And tiny. Leg bone measurements indicated she stood approximately five feet two inches tall.
Though I’d examined every bone and bone fragment, I’d found not a single mark of violence. A few scratches in the vicinity of the right auditory canal looked superficial and V-shaped under magnification. I suspected the marks were a postmortem artifact, caused by abrasion with the ground surface, or careless handling during removal to the crate.
The teeth showed evidence of poor hygiene and no dental restorations.
Now I was turning to postmortem interval. How long had she been dead? With just dry bone, PMI was going to be a bitch.
The human body is a Copernican microcosm composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. The heart is the daystar, providing life source to every metabolic system in the galaxy.
When the heart stops pumping, it’s cytoplasmic chaos. Cellular enzymes begin a cannibalistic feast on the body’s own carbohydrates and proteins. Cell membranes rupture, releasing food for armies of microorganisms. Bacteria in the gut start munching outward. Environmental bacteria, carrion insects, and scavenging animals start munching inward.
Burial, submersion, or embalming retards the process of decomposition. Certain mechanical and chemical agents boost it.
So how long are we talking for dust to dust?
With extreme heat and humidity, loss of soft tissue can occur in as little as three days. But that’s a land record. Under normal conditions, with shallow burial, a body takes six months to a year to go skeletal.
Enclosure in a basement might slow that. Enclosure in a basement in the subarctic might slow that a lot.
What facts did I have?
The bodies were found in shallow graves. Was that the original place of burial? How soon after death had they been placed there?
At least two had been flexed, knees drawn tight to the chest. At least one had been bundled, wrapped in an outer covering of leather. Beyond that, I knew squat. Moisture. Soil acidity. Temperature fluctuation.
What could I say?
The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel’s buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.
Best estimate: more than a year and less than a millennium. Claudel would have a field day with that.
Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions.
I was rolling out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel’s arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.
“Brennan.”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” A female voice, quavery and uncertain.
“Oui.”
I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rolled over to the night service.
“I didn’t expect you to actually answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat—”
“Is there something I can help you with?” I matched her English.
There was a pause, as if the caller was actually considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.
“Well, I don’t know. Actually, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you.”
Great. Another citizen volunteer.
Members of crime scene recovery units are typically not scientists. They are technicians. They collect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit’s involvement is over. No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveillance. No hot lead shoot-outs. Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.
But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hollywood myth needs a kick in the pants.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process.”
“Oh.” I heard a sharp intake of air.
“If you stop in the personnel office, I’m certain that printed material exists giving job descrip—”
“No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in Le Journal yesterday. I phoned your office.”
Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.
Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The call was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.
“This may sound crazy.” Nervous throat clearing. “And I know how very busy you must be.”
“Actually, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.—?”
The name was distorted by static. Gallant? Ballant? Talent?
“—bones you dug up.”
Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.
“What about them?”
The voice became stronger.
“I feel it is my moral responsibility.”
I said nothing, staring at the bones on the gurney and thinking about moral responsibilities.
“My moral duty to follow through. At least with a telephone call. Before I leave. It’s the least I can do. People just don’t take time anymore. No one bothers. No one wants to get involved.”
In the hall, I heard voices, doors slamming, then quiet. The autopsy techs had left for the day. I leaned back, tired, but anxious to finish the conversation and get back to work.
“What is it you would like to tell me?”
“I’ve lived a long time in Montreal. I know what went on in that building.”
“What building?”
“The one where those bones were hidden.”
The woman now had my full attention.
“The pizza parlor?”
“Now it is.”
“Yes?”
At that moment a bell shrilled, like those regulating movement in old school buildings.
The line went dead.
6
I JIGGLED THE BUTTON, TRYING TO GET THE switchboard operator’s attention.
Nothing.
Damn!
Slamming the receiver, I raced for the elevator.
Susanne, the LSJML receptionist, lives in a small town halfway between Montreal and the Ontario border. Her daily commute involves a metro, a train, and timing more delicate than a space station linkup. At closing, Susanne is off like a shot. I hoped by some miracle to catch her in flight.
Lighted digits indicated the elevator was on thirteen.
Come on. Come on.
It took a month for the car to descend, another for the trip upstairs. On twelve, I bolted through the opening doors.
Susanne’s desk was deserted.
Praying that the informant had phoned back, and that the call had been rolled by the automatic night service to my voice mail, I rushed to my office.
The red light was flashing.
Yes!
A mechanical voice announced five messages.
My friend Anne in South Carolina.
Allô Police. Again.
The Gazette. Again.
A newcomer from CFCF news.
Ryan.
Mixed emotions. Curiosity that Anne had called. Relief that Ryan had tried to contact me. Frustration that my mysterious tipster had not. Fear that I’d lost the woman forever.
What was her name? Gallant? Ballant? Talent? Why hadn’t I asked that she spell it?
Flopping into my chair, I stared at the phone, willing the little square to light up and tell me a call had come into the system. I drummed the desktop. Pulled the phone cord. Allowed the spirals to curl back into place.
Why wasn’t the woman trying to reconnect? She had the number. Wait. Hadn’t s
he referred to an earlier call? Did she think I’d blown her off? That I’d hung up on her? Had she given up?
I opened the desk drawer. Rooted for a pen. Closed the drawer.
Hadn’t the caller mentioned something about leaving? Leaving home? The city? The province? For the day? For good?
I was dividing triangles into smaller triangles, berating myself for my carelessness, when my cell phone sounded. I flew to my purse and dug it out.
“Mrs. Gallant?”
“I’ve been called gallant, but never Mrs.”
Ryan.
“I thought you were someone else.”
I knew that was stupid as soon as I said it. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent had phoned through the switchboard. She couldn’t possibly know my private number.
“It shatters me to hear such disappointment in your voice.”
Resuming my seat, I smiled the first smile of the day. “You’re dazzling, Ryan. My disappointment has to do with a case.”
“What case?”
“The pizza basement skeletons.”
As we spoke I kept watch on the message light. One twinkle and I’d leap back into my voice mail.
“Did today bring the pleasure of Claudel’s company?”
“He was here.”
“Alone?”
“The rest of the Waffen SS couldn’t make it.”
“Claudel can be a little rigid.”
“Claudel is a Neanderthal. No. I sell the Paleolithic short. Neanderthals had fully sapient brains.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Claudel’s brain. He just tends to put a lot of weight on past experience and usual patterns. Where was Charbonneau?”
“Two prostitutes were assaulted. One died. The other is hanging on at the Notre-Dame Hospital.”
“I heard about that,” Ryan said.
Of course. A twinge of irritation.
“I believe the ladies’ business manager was invited in for questioning.”
“You would know.”
Ryan either ignored or missed the annoyance in my voice.
“What does Claudel want to do with your bones?”
“Unfortunately, very little.”
“I know what I’d like to do with your bones.”
“That didn’t top your agenda last night,” Doris piped up before I could stop her.
Ryan did not reply.
“All three skeletons are the remains of young girls,” I segued back.
“Recent?”
“Claudel relieved the owner of some buttons he claimed to have found with one set of bones. An expert at the McCord assessed them as nineteenth century.”
“Let me guess. Claudel’s not interested in what he sees as prehistoric?”
“Odd, since his head’s been up his ass since the Neolithic.”
“Having a bad day, sunshine?” The amusement in Ryan’s voice irked me. His failure to explain last night’s hasty departure irked me. My desire for an explanation irked me.
What was Anne’s philosophy? Never explain, never complain.
Right on, Annie.
“This week has not been a picnic,” I said, still staring at my desk phone. The little square remained frustratingly dark.
“Claudel’s a good cop,” Ryan said. “Sometimes he needs more convincing than we intuitively brighter types.”
“His mind is made up.”
“Change it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
A moment of silence. Ryan broke it.
“How old do you think these bones are?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure all three girls died at the same time.”
“Dental work?”
“None that I’ve noticed.”
More silence.
“Gut feeling?”
“The burials haven’t been in the basement that long.”
“Meaning?”
“We should be taking them seriously.”
Again, Ryan ignored my churlishness.
“On what do you base your gut feeling?”
I’d been asking myself that question for three days.
“Experience.”
I didn’t mention my recent mysterious informant. Or the brainless indifference with which I’d treated her.
“Well, sunshine—”
“Yes, cupcake.” I cut him off.
Pause.
“You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he’s wrong.” Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kinder-gartner.
Long pause, filled with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.
“I’m guessing tonight is not good for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I understand how tired and frustrated you are. Go home and take one of your famous bubble baths. Things’ll serve up better in the morning.”
When we’d disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.
There was no denying it. I’d been in Montreal three full days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.
And almost totally unavailable.
I didn’t need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.
And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.
I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.
I’d lived without Ryan. I would do so again.
I’d coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.
But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him just now?
Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.
I glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent wasn’t hitting her redial button.
“Screw bubbles,” I said, rocketing from my chair.
“And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are.”
* * *
By nine I’d finished with LSJML-38427, the skeleton from the first depression.
Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Sixty-four to sixty-seven inches tall. No odor, no hair, not a shred of soft tissue. Bones well preserved, but dry and discolored, with some soil infiltration. Postmortem cranial damage, including fragmentation of the right temporal area, right facial bones, and right mandibular ramus. No perimortem skeletal trauma. No dental work. No associated clothing or possessions. 38427 was a carbon copy of 38426.
With one difference. I’d seen this young lady in situ and knew something about burial context. LSJML-38427 had been placed naked in a pit in a fetal curl.
We of the Judeo-Christian persuasion send our dead packing in their Sunday best. We literally lay them out, legs extended, hands on the belly or straight down at the sides. The tucked sleeping posture is more typical of our precontact native brethren.
So. Did the curled posture support Claudel’s assumption of antiquity?
Not that simple.
A flexed body requires a smaller hole. Less digging. Less time and energy. Pit burial is also popular with those in a hurry.
Like murderers.
Exhausted, I wheeled the bones to their bay, changed, returned to my office, and rechecked the phone.
No messages.
By the time I clocked out, it was well past ten. Wind whipped around the corner of Wilfrid-Derome, slicing through my clothes like a blade. My breath billowed as I scurried to my car.
Throughout the drive, I could think of nothing but the girls in the morgue.
Had they died of illness? Had they been killed in a manner leaving no mark on their bones? Poisoning? Smothering?
Hypothermia?
At the Viger traffic light, two teenagers emerged from the shadow of the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Tattooed, pierced, and spiked, they raised squeegees with tense nonchalance. Nodding a go-ahead, I dug a dollar from my purse and watched as they scraped dirty water down my windshield.
Had the pizza basement girls been young rebels like these, marching toward nonconformity down prescribed paths? Had they been loners, abused by family tyrants? Runaways struggling to survive on
the streets?
I’d found not a single indicator of clothing. Granted, natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool deteriorate quickly. But why no zipper tooth? Eyelet? Bodice fastener? Bra hook? These girls had been stripped before being hidden in anonymous graves.
Had they died together? Over a span of months? Years?
And always, the central question: When? A decade ago? A century?
By the time I reached home, a headache was cranking into high gear, and I was hungry enough to eat Lithuania. Except for granola bars and diet sodas, I’d consumed nothing all day.
After showering, I nuked a frozen Mexican dinner. As I dined with Letterman, I thought about Anne. Anne would understand. Let me vent. Say comforting things. I’d just collected the handset, when it rang in my hand.
“How’s Birdie?” Anne.
“You’re calling about my cat?”
“I don’t think the little guy gets enough attention.”
The little guy was beside me on the couch, staring at the sour cream oozing from my burrito remains.
“I’m sure Bird would agree.”
Setting my dinner on the coffee table, I scooped a dollop of cream and offered a finger. Birdie licked it clean and refocused on the plate.
“How about you?”
I was lost. “How about me what?”
“Are you getting enough attention?”
Though Anne has the instincts of a NAVSAT, she couldn’t have known of my anxiety over Ryan.
“I was just about to call you,” I said.
“I’m not,” she continued, not really listening to my answer.
“What are you talking about?”
“Tom-Ted.”
Anne is married to an attorney named Tom Turnip. When Tom was a second-year associate with his firm, a senior partner had addressed him as Ted for an entire month. He’d been Tom-Ted ever since.
“What about TT?”
“Guess?”
Though I wanted to be sympathetic, I was far too exhausted for puzzles.
“Please just tell me.”
“Good idea. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
7
EIGHT HOURS LATER MY STATE OF MIND WAS MUCH improved. The headache was gone. The sun was shining. My best friend was coming.
Maybe. Anne has a way of changing her mind.
Speaking of changing minds, Ryan was right. Evidence as to postmortem interval, or PMI, was at the heart of the debate with Claudel.