by Kathy Reichs
“Oh?”
“Remember Klopp’s rare capno autopsy?” Herrin’s adjective was bloated with sarcasm.
“He told you about that?”
“He did.”
“Go on.” Recalling the disfigured corpse on the pathologist’s screen. And my failure to follow through on my intent to research the pathogen.
“South Carolina is exploding with cases.”
“I heard something about that on a local news broadcast.”
“COVID-19 knocked Charleston on its ass. Now this. Could be the death blow for my budget. No pun intended.” Despite the joke, stress was evident in Herrin’s tone.
“I didn’t think capno was contagious.”
“It’s not. But suddenly, we’re the epi-freaking-center of a major outbreak. Look, I have to run. What do you need?”
“I’ll keep it short. I’m in Montreal. The LSJML was able to pull DNA from the woman and child found in the container in Saint-Anicet in 2006.”
“You’re still thinking your Quebec vics are linked to the kids found here?”
“I’m thinking it’s a possibility.”
“Uh-huh.” So skeptical it had both hands on its hips.
“During my analysis, I separated out bones to be submitted for DNA testing. I’m wondering if you’ve done that.”
“Sweet Mother of God! The whole friggin’ world has DNA on the brain. The media’s got folks so scared of capno they’re spitting in vials.”
That piqued my curiosity. “There’s a test for it?”
“These yokels think there’s a gene makes some folks immune, others susceptible.”
A voice spoke in the background. The line went thick, probably Herrin covering the phone with a hand.
“Sorry about that.”
“The container cases?” I said, steering the conversation back on track.
“This isn’t my first parlor game, doc. The state lab worked its magic.”
“They got DNA?”
“They did.”
“On both girls?”
“Yep. Surprised you haven’t heard from Vislosky. My office forwarded the report to her last Thursday.”
“Could you please forward it to me? And to a microbiologist named Lizzie Griesser?”
“Sure. Send me her contact info.”
“I will.”
“Probably should have done it earlier. Things are batshit here.”
“Thanks.”
Three beeps told me Herrin had moved on.
I sat a moment, tamping my anger back down to earth. I’d talked to Vislosky on Wednesday. She knew how invested I was in these container cases. She’d gotten DNA info the next day and hadn’t bothered to tell me?
Deep calming breath. Another. Then I entered another number.
“Vislosky.” Familiar hubbub suggested she was in the squad room.
“Tempe here.”
“I do have caller ID.”
“Herrin tells me her office sent you DNA results.”
“They did.”
“And?”
“I’m running them.”
“And?”
“And nothing. So far, no hits, local, state, or national. Still zero reports of missing kids matching the descriptors you gave me.”
“You went back five years?”
“We’ve been over this.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Since Wednesday?”
You sat on the DNA. I didn’t say it. “I have profiles on my vics up here.”
Vislosky didn’t respond to that.
“The woman and the child are related.”
“To each other?”
“Yes.”
“Big whoop.”
“Big whoop?” Working very hard not to lose my temper.
“What did you expect? Your perp grabbed some random chick and some random kid and stuffed them into a barrel together? No shit they’re related.”
I couldn’t disagree. But I detested Vislosky’s arrogance. And her Lone Ranger act.
“Did you follow through on the barnacles?”
“There’s a marine biologist at the College of Charleston says he’ll take a run at simulations.”
“Narrowing time since death could help.”
“Could.”
“Or knowing where the container spent time.”
“The guy’s not optimistic.”
“Keep me in the loop.”
“Uh-huh.”
And then I waited again.
* * *
Willoughby sent me her full report late Tuesday afternoon. As she’d pointed out, forensic labs can legally profile designated portions of an individual’s genome. But only law enforcement can run those profiles through the various DNA databases that exist.
After talking to Willoughby, I’d dialed a familiar number at SQ headquarters. Detective Yves Trout listened to me, clearly impatient, then promised action on my container case only when and if time allowed.
Infuriated at the brush-off, I’d phoned Ryan. He’d explained that Trout, newly assigned to the Crimes contre la Personne squad, had a reputation for pursuing only those matters that would enhance his career. And that cold cases typically didn’t make the cut.
Wednesday morning, recognizing that I’d probably be a “pain in the arse,” as Willoughby had tagged me, Ryan took a break from Rupert and Agnes to swing by his old digs at SQ headquarters. Trout explained that he was focused on a domestic homicide investigation and told him to do whatever he wanted with regard to the Saint-Anicet vics. Ryan didn’t really need Trout’s approval. Though retired, he still had pull.
Since I had paperwork to complete and needed access to materials at the LSJML, we rode to Wilfrid-Derome together. Awaiting our separate elevators, we agreed to meet in the lobby at four thirty.
At two p.m., as I was completing a report on the farmer’s wife from Saint-Félicien, my mobile chirped. Reminding myself that I needed a new ringtone, I checked the screen.
Vislosky.
Surprised, I answered.
“Good afternoon, detective.”
“It’s raining like hell here.”
“I hope you’re calling with good news.”
“I may have a lead on the younger vic.” Underscored by an ambient mix similar to the one I’d heard with Ryan on Monday. Engine. Wiper blades. The AC was a new addition.
“No shit.”
“No shit. In 2017, the ER at Beaufort Memorial treated a kid for, what was that break?”
“A lateral condylar fracture of the right humerus.”
“For that. Jessica Gray Jeben. White female, DOB July 1, 2002.”
Quick math. “Age fifteen. That tracks.”
“Jeben never returned to have the cast removed. About that same time, she stopped attending school.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“The mother’s still at the same address in Yemassee.”
“Where’s Yemassee?”
“Beaufort County. I’m leaving there now. The area’s rural, and Mama’s definitely not cum laude.”
“How does she explain her daughter’s broken arm?”
“They’ve got one of those homemade rope-and-tire swings hanging from a tree in the front yard. She says the kid fell from the swing.”
“Do you believe her?”
“Who knows?”
“Has Jessica reappeared?”
“No.”
“What does she say about that?”
“The kid split with her boyfriend.”
“I don’t suppose she filed an MP report?”
“This chick couldn’t manage to file her own nails.”
“Did you get a DNA sample?”
“Got a Coors can in a ziplock on the seat beside me.”
“Well done.”
“Serve and protect, baby.”
“Keep me—”
“Yeah. Yeah. Looped in.”
Though Ryan was just a few floors below me, our paths didn’t cross all day. I arri
ved in the lobby before he did. One look at his face, and I knew he’d struck out.
“No hits?” I asked as he exited the elevator.
Ryan shook his head.
“Not surprising for the child,” I said. “But I thought we might get lucky with the woman.”
“I guess she kept her nose clean.”
“And never enlisted in the military.”
“You’re taking it well,” Ryan said. “I thought you’d be gutted.”
I told him about Vislosky’s lead.
“No shit,” he said.
We both needed to expand our vocabularies.
Conversation stopped when we left the building. In the sharp, biting wind, breathing almost did. I kept my head bent, my mouth closed, hoping the tears wouldn’t freeze on my face.
Once in the Jeep, Ryan fiddled with the heater, which was often tetchy. I curled and uncurled my fingers, hoping to reintroduce circulation.
“You need heavier mittens,” Ryan said.
“I do.”
“It’s unusual to be this cold in October.”
“Hm.” How many times had I heard that?
“I looked up your paparazzo.” As Ryan pulled from the curb and slid into traffic.
“Sorry?” The quick segue left me in the dust.
“The glamour shot in Saturday’s paper.”
“It was hardly a glamour shot.”
“I gave a call over to the Gazette. The journalist is a freelancer named Laura Bianchi. Word is she’s young and ambitious, monitors police frequencies looking for scoops.”
“That’s how she learned about the exhumation?”
“It was a quiet news cycle, so she figured digging up bodies was better than nothing. Snapped the pic, sold the piece to some wire service, the Gazette ran it. End of story. Nothing creepy.”
“You didn’t see the woman’s hair.”
It was l’heure de pointe, rush hour, though rushing anywhere was impossible. Still, we diverted to boulevard Saint-Laurent for smoked meat. While Ryan ran into Schwartz’s deli, I checked my email, fingers at last warm enough to work the keys.
Herrin’s DNA reports had arrived.
I opened and skimmed both documents. Casual, convinced we’d soon have the younger vic ID’d. That her name would lead to the identity of her companion.
As I squinted at the data on the tiny screen, something far down in my psyche said, Huh?
What?
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t budge the thought from the subliminal cranny in which it was wedged. Was still trying when Ryan opened the door and slid behind the wheel. The car filled with the contradictory scents of wintry air, wet wool, and warm spiced meat.
Not sure why, I forwarded Herrin’s reports to Willoughby. Expected no reaction.
How wrong I was.
15
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29
My mobile rang at midmorning Friday with a significant development.
“The older girl in Charleston is related to the woman here.”
Willoughby’s words sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body.
“You’re sure?” I asked, momentarily taken aback.
“Yes.”
“What about the child here?”
“Her sample was too degraded.”
I knew just enough to understand that Willoughby and her counterpart in South Carolina had looked at gene variations in short repeat sequences of DNA at specific loci on the chromosomes. Willoughby had been able to amplify enough from the Montreal woman for comparison to the two teens in Charleston. That had not been possible for the Montreal child.
“—catch these tossers.”
Willoughby’s words brought me back.
“But you were able to determine that the child here is related to the woman in the container with her.” More question than statement.
“Yes. But that comparison was based on fewer loci. It’s complicated. Do you want me to walk you through it?”
“Not right now.” My mind was racing to process. “So, if the Montreal woman and child are related, presumably both are related to the older girl in Charleston.”
“Presumably.”
“Wow.” I’d started to say No shit.
“Your hunch was spot-on.”
“What prompted you to try the comparisons?” I hadn’t asked her to do that.
“Something in the genomes caught my eye, so I figured, why not have a punt?”
“Ryan ran your profiles here and in the States. Came up empty.”
“Not surprising.”
I debated telling Willoughby about Jessica Jeben. For some reason, held back. Instead, “Again, I owe you.”
“Just admit it. I’m a ledge.”
“You are.” Unsure of Willoughby’s meaning.
“Anything else comes up, give us a bell.”
My mobile beeped an incoming call.
Ryan. Perfect.
I clicked over, the exhilaration making me so clumsy I almost dropped the phone.
“Good morning, detective.” Lentement. Slowly.
Ryan wasn’t fooled. “What’s up?”
“What?” Faux defensive.
“You sound like a junkie with an eight-ball.”
I shared what I’d just learned from Willoughby.
Ryan said nothing.
“I was right. The cases here are connected to those in Charleston.”
“Any word on the Jeben lead?”
“Vislosky asked for a rush. Even if they bump her request to the front of the line, results will still take a few days.
A moment, then, “We should celebrate.”
“It’s a little early to dig out the party hats.”
“True. But we can enjoy a nice dinner for no reason.”
“Tonight?”
“Why not.”
“Where?”
“I’ll surprise you. Be ready at seven.”
I sat a moment, talking myself down. Eyes on the landscape beyond the window by my desk.
Overnight, a gentler front had bullied out the Arctic cold, and twelve floors below, the melting snow was sending glistening black rivulets across the asphalt surface of the parking lot. In the distance, bloated clouds hung low over the Fleuve Saint-Laurent stretching dark and silent along the horizon.
When my pulse was again normal, I phoned Vislosky.
She answered right away. “Vislosky.”
While relaying Willoughby’s shocker, I could imagine that one cynical eyebrow lifting.
“Could be a major break,” I said after a long moment when Vislosky hadn’t responded.
“So now there are four.”
Always were, I thought. “Any word on Jeben?”
“The boyfriend’s a guy named Thomas Slinger. Age twenty-six. Went by Slick.”
“Slick Slinger?”
“Tells you all you need to know about the little worm.”
“That and the fact he was dating a fifteen-year-old kid.”
“And that.”
“What’s his story?”
“Guy’s a walking charm school.”
“Meaning?”
“His juvie sheet is long and uncreative. Mostly petty stuff—DUIs, disturbing the peace, vandalism, shoplifting. The Marines bounced him with a dishonorable in 2015.”
“Why?”
“The gentleman has a fondness for blow. My personal favorite: the Beaufort County sheriff busted him in 2016 for feeding live chickens to pit bulls he was training for the ring. Record ends there.”
“Jesus. Have you talked to him?”
“Ex-Private Slinger is currently in the wind.”
“Let me guess. He vanished about the time Jessica Jeben went missing.”
“Bingo. Look, I’ve got some door-to-doors to wrap up and a shitload of ass-in-the-chair follow-ups to do.”
Dead air.
Again, all I could do was wait.
* * *
Three thirty p.m. Outside, the clouds were now so low they seemed to be kissing the ri
ver. Dark and swollen, they promised delivery soon.
I’d just finished another report. The tweaker in the culvert was, indeed, Marie Cloutier, the suspected mental case. Though I couldn’t state cause of death, I could say that Marie’s knitting needle had inflicted impressive damage to her temporal lobe.
The instant I hit send, my mind toggled back to the woman and the child washed ashore in Saint-Anicet. I pulled the file up on my computer and stared at the crude renderings of both faces.
The two stared back. A woman with a narrow nose and a prominent chin. A child with a high forehead and wide-set eyes.
I was assaulted by the usual tumult of thoughts. While I attempted to sort through them, a cluster of neurons issued a provocative psst!
What?
I tried coaxing the subliminal synapse to the surface.
The neurons remained hunkered down.
Studying the features on my screen, I asked myself, what minutiae had my lower centers noticed that I was missing?
Unexpectedly, my mind flashed an image of Polly Beecroft.
Was this synaptic alert similar to the one I’d received as I viewed Beecroft’s mask? What had triggered the alarmist cells then?
I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct my pre-hurricane meeting with Beecroft.
The mental gears refused to mesh.
Frustrated, I reduced the two sketches and opened the file containing my shots of Beecroft’s photos.
A few reluctant neurons yielded, admitting that the source of my disquiet was the feeling that the women, long dead, were somehow familiar.
But before her visit to the MCME, I’d never met Polly Beecroft. And definitely not her mysterious death mask ancestor. Maybe ancestor.
Brain snap. Was that it? Was Beecroft’s journey what the cells were urging me to consider?
I sat back, mind slipstreaming in a zillion different directions.
Out of the morass of ideas, one seemed a possibility.
I looped over to the American Academy of Forensic Sciences website, logged in as an AAFS member, and pulled up the Journal of Forensic Sciences. Found the article I was seeking and read it through.
I picked up my phone.
* * *
Ryan had reserved at one of my favorite bistros, Leméac, on avenue Laurier Ouest in a part of the city known as the Outremont. He insisted we drive, not a great idea on a Friday night. We ended up parking several light-years away. Fortunately, the rain hadn’t started. But the heavy, moist air promised that wouldn’t last.