206 Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  “First the rim forms, then it breaks down.”

  “Exactly. Those with little experience often confuse the two stages. Seeing that gap, ML misinterpreted formation as breakdown. He or she estimated age at thirty-five.”

  Corcoran looked up at me.

  “This guy was closer to twenty when he died. But that’s not the only problem.”

  Corcoran crossed his arms high on his chest.

  “ML used an antiquated system for height determination, took measurements incorrectly, and relied on too few bones. He or she then chose inappropriate formulae for performing regression equations, and misinterpreted the statistical significance of the estimates those equations generated. Shall I walk you through the errors one by one?”

  “No.”

  “ML put height at five-seven to five-nine. I put it somewhere between six feet and six-three.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “Twenty-eight-seven-July-oh-five was a six-foot white male who died at roughly twenty years of age.”

  “Like Lassie.”

  “You’ve got it. Did the navy send antemortems so you’d have them in case you got an unknown fitting Tot’s description?”

  Corcoran hiked and dropped his shoulders, indicating he didn’t know. “I can check. It’s been less than five years. If we received Tot’s records, they’d still be here.”

  There was a beat as we each thought about that.

  “Any idea as to manner of death?” Corcoran asked.

  “I saw nothing obvious.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Thornton is southwest of the city. Great Lakes is practically in Wisconsin. If this is your friend’s grandson, he either went or was taken on a fairly long ride, and I think you told me his car was found north of the city.”

  Another beat passed. I pictured old Cukura Kundze, rheumy eyes eager behind the untrendy lenses. Deep down, I knew the victim in the box was Laszlo Tot.

  Suddenly, I felt drained. I looked at my watch. Five fifty. I’d been at the morgue for almost eight hours. And mañana wouldn’t be a cookie and album day, either.

  “I can sort the trauma tomorrow,” I said. “After I deal with Jurmain.”

  “That would be good.”

  Corcoran blushed.

  I knew what was coming.

  “Walczak won’t pay you.”

  “No worries,” I said. “This one’s pro bono.”

  Snow was falling when I left the CCME, covering the dark muck frozen in the gutters along Harrison Street. Driving west on the Eisenhower, I let my thoughts wander.

  Where had Laszlo Tot gone his last hours on earth? What had he done? Had he invited death by some act of stupidity? Of carelessness? Of greed? What was the day of the baseball game he missed? Friday night, Saturday, Sunday? Where had he intended to sleep?

  Again, I saw old Cukura Kundze. If I could stop the pain barreling her way, I would. If I could magically morph 287JUL05 into someone else’s sweetheart’s dead grandson, I would do that, too.

  I could do neither. Instead, I would search for answers. For justice. For Cukura Kundze. For Mr. Tot. For Lassie. Every person deserves to be accounted for. Old Horton, again.

  Edward Allen Jurmain. What sleaze had filled the old man’s ear with tales of my incompetence? My corruption? Why?

  My grip tightened on the wheel.

  How would I persuade Jurmain to share what he knew of his mysterious informant? Should I phone? Drive up to Winnetka? Could I manage to wangle my way into Jurmain’s presence?

  I thought about Pete and his melon-breasted, twentysomething fiancée, Summer. Were their wedding plans still on track? Did I give a rat’s ass?

  Katy. I knew my daughter wasn’t enjoying her job at the Mecklenburg County Public Defenders Office. Had she quit? If so, to do what?

  Ryan. I wondered if his flight had gone smoothly. If I missed him. I was heading home to Charlotte on Sunday. Would I want him to come for a visit? Would things ever be as they once were? Could they?

  My head hurt. It had been a long day.

  I pictured Vecamamma, busy at her ancient Tappan range. Today she was cooking lamb with carrots and cabbage. I wondered if she’d gone ahead and baked the cookies herself.

  I smiled, happy someone was making me dinner. I didn’t know who the other diners would be, or how numerous, but I was glad I wasn’t returning to an empty house.

  Yessiree. Family was just what I needed. Artery-clogging potatoes and gravy, bread and butter, rhubarb pie and ice cream. Throw-away conversation. Freedom from worries about Pete, Ryan, Katy, Jurmain. Distance from former husbands, old lovers, restless daughters, and backstabbing tipsters.

  Most importantly, distance from violent death.

  9

  ARRIVING AT THE HOUSE, I DID TWENTY MINUTES OF yoga, then took a very hot bath.

  While immersed in bubbles up to my chin, I pondered a plan for Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot. I decided to call only after I’d finished with the bones and determined positively that 287JUL05 was Lassie. Hopefully, at that point I’d also be able to explain what had killed him.

  I also considered my strategy for dealing with Jurmain. After some thought I settled on a home visit. I’d go directly from the CCME. Suppertime. I might take the old coot by surprise. What the hell? All he could do was have the butler throw me out.

  The water was lukewarm when the doorbell started bonging.

  Emerging from the tub, I pulled on jeans and a long red sweater. No blow-dryer. No makeup. Ain’t family grand?

  Between the stretching and the soaking, the knot in my stomach had eased and the headache had yielded.

  Or maybe it was the aspirin. Whatever. I was feeling relaxed and rejuvenated. No corpses tonight. No accusations of professional misconduct. No double-edged teasing from Ryan.

  Happily, this evening’s gathering would be small. Perhaps that, too, was contributing to my newfound serenity.

  Andrejs and Brigita were coming, though their parents would be absent for reasons of health. According to Vecamamma, Emilija’s hemorrhoids had gained a quick fifteen pounds overnight. Gordie’s ailment remained undisclosed.

  Regina and Terry were committed to Thursday-night bingo at St. Ignatius. Ted was on duty at his night job. Bea had a paper due. Allie had a class. I’d not been looped in on other excuses.

  Uncle Juris and Aunt Klara would, of course, be present. She was bringing pineapple Cool Whip Jell-O salad.

  While tubbing, I’d also weighed the pros and cons of phoning Ryan. The cons won. Ryan was home now. My number was on his speed dial.

  Muffled chimes continued, announcing the arrival of diners. I recognized voices by cadence and volume.

  Following the fourth bong, Aunt Klara’s alto bellowed up through the floorboards.

  All present or accounted for. Time to socialize.

  I was on the top step when, surprisingly, the bell sounded again. I heard the door open, then Gordie’s voice.

  “Sveiki, Vecamamma.”

  “Vai tev iet labak?” Was Vecamamma flustered? Gordie was about as bilingual as George Bush. Why query his health in Latvian?

  “Couldn’t miss your roast lamb,” Gordie replied.

  Vecamamma said something I didn’t catch. Gordie answered. Laughter was followed by a second male voice.

  “Sveiki, Vecamamma.”

  No.

  “Sveiki, monsieur.”

  “Tabarnac, something smells good.”

  “Tabarnac, monsieur.” Now Vecamamma sounded flirtatious.

  Sighing theatrically, I trudged downstairs. Ryan and Gordie were coming up the hall, each wearing a mile-wide smile.

  Gordie pistol-pointed two fingers at me. “Men are from earth. Women are from earth. Deal with it.”

  “George Carlin.”

  Ryan and Gordie smacked raised palms.

  “Do vegetarians eat animal crackers?” Gordie.

  “Carlin again,” Ryan said. “Damn, I was bummed when he died.” Pause. “If God didn’t intend for us to eat ani
mals, why did he make them out of meat?”

  “Woody Allen?” Gordie guessed.

  “John Cleese.”

  “Andy, my man. You know your comedy.”

  “You two spent the day playing Guess the Comic?” I was the only one not cracking up.

  “Billy Goat!”

  “Billy Goat!”

  Tipsy high five.

  “Lower, not upper!”

  Palm smack.

  When public road development began in Chicago in 1910, city planners came up with the idea of double- and triple-deck streets. Sound nuts? Not really. The arrangement was dictated by geography and traffic flow. This was the deal.

  Many Loop streets crossed the river as bascule bridges, movable spans operated by complex counterweight systems. Bascule bridges accommodate boats nicely but require height clearance at their approaches to and over the river.

  Railroad tracks were another complicating factor. Some ran along, others dead-ended at the water. Tracks also need clearance.

  Thus, at points of closely spaced river crossings, a clearance zone was created. Many multilevel streets came into being as a result of falling within that zone. The idea was that local traffic would use the upper deck, while commercial vehicles and through traffic would travel below.

  The longest and most famous multidecker is Wacker Drive, running along the south side of the main branch and the east side of the south branch of the Chicago River. Michigan Avenue is another.

  The Billy Goat Tavern is located on Michigan’s lower level. Apparently, Bud and Lou had experienced some confusion in navigating to their chosen watering hole. But they’d definitely found it.

  “Did you know the Billy Goat inspired Belushi’s ‘Cheez-borger-Pepsi’ sketch on Saturday Night Live?” Ryan asked me.

  “Yes.” Fake smile. “May I speak to you alone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please excuse us,” I said to Gordie.

  Without waiting for an answer, I turned and walked into the living room. Footsteps assured me that Ryan was following.

  “What are you doing here?” Church-voice fortissimo.

  “Gordie and I played racquetball. Then we had a few beers. The guy’s a hoot, by the way.”

  “Why aren’t you in Montreal?”

  “Because I’m in Chicago.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m trying to spend quality time with Pete’s family.”

  “They’re great. Vecamamma’s a—”

  “I know. A hoot. You were supposed to go home today.”

  “The only flight I could get was at eight p.m. Vecamamma said I was welcome to stay for as long as I needed. Gordie offered racquetball, then a tour of the Loop. Ever been to Navy Pier?”

  “Yes.” My molars weren’t clamped, but they were close.

  Ryan shrugged. “Sounded good so I decided to hang for a while.”

  “A while?”

  “I’ll check with headquarters again tonight. See if anything’s come up since I called in this morning. Otherwise, what the hell? I’m off duty until Monday.”

  “Your behavior is totally inappropriate.”

  “You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”

  “Yo. Andy.” Gordie was standing in the doorway. “Glass of wine?”

  “A woman drove me to drink.” Ryan opened the quote.

  “I never had the courtesy to thank her.” Gordie closed it.

  “W. C. Fields,” I said to an empty room.

  * * *

  Dinner went as you’d imagine.

  When I retired at eleven, Gordie and Ryan were smoking cigars and doing stand-up. Vecamamma was flashing numbered signs to score their performances.

  I descended at eight the next morning. Ryan was already in the kitchen, eating French toast as fast as my mother-in-law could slap it on his plate. Both he and she greeted me with Bonjour.

  As we ate, I told Ryan about 287JUL05. In French. I wasn’t yet ready to share what I suspected concerning Lassie Tot, and doubted Vecamamma’s newly acquired linguistic skills would allow her to comprendre.

  “You’re convinced it’s him?”

  “Everything fits. Age, sex, race, height, time of disappearance. How many twentysomething white males standing six foot one vanish in any given year?”

  I heard tsking from the vicinity of the range.

  “Who did the original anthropology?”

  “Corcoran didn’t know.”

  “How’d the kid die?”

  “I don’t know. There are multiple fractures, but they may all be explained by the fall.”

  “How deep is the quarry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How’d he end up in it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tsk. From the stove.

  I switched to English.

  “This is delicious, Vecamamma.”

  “Pot roast tonight.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” I poured syrup on the refill she’d spatulaed onto my plate. “I’m really sorry about the photo albums.” Too late for cookies. She’d made a zillion on her own.

  “We’ll do it another day. You help Cukura Kundze.”

  Reverting to French, Ryan delivered my first bad news of the day.

  “Remember the old lady bludgeoned in her home a year and a half back?”

  “In Pointe-Calumet?”

  Ryan nodded. “Anne-Isabelle Villejoin. She was eighty-six. Lived with her eighty-three-year-old sister, Christelle. Christelle was never found.”

  Though I hadn’t been involved, I remembered the case. All of Montreal was horrified by the brutality of the crime. And by the cold-blooded killing of such elderly victims. The search for Christelle had been exhaustive but fruitless.

  “I got a call about an hour ago,” Ryan continued. “Last night a guy named Florian Grellier was pulled doing one-forty on the TransCanada. A records check showed Monsieur Grellier had skipped the formality of actually purchasing the Volvo XC90 he was piloting.

  “Grellier lawyered up with a courthouse crawler name of Damien Abadi. Abadi claimed his client had information on a missing old lady. After heated negotiation, in exchange for the crown prosecutor’s absolute ‘maybe,’ Grellier decided it was in his best interest to share what he knew.

  “Long story short, this morning they ran a nose around a field near Parc d’Oka.”

  Oh, no.

  “The dog alerted?”

  “Brayed like a goat in a grate.”

  “Cadaver dogs don’t bark. They sit.”

  “OK. Fido parked his ass on the snow and signaled foul.”

  Please, no. I’d just left Montreal. I wanted to go to Charlotte. To see Katy and Birdie. To walk gloveless and bootless and need sunblock on my face.

  “Did my name come up?”

  “I was told Hubert would be contacting you.”

  Jean-Claude Hubert is Quebec’s chief coroner and, currently, my main point of contact. If there was to be a disinterment, I knew Hubert would want me to direct it.

  “What do you have going today?” Ryan switched topics.

  “I plan to finish at the CCME. If the quarry skeleton is Lassie, I’ll visit Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot to break it to them personally. Then I’ll drive up to Winnetka to see what I can charm out of Old Man Jurmain.”

  “Would you like company?”

  “Oprah’s tied up.”

  “I can be very charming.” Ryan actually winked.

  “Haven’t you and your new best friend scheduled a field trip?” A creeping certainty that I wouldn’t be going home to Charlotte was making me churlish.

  “I fly out at six.” Ryan also knew what Hubert would request. “Here’s what I’m thinking. While you look at bones, I deal with changing your airline ticketing. Then, after visiting Cukura Kundze, we charm the jockeys off Jurmain, and head straight to O’Hare.”

  After breakfast I phoned the Bureau du coroner. We were both right.

  Damn.

  On the way to the car, I snatched the Tribu
ne from the front steps.

  My mood was so black, I allowed Ryan to drive. Wanting to avoid conversation, I unrolled the paper and glanced through the headlines.

  And got my second wallop of bad news.

  10

  THE WHY-WOULD-ANY-RATIONAL-BEING-LIVE-HERE cold receded. The breath-fogged windows. The heater blasting arctic air at my feet.

  Nothing existed but the print in front of my eyes.

  “You’re going to draw blood.”

  Ryan’s voice snapped me back.

  “Jurmain’s dead.” Unclamping my upper incisors from my lower lip.

  “Edward Allen?”

  “Front page, local section.”

  “What happened?”

  “They found him yesterday at the bottom of his basement stairs.” My voice sounded brittle. “The family doc is saying stroke.”

  “Autopsy?”

  “There’s none mentioned.”

  “Schechter did say Jurmain was not in good health.”

  “The old buzzard could have hung on another two days.”

  Ryan ignored that. “What else?”

  “The story’s mostly a tribute piece.”

  I read excerpts.

  “Former president and CEO of Jurmain Foods, later Smiling J. Blah blah blah. Well-known personality in the snack food industry from the forties through the eighties. Blah blah blah. Died at his home in Winnetka at the age of eighty-one. Blah blah blah. Received some award for his service to SFA.”

  “SFA?”

  “Snack Food Association. It’s an international trade association representing over four hundred companies worldwide.”

  “The lowly Cheez Doodle has its own lobby?”

  “According to the article, cheese snacks share representation with potato chips, tortilla chips, cereal snacks, pretzels, popcorn, snack crackers, meat snacks, pork rinds, snack nuts, party mix, corn snacks, pellet snacks, fruit snacks, snack bars, granola, snack cakes, and cookies.”

  “Who knew.”

  “The annual convention is called SNAXPO.”

  “Of course it is.”

  I read aloud. “Jurmain’s association with the snack food industry began in 1946 after service with the Seventy-ninth Infantry Division in World War Two. Following—”