Deadly Descisions

by Kathy Reichs

  Claudel looked a question at me. Behind him the stream burbled softly. Overhead a crow cawed and another answered.

  "If they're here, I'll find them," I said with more confidence than I felt.

  The cawing sounded like laughter.

  Chapter 8

  By noon we'd cleared vegetation and debise from an area approximately fifty yards by fifty yards, based on Frog's hazy recollection of the grave locations. It turned out he'd never actually seen the bodies, but was going on "reliable information." According to gang lore the victims had been invited for a lawn party; then marched into the woods and shot in the head. Terrific.

  I'd marked off a search grid, then set orange plastic stakes along the boundaries at five-foot intervals. Since bodies are rarely stashed below six feet, I'd requested a ground-penetrating radar unit with a 500 MHz antenna, a frequency effective at those depths. It had arrived within the hour.

  Working with the radar operator, I'd dug a test pit outside the search area to allow assessment of density, moisture content, layer changes, and other soil conditions. We had refilled the hole, burying in it a length of metal rebar. The operator had then scanned the pit for control data.

  He was completing the final tuning of his equipment when Frog got out of the Jeep and sidled over to me, followed closely by his guard. It was one of several forays he'd made, the sniper-free morning having allayed his anxiety.

  "What the fuck is that?" he asked, indicating a set of devices that looked like a contraption from Back to the Future. Just then Claudel joined us.

  "Frog, you could benefit from some new adjectives. Maybe get one of those calendars that shows you a different word every day."

  "Fuck you."

  In a way I appreciated the English expletives. They were like sounds of home in a foreign land.

  I looked to see if Frog was merely cracking wise, but the pale green eyes suggested a genuine interest. O.K. Where he was going Frog wouldn't be having a lot of scientifically broadening experiences.

  "It's a GPR system."

  He looked blank.

  "Ground-penetrating radar."

  I pointed to a terminal plugged into the cigarette lighter of a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

  "That's the GPR machine. It evaluates signals sent from an antenna, and produces a pattern on that screen."

  I indicated a sledlike structure with an upright handle and a long, thick cable connecting it to the GPR box. "That's the antenna."

  "Looks like a lawn mower.

  "Yeah." I wondered what Frog knew about lawn care. "When an operator pulls the antenna across the ground it transmits a penetrating signal, then sends data to the GPR machine. The radar machine evaluates the strength and rebound time of the signal."

  He looked as if he was with me. Though pretending disinterest, Claudel was also listening.

  "If there is something in the soil, the signal is distorted. Its strength is affected by the size of the underground disturbance, and by the electrical properties at the upper and lower boundaries. The depth of the feature determines how long the signal takes to go down and back."

  "So this thing can tell you where you've got a stiff?"

  "Not a body specifically But it can tell you there's a subsurface disturbance, and it can provide information about its size and location."

  Frog looked blank.

  "When you dig a hole and put something in it, the spot is never the same as it was before. The fill may have less density, a different mix, or different electrical properties from the surrounding matrix."

  True. But I doubted that wouid be the case here. Ten years of water seepage has a way of obliterating soil differences.

  "And the thing that's been buried, whether it's a cable, unexploded ordnance, or a human body, will not send the same signal as the soil around it."

  "Ashes to ashes. What if the corpse has oozed into tomorrow's drinking water?"

  Good question, Frog.

  "The decomposition of flesh can change the chemical composition and electrical properties of dirt, so even bones and putrefied corpses may show up.

  May

  At that moment the radar operator gave a sign indicating he was ready.

  "Quickwater, you want to pull the sled?" I shouted.

  "I'll do it." Claudel volunteered.

  "O.K. Get one of the Ident guys to follow you to control the cable. It's not complicated. Start where the operator has thc antenna set up just outside the cleared area. When you pass the northernmost line of stakes press the remote button twice. It's on the handle. The signal will set the boundary for that transect. Drag the sled at about two-thirds normal walking pace, keeping your sweeps as straight as possible. Each time you pass an east-west stake, press the button once. When you get to the far end give another double signal to indicate the end of the transect. Then we'll haul the thing back and start a second sweep."

  "Why can't we just go back and forth?"

  "Because the printouts from adjacent transects won't be comparable if they're done from opposite directions. We'll do the whole area north to south, that's thirty sweeps, then repeat the procedure east to west.

  He nodded.

  "I'll stay with the operator and watch the screen. If we note a disturbance I'll holler and your partner can stake the spot."

  An hour later the search was done and everyone was around the van, unwrapping sandwiches and popping sodas. Twelve blue stakes formed three squares inside the survey grid.

  The results were better than I'd hoped. Readings from the third and thirteenth north-south transects showed disturbances with lengths and widths roughly equal. But it was the profile from the eleventh sweep that held my attention. I'd asked for hard copy, which I studied as I ate my bologna and cheese.

  The printout showed a grid. The horizontal lines indicated depth, based on our calibration with the control pit, with the ground surface at the top. The vertical lines were dotted, and corresponded to the signals sent by Claudel as each grid stake was crossed.

  The pattern lust below the ground surface was a wavy but generally flat line. But superimposed over gridline 11 North was a series of bell-shaped curves, one inside the next, like ribs on a skeleton. The profile indicated a disturbance atthe intersection of northsouth line 1 1 and east-west line 4. It lay at a depth of approximately five feet.

  I switched to profiles of the area taken on the east-west sweeps. Comparing perpendicular transects allowed me to estimate the size and shape of the disturbance. What I saw made my heart pick up a beat.

  The anomaly was roughly six feet long and three feet wide. Grave size.

  At grave depth.

  "This will work?" I hadn't heard Claudel approach.

  "We're cookin'"

  "Now?"

  "Yep."

  I finished my Diet Coke and climbed into the Jeep. The van slogged along behind as Quickwater drove toward the 11 North 4 East coordinates. We'd decided that I would dig that location while Claudel and Quickwater investigated the other two disturbances. After I laid a simple grid around each site, they would remove the earth in thin slices, screening every shovelful.

  I'd instructed the Carcajou investigators on how to watch for differences in soil color and texture. If they spotted any changes they would holler. Each of us would be aided by personnel from the Section d'Identite Judiciaire, or SIJ, and section photographers would shoot and video the entire operation.

  And that's what we did.

  Claudel supervised as his team worked the disturbance at 13 North S East, approximately ten feet from mine. Now and then I'd glance over to see him standing above his crew, gesturing instructions or asking about something in the dirt. He'd yet to remove his sports jacket.

  After thirty minutes a shovel chinked loudly in Claudel's pit. My head flew up and my stomach tightened. A blade had struck something hard and unyielding.

  As Claudel watched, the technicians and I revealed the contour. The object was rusted and caked with mud, but the shape was unmistakable. Claude]'s
SIJ screener made the call.

  "Tabernac! C'est un Weber."

  "Eh, Monsieur Claudel, you planning a barbecue? Throw on burgers, bring out the lawn chairs, maybe invite girls?"

  "Jean-Guy, tell Luc there's an easier way They've got these things at the Wal-Mart."

  "Yes." Claudel never cracked a smile. "You are so hilarious we may need a body bag because I'm going to die laughing. Now keep digging. We still have to haul this thing out and make sure there aren't any surprises underneath."

  Claudel left the grill to his teammates and walked back to 11 North 4 East with me. I resumed troweling at the north end while Claudel stood over my SIJ helper in the south. By two we were down approximately three feet and I'd spotted nothing in the pit or screen to indicate I was nearing a burial.

  Then I saw the boot.

  It was lying sideways, the heel projecting slightly upward. I used my trowel to clear dirt, widening the area around it. My helper watched briefly, then continued scraping at the far end of the pit. Claudel observed without comment.

  Within minutes I'd found the mate. Handful by tedious handful I peeled away dirt until the pair was fully exposed. The leather was wet and badly discolored, the eyelets bent and rusted, but both boots were reasonably intact.

  When the footwear was fully exposed I made notes as to level and position, and the photographer captured my find on film. As I pried each boot loose and laid it on a plastic sheet it was obvious that neither contained leg or foot bones.

  Not a good sign.

  The sky was delft blue, the sun strong. Now and then a breeze teased the branches overhead, tapping them gently against one another. To my right the creek purled softly as it coursed over rocks abandoned by glaciers long ago.

  A drop of sweat broke from my hairline and slithered the length of my neck. I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and tossed it on the pine needles bordering our pit. I was uncertain whether my glands had kicked in due to spring warmth or due to the stress I was feeling.

  It was always like this at exhumations. The curiosity. The anticipation. The fear of failure. What lies below the next layer? What if it's nothing? What if it's something but I can't get it out undamaged?

  I had a desire to grab a spade and tunnel straight down. But stripmining was not the answer. Tiresome as the process was, I knew proper technique was crucial. Maximum recovery of bones, artifacts, and contextual detail would be important in a case like this, so I plodded on, loosening dirt, then transferring it to buckets for screening. On the edge of my vision I could see the SIJ tech making the same motions, Claudel silent above him. At some point he had removed his jacket.

  We saw the white flecks at the same time. Claudel was about to speak when I said, "Hell-o."

  He looked at me with raised brows, and I nodded.

  "Looks like lime. That usually means there's somebody home."

  The flecks gave way to a layer of sticky white ooze, then we found the first sku]l. It lay faceup, as if the dirt-filled orbits had twisted for one last look at the sky The photographer shouted the news and the others dropped what they were doing and gathered around our pit.

  As the sun moved slowly toward the horizon two skeletons emerged. They lay on their sides, one in a fetal position, the other with arms and legs bent sharply backward. The skulls and the leg and pelvic bones were devoid of flesh and stained the same tea brown as the surrounding soil.

  The foot and ankle bones were encased in rotting socks, the torSOS covered with shreds of putrefied cloth. The fabric enveloped each arm, clinging to the bones like some scarecrow parody of a human limb. 'Wire circled the wrists, and I could see zippers and large metal belt buckles nestled among the vertebrae.

  By five-thirty my team had fully exposed the remains. Besides the boots, the plastic sheet held a collection of corroded cartridges and isolated teeth recovered during screening. The photographers were shooting stills and videos when Frog talked his guard into another visit.

  "Allo. Bonjour" he said, tipping the brim of an invisible hat to the skeletons in the pit. Then he turned to me. "Or maybe I should say bone Iour, for you, lady"

  I ignored the bilingual pun.

  "Holy shit. Why shirts and socks and nothing else?"

  I wasn't in the mood for a lecture.

  "That's right," he sniggered, staring into the pit. "They made them go shoeless and carry their shoes. But where the fuck are their pants?"

  "Ashes to ashes, remember?" I said curtly

  "Shit to shit is more like it." His voice was tense with excitement, as though the scrambier had been ratcheted up.

  I found his callousness irritating. Death hurts. It's as simple as that. It hurts those who die, it hurts those who love them, and it hurts those who find them.

  "Actually, you've got it backward," I spat. "It's the shit that survives longest. Natural fibers, like cotton Levi's, decompose much sooner than synthetics. Your buddies were into polyester."

  "Fuck, do they look gross. Anything else in there with them?" he asked, peering into the grave. His eyes glinted, like those of a rat sitting on a carcass.

  "Bad decision about that party, eh?" he snorted.

  Yes, I thought. A deadly decision.

  I began cleaning the blade of my trowel, using activity to calm myself. Two bodies lay dead at our feet and this little rodent was getting high on it.

  I turned to check if the photographers had finished and saw Quickwater walking in my direction.

  Great. Make my day, I thought, hoping he was looking for someone else. He wasn't. I watched him approach with as much enthusiasm as I'd have for frostbite.

  Quickwater drew close and drilled me with one of his looks, his face rigid as granite. He smelled of male sweat and pine, and I realized he'd worked throughout the afternoon, While others had taken breaks to check the progress at the main burial, Quickwater had stayed at his task. Maybe he just wanted to keep some distance between us. Fine with me.

  "There's something you need to see.

  There was a stillness about him I found unnerving. I waited for further explanation, but Quickwater merely turned and walked back toward his site, fully confident that I would follow.

  Arrogant prick, I thought.

  The trees were casting long shadows, and the temperature was falling by the minute. I looked at my watch. Almost six. The bologna and cheese seemed like prehistory.

  This better be good, I thought.

  I trudged across the cleared area to coordinates 3 North 9 East, the site of the disturbance to which Quickwater's team had been assigned. I was amazed to see they'd dug my entire grid.

  The object of Quickwater's concern lay one meter down, left in place as I'd instructed. The team had excavated the rest of the square to a depth of two meters.

  "That's it?"

  Quickwater nodded.

  "Nothing else?"

  His expression did not change.

  I looked around. They'd obviously been thorough. The screen still rested on its supports, flanked by cones of soggy earth. It looked as if they'd sifted every particle of dirt in the province. My eyes went back to the earthen pedestal and its macabre exhibit.

  What they'd discovered made no sense at all.

  Chapter 9

  I closed my eyes and listened to cows lowing softly in the distance. Somewhere life was calm, routine, and made sense.

  When I raised my lids the bones were still there but made little sense. Dusk was closing in quickly robbing the landscape of detail, like a slow fade in an old-time movie. We wouldn't finish the recovery that day, so answers would need to wait.

  I would not risk destroying evidence by blundering around in the dark. The burials had been here for some time, and they could stay in place a few more hours. We would remove the exposed remains from each grave, but that was all. The site would be secured and work would resume in the morning.

  Quickwater was still watching me. I looked around but couldn't see Claudel.

  "I need to talk to your partner," I said, tur
ning back toward my site.

  Quickwater held up a finger. Then he pulled a cell phone from his jacket, punched in a number, and handed it to me. Claudel answered almost immediately

  "Where are you?"

  "Behind a poplar. Should I have requested a bathroom pass?"

  Stupid question, Brennan.

  "Your partner didn't think two skeletons were enough so he found us a third."

  "Sacre bleu!"

  "Well, it's not exactly a skeleton. From what I can see, bachelor number three consists of a skull and a couple long bones."

  "Where's the rest?"

  "Very perceptive question, Detective Claudel. That's the source of some confusion on my part, as well."

  "What do you want to do?"

  "Let's get all the bones out, then shut it down until daylight. StBasile will have to seal off the property and post a watch at cach grave. It shouldn't be too hard to guard the place since it has tighter security than Los Alamos."

  "The homeowners aren't going to be thrilled."

  "Yeah, well, this isn't how I'd planned to spend my week, either."

  It took less than an hour to bag the bones and dispatch them to the morgue. The grill and other physical evidence were tagged and sent to the crime lab. Then I covered the holes with plastic sheets and left them in the care of th.e St-Basile PD.

  Predictably, Quickwater and I returned to town in silence. At home, I tried Ryan's number, but got no response.

  "Why, Andy, why?" I whispered, as if he were there to hear me. "Please don't let this be true.

  My evening consisted of a bath, a pizza, and early bed.

  Dawn found us all reassembled at the Vipers' picnic ground. The creek still gurgled, the birds still griped, and once again I could see my breath on the morning air. Only two things were different.

  Claudel had opted to remain in town to pursue other leads.

  Overnight, word of the bodies had leaked to the media, and an invasion force greeted us on our arrival. Cars and vans lined the highway, and reporters assaulted us in English and French. Ignoring them in both languages, we rolled past the cameras and mikes, identified ourselves to the officer on guard, and slipped through the gates.