. The pubic symphyses were embedded in charred tissue. They would not need stabilizing.

  The leg and arm bones I left encased in sediment. It would hold them together until I could clean and sort them in the autopsy room. I did the same with the thoracic region, carefully lifting out sections with a flat-blade shovel. Nothing of the anterior rib cage had survived, so I did not have to worry about damaging the ends. For now I left the skull in place.