206 Bones

by Kathy Reichs

  Don’t take it out on the kid.

  “Did you check in with Dr. Morin?”

  Duclos nodded, crimson lips twisted sideways.

  “Other than familiarizing, did Dr. Briel leave further instruction for you?”

  Duclos shook her head.

  Great. Briel had a novice on the floor but wasn’t even in the building.

  Duclos held up a battered copy of Bass’s Human Osteology.

  “She gave me this. The chapter on dentition is really good. I know the teeth, of course, incisors, canines, molars, premolars, but I need to brush up on details.” Not stammering, but close. “I’m shaky on mandibular versus maxillary, left versus right.”

  “Sit.” I pointed at the only surface in the room not covered with bones. “There.”

  Duclos rolled a chair to the spot I’d indicated. As she folded into it I returned to the closet. Using a small round key on my personal chain, I unlocked a metal cabinet and withdrew a plastic tub.

  Duclos watched my return with Frisbee eyes.

  “Practice on these. Divide by categories, then sides, then uppers versus lowers.”

  The tub hit the counter with a crack.

  * * *

  After coffeeing up, I tried Schechter again.

  Nope.

  Next, I went to Briel’s office. A gray envelope lay on her desk, return address SQ, Chicoutimi.

  I humped back to my lab.

  Psyched.

  But not for long.

  The Gouvrard records made the Villejoin file look rich in comparison. There wasn’t a single X-ray. The medical and dental data were negligible. The typed reports were faded and smeared, probably the product of carbon copying. The handwritten notes were barely legible.

  After three and a half hours of squinting and magnifying and translating from colloquial French, I had nothing more than when I’d started.

  Achille, the father, had suffered from hypertension and eczema, conditions for which he’d taken medication. He’d stood five feet nine inches tall. Useless. I had no complete long bones. He’d broken three toes in an industrial accident at age thirty-seven. I had no foot bones.

  An absence of dental records suggested Daddy wasn’t into regular checkups.

  Vivienne, the mother, had no medical condition that would have affected her skeleton. She’d had trouble with what would now be called acid reflux. She’d suffered from migraines. She’d lost a baby two months into a pregnancy three years prior to her elder son’s birth. No height was recorded.

  Mommy had undergone root canals in her first and second lower left molars. Both those teeth had been lost postmortem.

  Serge, the elder brother, had fractured his right ulna at age six. That bone had not been recovered. He’d had measles at seven and chicken pox at nine. On his eleventh birthday, he’d suffered a mild concussion by falling from a tree.

  Though the boy had visited a dentist and been treated for cavities, I had none of his teeth.

  I looked at the clock. One ten.

  Across the lab, Solange was still sorting and studying dentition. The neon lips made me think of the print they’d leave on a glass.

  I tried Schechter again, left a third message.

  Then I headed to lunch.

  * * *

  Natalie Ayers was in the cafeteria. She pointed to an empty chair opposite hers. I sat. Sensitive to the earlier brush-off, I avoided the subject of staff morale.

  “Done with Keiser?”

  Ayers nodded, teeth embedded in an egg salad sandwich.

  “I assume it was Keiser.”

  “Yeah. Thanks to decomp and burning, her face and dentition were history. Fortunately, she wore a bridge. That survived. We got the antemorts. The thing was a match.”

  “What killed her?”

  “Who knows? The internal organs were mush. X-rays showed no fractures, bullets, or foreign objects. I sent samples to tox, but I’m not optimistic.”

  “Did you find smoke in the lungs or trachea?”

  Ayers waggled a hand. Maybe yes, maybe no. So it was unclear if Keiser was alive when the fire started.

  “Was she a smoker?”

  “According to Claudel, yes.”

  Ayers worked on the second half of her sandwich. I ate the remainder of my salad, then switched subjects.

  “Briel’s student is here but Briel’s in Laval educating young minds.”

  Ayers snorted air through her nose. “No she’s not. Our wunderkind is downstairs educating herself.”

  “Oh?”

  “She came in as I was leaving, asked if she could look at Keiser. For the experience.”

  “She’s something.” I laughed.

  “She is.” No trace of a chuckle.

  Ayers stirred her coffee. Tapped the rim of her cup. Laid down her spoon. “Sorry about earlier.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “You’re right, though. The atmosphere in our section has turned to shit.”

  “Because LaManche is gone?”

  Ayers considered. “No. That’s not it.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t want to tell tales. But I will say office tension is the reason Emily quit to work for the coroner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ayers shook her head. “Ask Emily.”

  “She called me last week. Told me about Briel and Joe going back out to Oka, then urged me to get back up here fast. Never mentioned leaving the lab.”

  “Talk to her.”

  I vowed to do that as soon as possible.

  Then events started crashing and the world seemed to veer off its orbit.

  23

  WHEN I RETURNED TO MY LAB, YOUNG SOLANGE Duclos was gone. Either Briel had corralled her, or the kid had left for the day. I didn’t much care. I had tables full of bones and a coroner with a shortage of patience.

  Naturally, it was an afternoon of interruptions.

  I’d hardly stowed my purse when Claudel appeared. Anxious to resume my analysis of the Lac Saint-Jean vics, I asked few questions, just let him talk.

  “L’équipe du service d’incendie has finished with Keiser’s cabin.”

  Claudel referred to the arson boys, members of the chemistry section who determined cause and point of origin in suspicious fires.

  “They picked up traces of accelerant on the carpet and sofa.”

  Arson.

  “What was used?”

  “They’re working on it.”

  “Ayers couldn’t tell if Keiser was breathing when the place went up,” I said.

  “This is not my first homicide. Dr. Ayers and I have discussed her findings.”

  Well, hot damn for you. I didn’t say it.

  I was settling with the Lac Saint-Jean vics when my cell phone buzzed in my lab coat pocket. I checked caller ID.

  Perry Schechter. So badgering can pay off.

  Unfortunately, the lawyer’s “confidential information” was not the breakthrough for which I’d been hoping. While sorting Edward Allen’s papers, Schechter had found a scribbled note containing a phone number beginning with a 514 area code. The accompanying message consisted of one word. Rose.

  After disconnecting, I did a reverse look-up using whitepages.com. The number came back “unpublished or unlisted.”

  I called a contact at the SQ. He said he’d run the line and get back to me.

  Ten minutes later he did. The number traced to a pay phone at the gare Centrale on rue de la Gauchetière Ouest.

  Great. Montreal’s downtown railroad station.

  But Schechter’s info wasn’t totally useless. It told me two things.

  Thing one: la gare Centrale accommodated both long-distance VIA rail routes and hookups to city and suburban metro lines. So my accuser could be a commuter, an out-of-towner, or a local desiring anonymity. Now I was getting somewhere.

  Thing two: pay phones still exist. Who knew?

  It was four fifteen when I finally got to refocus on the Lac Saint-Jean vics.

>   The lull didn’t last.

  I was opening the file of the younger son, Valentin, when male laughter razored into my concentration.

  Ryan.

  Joe.

  Since the pathology, histology, and anthropology-odontology labs are all interconnected, I figured Ryan had entered at the far end and was cutting through toward my domain.

  Rustling over the past hour had signaled that Joe was doing paperwork at his desk, directly in Ryan’s path. I assumed the two were discussing carburetors or sports scores, or enjoying one of those frat-boy jokes that elicit the singularly annoying conspiratorial Y-chromosome guffaw.

  The younger Lac Saint-Jean child, perhaps Valentin Gouvrard, was represented by two vertebrae, three partial long bones, a calcaneous, a handful of cranial fragments, and three isolated teeth. Ignoring the buddy-boy sniggers drifting in from next door, I arranged the sparse little collection.

  Preservation was awful. A combination of soaking and wave action had removed most identifiable anatomical landmarks, and breakage had rendered accurate measurement impossible.

  But the teeth allowed confirmation of my age estimate of six to eight. Here’s why.

  Unlike sharks or gators, humans are granted only two sets of choppers. Kids sport twenty. Grown-ups expand the assemblage to thirty-two by adding premolars and wisdom teeth.

  Replacement goes thus. Around age six, the first permanent molars join the kiddy lineup. Around eleven or twelve the eight baby molars give way to eight adult premolars. During the teens and early twenties, two more adult molars join the back of each arch. No need to describe the incisor and canine action up front. We all know how that mess unfolds.

  The younger child’s first permanent and second baby molar had been recovered, both from the lower jaw on the right. Also the second baby molar from the upper right. I set the baby teeth aside.

  I was examining the adult molar when a shadow fell on my hand. I glanced up.

  Ryan looked uncharacteristically formal in a dark navy suit and crisp white shirt. His pale yellow tie had sprightly blue dots.

  “Natty,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Court day.”

  “Your testimony went well?”

  “Wowed ’em.”

  “With your modesty.” I returned the tooth to its vial. “Buttering up my assistant?”

  “Not sure he’s butterable.”

  “Meaning?”

  “When I said you were thermally challenged he got all defensive, said I was being rude.”

  My left brow floated up.

  “I was making a joke.”

  “Perhaps Joe is one of those people who believe that being rude is rude. Why the comment on my climatic capabilities, anyway?”

  “Mr. Touchy was looking at pictures of a utility tunnel or something. I asked about it, just making conversation, couldn’t have cared less. He described some nutball hobby. I said he must love the cold. He said that’s what Dr. Brennan thought. I said—”

  I raised a silencing hand.

  Ryan took the hint. “Gouvrard antemorts gonna put this to bed?”

  I shook my head. “So far the file’s of limited use. Mama had migraines and bellyaches. Daddy had a rash. The older kid broke an arm, but I don’t have those bones. Daddy smashed his foot but I don’t have those bones.”

  “Find anything exclusionary?”

  “No. The ages and adult genders play. Ditto the injury patterns. The bone quality is crap, but consistent with forty years underwater.” I wiggled upturned fingers, indicating frustration. “There’s just nothing unique, nothing to make me comfortable with a positive ID. Anything new on Villejoin?”

  “Grellier’s been leafing through mug shots the past couple days. Thinks he may have spotted his bar buddy. Punk name of Red O’Keefe. Aka Bud Keith. Aka Sam Caffrey. Aka Alex Carling. Creative guy. Usually these toads stick with the same initials. Makes it easier to keep the monogrammed tea towels.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Four-time loser, all petty stuff.”

  “O’Keefe’s in jail now?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Been on the street since 1997. Served his full stretch, so he’s not on anyone’s call sheet. Former PO says his last known address was in Laval. While we’re running him to ground I’ll cross-check his rich list of monikers against names in the Jurmain and Villejoin files.”

  “Worth a shot,” I said.

  “Got nothing else.”

  “You talk to Claudel lately?”

  “We keep missing each other.”

  I told him about the accelerant in Keiser’s cabin. Likely arson.

  Ryan opened his lips, as though to comment. Or share a thought. Instead, he checked his watch.

  “Time to put the chairs on the tables and kill the lights.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m outa here.”

  * * *

  That night I picked up shrimp curry with veggies. Birdie downed the crustaceans but spit the carrots and peas on the rug after licking off the sauce.

  I tried reading a novel but couldn’t focus. I kept picturing Rose Jurmain alone in the woods. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin hemorrhaging on her kitchen floor. Christelle Villejoin trembling on the edge of her grave. Marilyn Keiser in flames on her couch.

  I phoned Harry, but she was out. So was Katy.

  Frustrated and antsy, I decided to assemble a chart. Perhaps a pattern would emerge once facts were placed on paper. Or converted to megabytes.

  Opening a blank document on my laptop, I created three columns, then entered what was known about each woman.

  Rose Jurmain

  Fifty-nine, but looked older

  American (Chicago)

  Wealthy background, cut from father’s will, estranged from family

  Lesbian, lived with partner, Janice Spitz

  Religion?

  Suffered from depression

  Prescription drug and alcohol abuse

  Estate goes to?

  Traveled to Quebec to view foliage, L’Auberge des Neiges

  Body found on surface in woods near Sainte-Marguerite thirty months after disappearance, skeletonized, scavenged by bears

  No perimortem skeletal or cranial trauma

  Anne-Isabelle/Christelle Villejoin

  Eighty-six, eighty-three

  Pointe-Calumet, Quebec

  Spinsters, lived together

  Catholic, active in church

  No alcohol or drug use

  No car or travel

  No extended family

  Cats

  Estate goes to Humane Society

  Anne-Isabelle bludgeoned to death in home, overkill. Christelle disappeared on same date.

  ATM card used on east side of city hours after attack

  Tip from Florian Grellier following DUI arrest (info obtained from unknown bar patron; O’Keefe plus AKAs?) concerning Christelle

  Christelle’s body found in shallow grave near Oka eighteen months after disappearance, skeletonized

  Cranial fractures indicate blows with a shovel (Anne-Isabelle beaten with cane)

  Marilyn Keiser

  Seventy-two

  Widow, lived alone in apartment in Montreal, Boulevard Éduard-Montpetit

  Married three times

  Son and daughter, Otto and Mona, in Alberta, estranged

  Stepson, Myron Pinsker in Montreal

  Hippie. Active social life.

  Jewish

  Cabin near Memphrémagog. Existence known only to building super, Lu Castiglioni

  Owned and drove auto, took local trips

  Vehicle found at cabin

  Fire. Accelerant indicates arson.

  Found in cabin three months after disappearance, body decomposed and burned

  Ayers autopsy. No obvious cause of death.

  I stared at the lists, willing an idea to go off in my mind. Or on. Like an overhead bulb in a comic strip.

  Didn’t happen. Only questions emerged. I began jotting them down.
>
  The Villejoins were Francophone. Rose Jurmain was American, undoubtedly Anglophone. Did Marilyn Keiser speak French or English? Or both?

  Keiser’s estate would go to her kids. The Villejoin sisters left everything to the Humane Society. Who stood to benefit from Rose Jurmain’s death?

  Keiser was Jewish. The Villejoins were Catholic. Rose Jurmain?

  Keiser had two kids. The Villejoins and Jurmain had none. Did Rose’s partner, Janice Spitz, have offspring?

  An American lesbian with substance abuse problems. Two spinsters who rarely ventured from their home. A socially active grandmother married three times and estranged from her kids.

  Did these women have anything in common besides violent death?

  Keiser and Jurmain liked back-to-nature getaways. The Villejoins never left Pointe-Calumet.

  Keiser and Jurmain had large families from whom they were disconnected. The Villejoins had only each other, maybe distant relatives in the Beauce.

  The Villejoins were bludgeoned. Jurmain and Keiser had suffered no skeletal trauma.

  Keiser was torched in her country chalet. Anne-Isabelle was left in her home. Christelle was buried in a shallow grave. Jurmain was dumped on the surface.

  Were we looking for linkage that didn’t exist?

  I started anew, focusing on commonalities.

  Every victim was female.

  Every victim was old or appeared to be old.

  Every victim died within the past three years.

  Except for Anne-Isabelle, every victim was found in a remote wooded area.

  Coincidence? I didn’t believe it.

  I was logging off when window glass exploded into the room.

  Heart hammering, I dove for the floor.

  24

  I LAY BELLY TO THE CARPET, ARMS FLUNG OVER MY head. I sensed stinging on my left shoulder and cheek.

  Traffic sounds drifted in from the street. A man singing. The hum of a transformer next to the building behind mine.

  Inside the condo, nothing but quiet.

  Cold air was rapidly chilling the room.

  I opened my eyes. The upended lamp was out. Light from my computer screen sparked fragments of glass scattered around me.

  Then, in the stillness, I heard a soft crunch.

  A footstep?

  My breath froze in my throat.

  Pushing with my palms, I hopped up into a squat and twisted.

  Birdie was staring at the window with round yellow eyes, one forepaw frozen like a setter on point.