by Kathy Reichs
Hanaoka removed the tub tooth from the airlock, inserted the Lac Saint-Jean tooth, and repeated the process.
Moments later a second landscape filled the screen.
“Wow,” Miller said.
“Holy shit,” I said.
38
THE SECOND LANDSCAPE WAS IDENTICAL TO THE FIRST. Yb. Al. Si.
The material in the filling was consistent with the debris in the facet. And unusual. That suggested that the tub tooth and the Lac Saint-Jean tooth erupted side by side in one child’s mouth.
Sonovabitch!
Two scenarios fountained up in my mind.
Scenario A. Briel read about tetracycline in Valentin Gouvrard’s antemorts, took the stained molars from the tub, and substituted them for the ones found with the Lac Saint-Jean bones.
Scenario B. The Lac Saint-Jean child’s first baby molar somehow migrated to Bergeron’s tub.
Migration was as likely as nooky in church.
My fingers tightened into fists.
Briel had sabotaged my case.
Would others be convinced?
“Consistent with” and “unusual” weren’t enough to nail her. I had to have more.
The elemental spectrum describing the stuff in the filling. That was the key.
Hanaoka’s voice broke through.
“. . . you could ask around, see if some type of database exists. Do you have a thumb drive? I can save the spectrum to an EMSA format if you like.”
“Yes,” I said, digging a drive from my purse. “Yes I do.”
* * *
It was dark when I left the Wong Building. The snow was still coming down, though not with much gusto.
Instead of returning to my car, I trudged uphill to Strathcona at the corner of University and Pine. Originally headquarters for the medical faculty, the old fortress is currently home to the anatomy department and the school of dentistry.
It was Tuesday, the Tooth Sleuth’s teaching day at McGill. I didn’t make that up. Bergeron actually wears a shirt embroidered with that moniker. And likes it.
I found Bergeron in an office on the second floor. The overheads were off, and a green-hooded bankers’ lamp cast soft yellow light across the carved oak desk.
I outlined the problem, leaving out only the role played by his tub. Bergeron listened, long bony fingers intertwined in his lap. When he nodded understanding, I asked about the existence of a dental materials database.
Bergeron remembered talk of a project at the FBI’s Quantico SEM lab.
He made a call. Explained. Jotted notes. Uttered endless “Uh-huh’s” and “I see’s.” Finally hung up.
Such a database existed. Its developer was now retired, so the software was under the custody of an SEM lab at the State University of New York at Buffalo.
Bergeron made a second call. Again explained the problem.
Uh-huh.
I see.
I was almost wetting my shorts.
Finally the call ended.
The man’s name was Barry Trainer. Bergeron handed me a scribbled e-mail address. If I transmitted the spectrum as an EMSA file, Trainer would run it through the database.
Thanking Bergeron, I practically skipped down the hill.
And hydroplaned.
As I landed, something popped at my wrist. Inside my mitten, I felt hardness between my palm and the sidewalk.
Rising gingerly, I collected my purse, brushed myself off, and continued to my car at a more dignified pace.
Sherbrooke was a clogged artery. Between drumming the wheel and cussing at traffic, I fastened my watch. The crystal looked like I’d smashed it with a hammer.
Thirty minutes later I arrived at my condo. The underground garage was dark and deserted.
I was whrp-whrping my car lock when I thought I heard movement.
A footstep?
I froze.
Another.
Another.
I spun. A figure was emerging from the shadows of one corner.
My brain took in the basics.
Male.
Moving fast.
Instinct short-circuited my adrenaline-pumped nerves.
Whipping my purse, I caught the guy square in the ear.
His hand flew up and he bent at the waist.
“Fucking sonovabitch!”
Shit. Sparky.
“You startled me.”
“You broke my fucking eardrum.”
“Not likely.”
Sparky straightened, ear shielded theatrically. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”
I’d lacked the patience to placate my wounded assistant. I definitely had none to soothe my headcase neighbor.
“You came at me out of nowhere. What are you doing down here?”
“None of your fucking business, but I was getting shit out of my trunk.”
“You have a real way with words.”
Sparky shook his head, then pounded his ear with the heel of one hand. “I’ll probably need a doctor.”
“Send me the bill.”
Shouldering my purse strap, I strode toward the door.
“Wait.” Sparky dogged me, whining to my back. “I’ve got something to say.”
“Put it in writing. I’m busy.”
“Your fucking cat’s driving me nuts. You gotta do something about the meowing.”
Sparky lives one floor up, in the wing across the courtyard. Birdie would have to be electrically amped for his vocals to project that far.
The anger switch tripped.
I pivoted.
Sparky slammed into me.
I pushed him back with a hand to the sternum.
“You’re done with my cat, you sniveling weenie. No more complaints. No more dead birds. No more feces. Got it?”
In the dimness, the planes of Sparky’s face hardened.
“Yeah? We’ll see who’s done.”
Upstairs, I told Birdie what a magnificent feline he was. Then I booted my laptop, downloaded and e-mailed the spectrum to Trainer.
To kill time, I zapped some frozen spinach ravioli. As the microwave hummed, I checked my watch. The digits were obscured by a network of cracks.
“Crap.”
Digging an old Swatch from my dresser, I returned to the kitchen.
I’d finished the pasta and moved to the study when the phone rang. I grabbed it.
“Say you love me.” Chris Corcoran sounded excessively pleased with himself. Ebullient, almost. It was annoying as hell.
“I love you.”
“A lot?”
“What did you find, Chris?”
“You used to be fun.”
“I also used to be queen of the hop.”
“No you weren’t.”
“I’ll ask for a recount.”
“Be that way.” Mock hurt. “You remembered correctly. ML. A pathologist named Miranda Leaver did the anthropology on Laszlo Tot’s bones. Leaver was in Chicago for a one-year postdoc at UIC. No one at the CCME remembers much about her. One tech recalls that while here she got screwed over by her husband, got divorced, and went back to using her maiden name.”
“Briel!”
My yelp sent Birdie shooting down the hall.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Surprised. “After getting dumped, Briel went to France to pick up the shattered pieces. Her therapy? A cram course in bones for nonanthropologists.”
“Where in France?” I could feel my nerves humming.
“Montpellier.”
I grabbed paper and pen. “Do you know the name of the institution—”
“Down, girl. I can dial a phone, too. The program was offered jointly through the University of Montpellier and the Department of Forensic Sciences at the Hôpital Lapeyronie.
“While in Montpellier, Miranda Leaver, now back to her maiden name, Miranda Briel, became more French than the French. Bought très chic shoes, a beret, started saying je m’appelle Marie-Andréa. Eventually, she met a garçon with similar leanings. Or maybe he was the cause of
her Gallic reawakening. Who knows?”
Normally, I’d have smiled at Chris’s French pronunciation. I was too torqued by his news.
“An archaeologist.”
“Voilà.”
“His name?” I knew the answer. Just wanted to hear it.
“Sebastien Raines.”
“Did you learn anything about him?”
“While a student, Raines was nailed for pilfering artifacts. Apparently, he beat the snot out of the prof who fingered him. He was kicked from the program and, for a while, moved around working archaeological digs for pay. Eventually he split la République for La Belle Province. He’s reputed to have a temper, and to carry a chip on his shoulder the size of Marseille.”
“Against?”
“PhDs in general, academics in particular.”
My laptop trilled as an e-mail landed. I crossed to it.
[email protected].
“Thanks, Chris. This is really great.”
“Was it this Briel who jammed you up with Edward Allen Jurmain?”
“I think so. Or Raines. He’s her husband now. The two have a scheme to get rich off forensics.”
“Which hop?”
“What?”
“Over which did you reign? There were a lot in the old hood.”
“All of them.”
I clicked open Trainer’s e-mail.
The message was succinct.
Its last line screamed from the page.
39
Molar B. The cavity was restored with Heliomolar, a resin whose elemental composition and atomic percentages, to my knowledge, are unique. Al 2.85. Si 87.4. Yb 9.75.
Molar A. The debris in the wear facet produced a spectrum identical in elemental composition and atomic percentages to that obtained from molar B. Al 2.85. Si 87.4. Yb 9.75. It is my opinion this facet also contains residue from Heliomolar resin.
Trainer had included a few comments.
Heliomolar HB Resin Composite is an esthetic, high-viscosity, packable, light-cured restorative material designed for use in posterior teeth (Classes I and II).
Heliomolar is more radiopaque than enamel and dentin, and shows up brighter on X-rays.
Heliomolar is produced by Ivoclar Vivadent Inc., in Amherst, New York.
I reread the last line, fingers tight on the mouse. Heliomolar was introduced on the market in 1984.
The Lac Saint-Jean child’s tetracycline-stained molar was filled with a resin called Heliomolar. In life, that molar had butted cusps with the molar I’d found in Bergeron’s tub. It had Heliomar residue in its wear facet. Both molars had Carabelli’s cusps.
Heliomolar was introduced in 1984.
The Sainte-Monique picknickers drowned in 1958.
The Gouvrards crashed in 1967.
Again, I was faced with two scenarios.
One, both teeth belonged to the Lac Saint-Jean child. Ergo, the vics were neither the Gouvrards nor the Sainte-Monique drowning victims, or;
Two, neither tooth belonged to the Lac Saint-Jean child. Ergo, both had been taken from the tub to replace that child’s real second molars.
By Briel.
A maelstrom of emotions surged through my mind.
I hadn’t missed the staining. Or the restoration. They hadn’t been there because I’d viewed the child’s real teeth.
Before Briel swapped them out.
Briel found the phalanges.
My ass, she did. She palmed them from the lab and planted them at Oka.
Briel found the bullet track.
Had she created it during one of her midnight sorties to the morgue? I pictured Briel shooting a bullet into Marilyn Keiser’s corpse. The image was appalling.
For the next half hour I considered and reconsidered my shocking epiphany.
Could this really be?
Nothing else fit.
The phone rang as the full scope of Briel’s treachery was sinking in.
“How’s it hanging, buttercup?”
I was too upset to nitpick Ryan’s endearment. Without asking about his day, I relayed everything I’d learned. Chris Corcoran’s bullet track case in Chicago. Miranda Leaver, alias Marie-Andréa Briel. Sebastien Raines’s violent and unsavory past. Heliomolar. 1984. The tooth swap. The phalanges theft.
“The call to Edward Allen was the kickoff for Briel’s plan to torpedo me.”
“What’s the motive?”
“To enhance her reputation. To lend dazzle to Body Find so it can generate contracts with the government, private companies, and lawyers.”
“I can see gunning for Ayers, if you’ll pardon the expression, but why go for you?”
“In France, pathologists do everything, anthropology, odontology, whatever. It’s an archaic approach to forensic medicine, but there you have it. While taking her short course, Briel probably developed delusions of grandeur.”
“She thinks she can do bones and you are competition.”
“That’s my theory.”
“If you’re right about all this, Briel is looking at a hard slap. Tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice, improper handling of human remains.”
“Good for starters.”
“What’s your plan?”
“First I’ll take it to Hubert. If he’s nonreceptive, I’ll go to LaManche. This is serious. Briel’s actions could cause serious blowback on Keiser and Villejoin. On every case she’s worked.”
So far the conversation had been all about me.
“What’s happening with the investigation?”
“Florian Grellier picked Adamski out of a lineup. Says he’s definitely the bar buddy who talked about a grave at Oka. We’ve got a Canadian Tire clerk says he sold a garden spade to Adamski the day Anne-Isabelle Villejoin was murdered. We’ve got a gas station attendant says he sold kerosene to Adamski the week Keiser went missing. There’s a waitress puts him in Memphrémagog about that time. The net’s closing.”
“How about Poppy?”
“A judge cut paper. A team’s tossing her place in Saint-Eustache as we speak.”
“Claudel is still working Adamski?”
“It’s harder now that the hairbag’s lawyered up. But the crown prosecutor feels the confessions on Keiser and Villejoin are solid. Adamski’s still not budging on Jurmain. Also insists he never shot anyone.”
“So my Briel theory fits.”
“Like a pair of commandos. How’s Birdcat?”
I told Ryan about my latest encounter with Sparky.
“You want Sparky to have an encounter with the long arm of the law?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
There followed one of those awkward pauses. Then, “Want company tonight?”
The offer dropped my stomach. I wanted nothing more than Ryan snoring at my side.
But no. It didn’t yet feel right.
I deflected the hit with humor.
“Whose?” I asked.
“Why do I put up with you, Brennan?”
“My scintillating wit and awesome good looks. Neither of which will win a high star count tonight.”
“I’ll award you my unwavering five.”
“Thanks. But I’m staying cloistered with Birdie. When I shared Sparky’s comments on his vocal carrying power, the little guy decided to get the band back together with new amps. I need to talk him down.”
After disconnecting, I returned to my computer and opened a file. I wanted my ducks in perfect formation for tomorrow’s face-off with Hubert.
I’d been at it an hour when movement caught my eye. I glanced into the hall.
Birdie was doing crouching panther.
“Bird.”
The cat didn’t move.
“What is it, fur ball?”
Birdie flattened his ears.
Flashback. The shattered window.
A chill spread through my body. Small neck hairs upright, I crept down the hall and peered into the bedroom.
On the drawn shade, backlit by a street lamp, was a h
uman silhouette. Close. Very close.
New adrenaline started making the rounds.
“Sparky! You sonovabitch!”
I grabbed a sneaker and blasted out the front door, thumbing the bolt so the lock wouldn’t engage. Firing around the hall corner to an emergency entrance in back, I hip-slammed the release bar, pushed through the door, and jammed the shoe into the crack.
The temperature was still mild, but the dampness was biting. Goose bumps quickly puckered my arms.
Snow melted on the strip of lawn below my bedroom and study. I remembered searching that grass with the cops. Lamplight winked from a few missed shards, reminders of the assault on my home.
My psycho neighbor was nowhere to be seen.
Hugging my torso, I crept across the yard, already regretting my impetuousness in flying out coatless.
“Sparky!”
My voice sounded loud in the after-snow hush.
“Where the hell are you?”
I stopped.
Listened for movement.
A car whooshed by on the street, tires spinning up slush. Water dripped somewhere.
My eyes swept the yard.
In the peach glow of an alley light, the bushes looked like humped-up coral. The pine needles wore designer pink coats that were slowly dissolving.
“Show your face. I know you’re out here.”
No response.
Whatever Sparky’s plan, it was meaningless now. Apparently, I’d scared the little skank off.
Shivering, I turned to retrace my steps.
I made it to the door.
Then reality fragmented.
And cut to black.
40
I CROUCHED MOTIONLESS, PEERING INTO THE ENDLESS black void.
Clearly, I hadn’t broken through to the aboveground world. But to what? A basement? A tunnel? Another catacomb, long ago sealed and forgotten?
Impressions churned in my head.
The outside air was dank, colder than that in the tomb.
My nose sorted new smells. Mud. Stagnant water. Mold. Piss?
“Hello? Help!”
My voice echoed, suggesting a cavernous space.
“Anyone out there?”
Nothing but the hollow rollback of my words.
I squinted into darkness so absolute it seemed to have life.
Based on the time it took the door to sail down to terra firma, I gauged distance to the ground as just a few feet.
