Bones to Ashes

by Kathy Reichs

  “The nasal aperture is wide and rounded. Its bottom edge is broken, but it looks like the nasal spine was small. Those are non-European traits. I’ll know better when I’ve cleaned out the dirt.”

  “Why does her head look so”—Lisa floated a palm, searching for the English—“odd?”

  “In adolescence, the cranial sutures are still wide open.” I referred to the squiggly gaps between the individual skull bones. “Following brain decomposition, with pressure, the bones can warp, separate, or overlap.”

  “Pressure, as in burial?”

  “Yes. Although skull distortion can result from other factors, expo sure to sunlight, for example, or to extremes of heat and cold. The phenomenon is very common with children.”

  “There’s so much dirt. Do you think she was buried?”

  I was about to answer when the desk phone shrilled.

  “Can you check the box for anything we might have missed?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’s it hanging, doc?” Hippo Gallant.

  I skipped pleasantries. “Your buddy Gaston’s skeleton arrived from Rimouski.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My preliminary exam suggests it’s an adolescent female.”

  “ Indian?”

  “There’s a good chance her racial background is mixed.”

  “So it ain’t all that ancient?”

  “The bones are dry and devoid of odor and flesh, so I doubt death occurred in the last ten years. Right now that’s about all I can say. She needs a lot of cleaning and it will have to be done by hand.”

  “Crétaque. She got teeth?”

  “Some. But there’s no dental work.”

  “You going to do DNA?”

  “I’ll retain samples, but if no organic components remain, sequencing will be impossible. There’s soil deep in crevices and in the medullary cavities, suggesting burial at some point. Frankly, I suspect the coroner up in Rimouski may be right. The remains may have washed out of an old cemetery or been looted from an archaeological site.”

  “How about carbon fourteen or some fancy gizmo?”

  “Except for a few specialized applications, C14 dating isn’t useful on materials less than hundreds of years old. Besides, if I report that this girl’s been dead half a century, the powers that be won’t pony up for DNA, radiocarbon, or any other type of test.”

  “Think you’ll be able to sort it?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “How ’bout I talk with the mope that had her. Get his story.”

  “That would be good.”

  Replacing the receiver, I returned to Lisa.

  “Why does that one look different?” She pointed to the second right metacarpal.

  Lisa was right. Though dirt-encrusted, one finger bone seemed to be a misfit.

  Brushing free what soil I could without causing damage, I placed the odd metacarpal under my fabulous new scope, increased magnification, and adjusted focus until the distal end filled the screen.

  My brows rose in surprise.

  8

  T HE BONE’S OUTER SURFACE WAS A MOONSCAPE OF CRATERS.

  “What is that?” Lisa asked.

  “I’m not sure.” My mind was already rifling through possibilities. Contact with acid or some other caustic chemical? Microorganism? Localized infection? Systemic disease process?

  “Was she sick?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s postmortem. There’s still too much impacted dirt to be sure.” Taking the metacarpal from the scope, I moved toward the skeleton. “We’ll have to clean and examine every bone.”

  Lisa looked at her watch. Politely.

  “What a dope I am. Already I’ve kept you too late.” It was five-twenty. Most lab workers left at four-thirty. “Go.”

  “Shall I lock up?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay a bit longer.”

  That “bit” turned into two and a half hours. I might have worked through the night had my mobile not sounded.

  Setting aside a calcaneus, I lowered my mask, pulled the phone from my pocket, and checked the screen. Unknown number.

  I clicked on. “Brennan.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m great, thank you. And yourself?”

  “I’ve been calling your condo since six.” Was Ryan actually sounding annoyed?

  “I’m not at home.”

  “There’s a news flash.”

  “Guess I slipped out of my ankle monitor.”

  A moment of silence. Then, “You didn’t mention you had plans.”

  “I do have a life, Ryan.” Right. Teasing dirt from bones at 8 P.M.

  I heard the sound of a match, then a deep inhalation of breath. After quitting for two years, Ryan was back on cigarettes. A sign of stress.

  “You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan.” No rancor.

  “I work on it.” My standard reply.

  “You coming down with a cold?”

  “My nose is irritated from breathing through a mask.” I ran my dental pick through the cone of dry soil that had collected on the tabletop in front of me.

  “You’re in your lab?”

  “Hippo Gallant’s skeleton arrived from Rimouski. It’s female, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. There’s something odd about her bones.”

  Tobacco hit, then release.

  “I’m downstairs.”

  “So who’s the loser working after hours?”

  “These MP and DOA cases are getting to me.”

  “Want to come up?”

  “Be there in ten.”

  I was back at the scope when Ryan appeared, face tense, hair bunched into ragged clumps. My mind shot a stored image: Ryan hunched over a printout, restless fingers raking his scalp. So familiar.

  I felt sick. I didn’t want Ryan to be angry. Or hurt. Or whatever the hell he was.

  I started to reach out and stroke his hair.

  Nor did I want Ryan controlling my life. I had to take steps when I decided steps needed taking. I kept both hands on the scope.

  “You shouldn’t work alone here at night.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s a secure building and I’m on the twelfth floor.”

  “This neighborhood’s not safe.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ryan’s voice wasn’t cold or unfriendly. Just neutral.

  When Katy was young, certain cases at the lab caused me to rein in her personal life. Transference of caution. It wasn’t her fault. Or mine, really. Working a child homicide was like taking a step into my own worst nightmare. Maybe these missing and dead girls were making Ryan overly protective. I let the paternalism go.

  “Take a look.” I shifted sideways so Ryan could see the screen. When he stepped close I could smell Acqua di Parma cologne, male sweat, and a hint of the cigarettes he’d been smoking.

  “New setup?”

  I nodded. “She’s a pip.”

  “What are we seeing?”

  “Metatarsal.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Foot bone.”

  “Looks funny. Pointy.”

  “Good eye. The distal end should be knobby, not tapered.”

  “What’s that hole in the middle of the shaft?”

  “A foramen.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For the passage of an artery supplying nutrients to the bone’s interior. Its presence is normal. What may be unusual is the size. It’s huge.”

  “The vic took a shot to the foot?”

  “Enlarged nutrient foramina can result from repetitive microtrauma. But I don’t think that’s it.”

  I exchanged the first metatarsal for another.

  “That one looks scooped out on the end.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Lots. But most of her foot bones are missing so it’s hard to choose.”

  “Give me some ‘for instances.’”

  “Rodent scavenging, with subsequent erosion of the surrou
nding bone surfaces. Or maybe the feet lay in contact with something caustic. Or rapidly running water.”

  “Doesn’t explain the big holes.”

  “Destruction of the toe bones accompanied by enlargement of the nutrient foramina could result from frostbite. Or rheumatoid arthritis. But that’s unlikely, since the joints aren’t affected.”

  “Maybe she just has really big holes.”

  “That’s possible. But it’s not just her feet.”

  I placed Lisa’s oddball metacarpal under the scope. “This is a finger bone.”

  Ryan regarded the pockmarked surface in silence.

  I switched the metacarpal for one of the two surviving hand phalanges. “So is this.”

  “That hole looks large enough to accommodate the Red Line metro.”

  “Foramina show a range of variation in size. As you say, it could be that huge was normal for her.” Even to me, I didn’t sound convinced.

  “What about the rest of the skeleton?” Ryan asked.

  “I haven’t gotten past the hands and feet. And there isn’t much left.”

  “Preliminary diagnosis?”

  “Increased blood flow to the extremities. Maybe. Deformity of the toe bones. Maybe. Cortical destruction on a metacarpal.” My hands floated up in frustration. “Localized infection? Systemic disease process? Postmortem destruction, either purposeful or natural? A combination of the above?” The hands dropped to my lap. “I don’t have a diagnosis.”

  Though far from high-tech, my lab is adequate. In addition to the worktables, boiler, and sprightly new scope, it is equipped with the usual: overhead fluorescents, tile floor, sink, fume hood, emergency eye wash station, photo stand, light boxes, glass-fronted cabinets. The small window above the sink overlooks the corridor. The big one behind my desk provides a view of the city.

  Ryan’s eyes floated to the latter. Mine followed. Two ghost images played on the glass. A tall man and a slim woman, faces obscure, superimposed translucent over the St. Lawrence and the Jacques-Cartier Bridge.

  A strained silence crammed the lab, a void begging to be filled. I acquiesced.

  “But this skeleton looks pretty old.”

  “LaManche isn’t going to pull out the stops.”

  “No.” I switched off the scope light. “Would you like to talk about these cases you’re working?”

  Ryan hesitated so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.

  “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” It was the last thing I needed. My fourth cup sat cold on my desk.

  Habitat 67 is a modern pueblo of stacked concrete boxes. Built as a housing experiment for Expo 67, the complex has always engendered strong feelings. That’s an understatement. Montrealers either love it or hate it. No one’s neutral.

  Habitat 67 is located across the St. Lawrence from the Vieux-Port. Since Ryan lives there and my condo is in centre-ville, we decided on a coffee shop halfway between.

  Ryan and I both had cars, so we drove separately to Old Montreal. June is peak season, and, as expected, traffic was snarled, sidewalks were clogged, and curbs were bumper to bumper.

  As instructed by Ryan, I nosed my Mazda into a driveway blocked by an orange rubber cone. A hand-painted sign said Plein. Full.

  A man in sandals, shorts, and a Red Green T-shirt came forward. I gave him my name. The man lifted the cone and waved me in. Cop privilege.

  Walking downhill through Place Jacques-Cartier, I passed old stone buildings now housing souvenir shops, restaurants, and bars. Tourists and locals filled the outdoor terraces and wandered the square. A stilt-walking busker juggled balls and told jokes. Another played spoons and sang.

  Turning onto cobbled Rue Saint-Paul, I smelled fish and oil wafting off the river. Though I couldn’t see it, I knew Ryan’s home was on the far shore. My view? Habitat 67 resembles a huge cubist sculpture, like the cross on Mont Royal, better appreciated from afar than up close.

  Ryan hadn’t arrived when I entered the coffee shop. Choosing a rear table, I ordered a decaf cappuccino. Ryan joined me as the waitress delivered it. In moments she was back with his double espresso.

  “You planning an all-nighter?” Nodding toward Ryan’s high-test selection.

  “I brought files home.”

  No invite there, cowgirl. I waited until Ryan was ready to begin.

  “I’ll take it chronologically. For the cold cases, there are three missing persons and two unidentified corpses. This week’s Lac des Deux Montagnes floater raises the un-ID’d body count to three.”

  Ryan stirred sugar into his espresso.

  “Nineteen ninety-seven. MP number one. Kelly Sicard, eighteen, lives with her parents in Rosemère. March twelfth, one-forty A.M., she leaves a group of drinking buddies to catch a bus home. She never makes it.”

  “The buddies checked out?”

  “And the family and the boyfriend.”

  Ryan sipped. His hand looked jarringly male holding the tiny white cup.

  “Nineteen ninety-nine. DOA number one. The body of an adolescent female is snagged by a boat propeller in the Rivière des Mille Îles. You worked the case with LaManche.”

  I remembered. “The corpse was putrefied. I estimated the girl was white, age fourteen or fifteen. We did a facial reconstruction, but she was never ID’d. The bones are in my storage room.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Ryan knocked back the remainder of his espresso.

  “Two thousand one. DOA number two. A teenaged girl is found in Dorval, on the shore below the Forest and Stream supper club. According to LaManche, the body’s been in the river less than forty-eight hours. He does an autopsy, concludes the girl was dead when she hit the water, finds no evidence of shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning. Pictures are circulated throughout the province. No takers.”

  I remembered that case, too. “The girl was eventually buried as a Jane Doe.”

  Ryan nodded, moved up in time.

  “Two thousand two. MP number two. Claudine Cloquet pedals her Schwinn three-speed through a wooded area in Saint-Lazare-Sud. Claudine is twelve and mildly retarded. The bike is found two days later. Claudine is not.”

  “An unlikely runaway.”

  “Father’s sketchy, but alibis out. So does the rest of the family. Father’s since died, mother’s been hospitalized twice for depression.

  “Two thousand four. MP number three. September first. Anne Girardin disappears from her Blainville home in the middle of the night.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. “Kid’s ten years old.”

  “Pretty young to take off on her own.”

  “But not unheard of. And this was a streetwise ten-year-old. Again, the old man’s a loser, but nothing’s found to tie him to the disappearance. Ditto for the rest of the household. A canvass of the neighborhood turns up zip.”

  We both fell silent, recalling the massive search for Anne Girardin. Amber Alert. SQ. SPVM. Tracker dogs. Local volunteers. Personnel from NCECC, the National Child Exploitation Coordination Center. Nothing was found. Subsequent tips all proved bogus.

  “And now I’ve got DOA number three, the Lac des Deux Montagnes floater.”

  “Six girls. Three recovered in or near water. Three missing and unlikely to be runaways,” I summarized. “Any other links?”

  Again, a tensing in Ryan’s jaw. “We may have a fourth MP. Phoebe Jane Quincy, age thirteen. Lives in Westmount. Missing since leaving home for a dance lesson day before last.”

  Ryan took a photo from his pocket and placed it on the table. A girl mimicking Marilyn in The Seven Year Itch, dress ballooning around her. Backlighting outlined the thin figure through the diaphanous white fabric.

  Thirteen?

  “Who took this picture?”

  “Parents have no idea. Found it hidden in the bottom of a dresser drawer. We’re looking into it.”

  I stared at the photo. Though not overtly sexual, the image was disturbing.

  “Her friends say she wants to be a model,” Ryan said.

  S
he could be, I thought, studying the slender form, long hair, and luminous green eyes.

  “A lot of little girls want to be models,” I said.

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Kelly Sicard also had runway dreams,” Ryan said.

  “Slim lead.” I slid the photo back toward Ryan.

  “Slim beats none,” Ryan said.

  We discussed the cases for a few more minutes. Mostly, I listened.

  Ryan isn’t rattled by violence or death. He sees both frequently, has learned to mask his emotions. But I know the man. Know that the abuse of those powerless to protect themselves affects him deeply. It affects me, too. I was keenly aware of my feelings at that moment, having spent the past hours with the bones of a child.

  Though Ryan claimed only fatigue, I could see through to the sadness and frustration. Fair enough. Comes with the job. But did I sense something else? Was some further factor contributing to Ryan’s agitation, robbing him of his usual lightheartedness, goading him to smoke? Was I being paranoid?

  After a while, Ryan signaled for a check.

  Returning to the lot, I started my Mazda and pointed the headlights for home. I needed to rest. To shower. To think.

  Needed a drink I couldn’t have.

  Turning west onto René-Lévesque, I lowered a window. The air was warm and moist and unnaturally heavy, the sky a black screen on which occasional flickers of lightning danced.

  The night smelled of rain.

  A storm would soon break.

  9

  T HE NEXT DAY PASSED WITHOUT WORD FROM HIPPO OR RYAN. Harry was another story. Little sister had made appointments to view a downtown Houston penthouse, a horse ranch in Harris County, and beachfront property at South Padre Island. I suggested she take time to ponder what she truly wanted post-Arnoldo, instead of impulsively chasing around southeast Texas hoping for inspiration. She suggested I lighten up. I’m paraphrasing.

  I slogged through the mess in my office, then resumed teasing dirt from the Rimouski remains. I often give nicknames to my unknowns. Somehow, it personalizes them for me. Though he’d been only marginally involved in the case, I’d come to think of the skeleton as Hippo’s girl.

  The more detail I revealed about Hippo’s girl, the more puzzling the picture became.