Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  When I had removed the skeleton, I began to screen the top six inches of sediment, starting at the southwest stake and working northeast. I was finishing the last corner of the square when I spotted it, approximately a foot and a half east of the skull, at a depth of two inches. My stomach did a little flip. Yes!

  The jaw. Gingerly, I teased away soil and ash to reveal a complete right ascending ramus, a fragment of the left ramus, and a portion of the mandibular body. The latter contained seven teeth.

  The outer bone was checked by a latticework of cracks. It was thin and powdery white. The spongy interior looked pale and brittle, as if each filament had been spun by a Lilliputian spider then left to air dry. The enamel on the teeth was already splintering, and I knew the whole thing would crumble if disturbed.

  I took a bottle of liquid from my kit, shook it, and checked to be sure no crystals remained in the solution. I dug out a handful of five-milliliter disposable pipettes.

  Working on hands and knees, I opened the bottle, unwrapped a pipette, and dipped it in. I squeezed the bulb to fill the pipette with solution, then allowed the fluid to drip onto the jaw. Drop by drop I soaked each fragment, watching to be sure I was getting good penetration. I lost all track of time.

  “Nice angle.” English.

  My hand jumped, splattering Vinac on the sleeve of my jacket. My back was stiff, my knees and ankles locked, so lowering my rear quickly was not an option. Slowly, I sat back on my haunches. I didn’t have to look.

  “Thank you, Detective Ryan.”

  He circled to the far side of the grid and looked down at me. Even in the dim light of the basement I could see that his eyes were as blue as I remembered. He wore a black cashmere coat and a red wool muffler.

  “Long see, no time,” he said.

  “Yes. No time. When was it?”

  “The courthouse.”

  “The Fortier trial.” We’d both been waiting to testify.

  “Still dating Perry Mason?”

  I ignored the question. The previous fall I’d briefly dated a defense attorney I’d met through my Tai Chi course.

  “Isn’t that fraternizing with the enemy?”

  I still didn’t answer. Obviously my sex life was a topic of interest to the homicide squad.

  “How have you been?”

  “Great. You?”

  “Can’t complain. If I did, no one would listen.”

  “Get a pet.”

  “Could try that. What’s in the eyedropper?” he asked, pointing a leather-gloved finger at my hand.

  “Vinac. It’s a solution of a polyvinyl acetate resin and methanol. The mandible is toast and I’m trying to keep it intact.”

  “And that will do it?”

  “As long as the bone is dry this will penetrate and hold things together pretty well.”

  “And if it’s not dry?”

  “Vinac won’t mix with water, so it’ll just stay on the surface and turn white. The bones will come out looking like they’ve been sprayed with latex.”

  “How long does it take to dry?”

  I felt like Mr. Wizard.

  “It dries quickly through evaporation of the alcohol, usually in thirty to sixty minutes. Although being in the subarctic won’t speed things up.”

  I checked the jaw fragments, hit one with a few more drops, then rested the pipette on the solution jar cover. Ryan came around and held out a hand. I took it and rose to my feet, wrapping my arms around my middle and tucking my hands under my pits. I could feel nothing in my fingers, and suspected my nose was the shade of Ryan’s scarf. And running.

  “It’s colder than a witch’s tit down here,” he agreed, surveying the basement. He held one arm behind him at an odd angle. “How long have you been down here?”

  I looked at my watch. No wonder I was hypothermic. One-fifteen.

  “Over four hours.”

  “Che-rist. You’re going to need a transfusion.”

  It suddenly dawned. Ryan worked homicide.

  “So it’s arson?”

  “Probably.”

  He pulled a white bag from behind his back, withdrew a Styrofoam cup and a machine sandwich, and waggled them in front of me.

  I lunged. He backed up.

  “You’ll owe me.”

  “It’s in the mail.”

  Soggy bologna and lukewarm coffee. It was wonderful. We talked while I ate.

  “Tell me why you think it’s arson,” I said as I chewed.

  “Tell me what you’ve got here.”

  O.K. He was a sandwich up.

  “One person. Could be young, but it’s not a little kid.”

  “No babies?”

  “No babies. Your turn.”

  “Looks like someone used the old tried and true. The fire burned in trails way down between the floorboards. Where there still are floorboards, that is. That means liquid accelerant, probably gasoline. We found dozens of empty gas cans.”

  “That’s it?” I finished the sandwich.

  “The fire had more than one point of origin. Once it started it burned like a son of a bitch, because it set off the world’s largest indoor collection of propane tanks. Big boom every time one went. Another tank, another big boom.”

  “How many?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “It started in the kitchen?”

  “And the adjoining room. Whatever that was. Hard to tell now.”

  I thought it over.

  “That explains the head and jaw.”

  “What about the head and jaw?”

  “They were about five feet away from the rest of the body. If a propane tank fell through with the victim and exploded later, that could have caused the head to relocate after it burned away from the trunk. Same with the jaw.”

  I finished the coffee, wishing I had another sandwich.

  “Could the tanks have ignited accidentally?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  I flicked crumbs from my jacket and thought of LaManche’s doughnuts. Ryan fished in the bag and handed me a napkin.

  “O.K. The fire had multiple points of origin and there’s evidence of an accelerant. It’s arson. Why?”

  “Got me.” He gestured at the body bag. “Who’s this?”

  “Got me.”

  Ryan headed upstairs, and I went back to the recovery. The jaw was not quite dry, so I turned my attention to the skull.

  The brain contains a large amount of water. When exposed to fire, it boils and expands, setting up hydrostatic pressure inside the head. Given enough heat, the cranial vault may crack or even explode. This person was in pretty good shape. Though the face was gone and the outer bone was charred and flaking, large segments of the skull were intact. I was surprised, given the intensity of this fire.

  When I cleaned away the mud and ash and looked closely, I saw why. For a moment I just stared. I rolled the skull over and inspected the frontal bone.

  Sweet Jesus.

  I climbed the ladder and poked my head into the kitchen. Ryan stood by the counter talking with the photographer.

  “You’d better come down,” I said.

  They both raised eyebrows and pointed to their chests.

  “Both of you.”

  Ryan set down the Styrofoam cup he was holding.

  “What?”

  “This one may not have lived to see the fire.”

  IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BEFORE THE LAST OF THE bone was packaged and ready for transport. Ryan watched as I carefully extracted and wrapped the skull fragments and placed them in plastic containers. I would analyze the remains at the lab. The rest of the investigation would be his baby.

  Dusk was easing in when I emerged from the basement. To say I was cold would be like saying Lady Godiva was underdressed. For the second day in a row I finished the afternoon with no feeling in any digit. I hoped amputation would not be necessary.

  LaManche was gone, so I rode to Montreal with Ryan and his partner, Jean Bertrand. I sat in back, shivering and asking for more heat.
They sat up front, sweating, now and then removing an article of outerwear.

  Their conversation wafted in and out of my consciousness. I was fully drained and just wanted to take a hot bath and crawl into my flannel nightgown. For a month. My mind drifted. I thought about bears. There was an idea. Curl up and sleep until spring.

  Images floated in my head. The victim in the basement. A sock dangling over singed and stiffened toes. A nameplate on a tiny casket. A happy-face sticker.

  “Brennan.”

  “What?”

  “Good morning, starshine. Earth says ‘Hello.’”

  “What?”

  “You’re home.”

  I’d been sound asleep.

  “Thanks. Talk to you on Monday.”

  I stumbled from the car and up the stairs of my building. A light snow was topping the neighborhood like frosting on a sticky bun. Where did so much snow come from?

  The grocery situation had not improved, so I ate soda crackers spread with peanut butter and washed them down with clam chowder. I found an old box of Turtles in the pantry, dark chocolate, my favorite. They were stale and hard, but I was not in a position to be choosy.

  The bath was all I’d hoped it would be. Afterward, I decided to light a fire. I was finally warm, but felt very tired and very alone. The chocolate had been some comfort, but I needed more.

  I missed my daughter. Katy’s school year was divided into quarters, my university was on a semester system, so our spring breaks did not coincide. Even Birdie had stayed south this trip. He hated air travel and voiced that opinion loudly through each flight. Since I’d be in Quebec less than two weeks this time, I’d decided to spare both the cat and the airline.

  As I held the match to the starter log I considered fire. Homo erectus first tamed it. For almost a million years we’d been using it to hunt, cook, keep warm, and light our way. That had been my last lecture before break. I thought of my students in North Carolina. While I’d been searching for Élisabeth Nicolet, they’d been taking their midterm exam. The little blue books would arrive here tomorrow by overnight delivery, while the students split for the beaches.

  I turned off the lamp and watched the flames lick and twist among the logs. Shadows danced around the room. I could smell pine and hear moisture hiss and pop as it boiled to the surface. That’s why fire has such appeal. It involves so many senses.

  I synapsed back to childhood Christmases and summer camps. Such a dicey blessing, fire. It could give solace, rekindle gentle memories. But it could also kill. I did not want to think about St-Jovite anymore tonight.

  I watched snow gather on the windowsill. My students would be planning their first beach day by now. While I was fighting frostbite, they were preparing for sunburn. I didn’t want to think about that, either.

  I considered Élisabeth Nicolet. She’d been a recluse. “Femme contemplative,” the plaque had said. But she hadn’t done any contemplating for over a century. What if we had the wrong casket? Something else I didn’t want to think about. At least for tonight, Élisabeth and I had little in common.

  I checked the time. Nine-forty. Her sophomore year Katy was voted one of the “Beauties of Virginia.” Though she maintained a grade point average of 3.8 while working on dual degrees in English and psychology, she’d never been a slouch socially. Not a chance she’d be home on a Friday night. Ever the optimist, I brought the phone to the hearth and dialed Charlottesville.

  Katy answered on the third ring.

  Expecting her voice mail, I stuttered something unintelligible.

  “Mom? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Hello. What are you doing home?”

  “I’ve got a zit on my nose the size of a hamster. I’m too ugly to go out. What are you doing home?”

  “There is no way you are ugly. No comment on the zit.” I settled against a cushion and put my feet up on the hearth. “I’ve spent two days digging up dead people and I’m too tired to go out.”

  “I won’t even ask.” I heard cellophane crinkle. “This zit is pretty gross.”

  “It, too, will pass. How is Cyrano?” Katy had two rats, Templeton and Cyrano de Bergerat.

  “He’s better. I got some medicine at the pet store and I’ve been giving it to him with an eyedropper. He’s pretty much stopped that sneezing thing.”

  “Good. He’s always been my favorite.”

  “I think Templeton knows that.”

  “I’ll try to be more discreet. What else is new?”

  “Not much. Went out with a guy named Aubrey. He was pretty cool. Sent me roses the next day. And I’m going on a picnic tomorrow with Lynwood. Lynwood Deacon. He’s first-year law.”

  “Is that how you pick them?”

  “What?”

  “The names.”

  She ignored that. “Aunt Harry called.”

  “Oh?” My sister’s name always made me slightly apprehensive, like a bucket of nails balanced too close to an edge.

  “She’s selling the balloon business or something. She was actually calling to find you. Sounded a little weirded out.”

  “Weirded out?” On a normal day my sister sounded a little weirded out.

  “I told her you were in Quebec. She’ll probably call tomorrow.”

  “O.K.” Just what I needed.

  “Oh! Dad bought a Mazda RX-7. It is so sweet! He won’t let me drive it, though.”

  “Yes, I know.” My estranged husband was undergoing a mild midlife crisis.

  There was a slight hesitation. “Actually, we were just going out to grab a pizza.”

  “What about the zit?”

  “I’m going to draw ears and a tail on it and claim it’s a tattoo.”

  “Should work. If caught, use a false name.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too. Talk to you later.”

  I finished the rest of the Turtles and brushed my teeth. Twice. Then I fell into bed and slept eleven hours.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the weekend unpacking, cleaning, shopping, and grading exams. My sister called late Sunday to say she’d sold her hot air balloon. I felt relieved. I’d spent three years inventing excuses to keep Katy on the ground, dreading the day she’d finally go up. That creative energy could now be turned elsewhere.

  “Are you at home?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Is it warm?” I checked the drift on the windowsill. It was still growing.

  “It’s always warm in Houston.”

  Damn her.

  “So why are you selling the business?”

  Harry has always been a seeker, though her grail has never been in focus. For the past three years she’d been gung-ho buggers over ballooning. When not floating safaris over Texas, she and her crew packed an old pickup and zigzagged the country to balloon rallies.

  “Striker and I are splitting.”

  “Oh.”

  She’d also been gung-ho buggers over Striker. They met at a rally in Albuquerque, married five days later. That had been two years ago.

  For a long time no one spoke. I cracked first.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I may go into counseling.”

  That surprised me. My sister rarely did the obvious.

  “It might help you get through this.”

  “No. No. Striker’s got Kool-Aid for brains. I’m not crying over him. That just makes me puffy.” I heard her light a cigarette, draw deeply, exhale. “There’s this course I’ve heard about. You take it, then you can advise people on holistic health and stress relief and stuff. I’ve been reading about herbs and meditation and metaphysics and it’s pretty cool. I think I’ll be good at this.”

  “Harry. That sounds a little flaky.” How many times had I said that?

  “Duh. Of course I’ll check it out. I’m not flat-ass stupid.”

  No. She was not stupid. But when Harry wants something, she wants it intensely. And there is no dissuading her.

  I hung up feeling a little shake
n. The thought of Harry advising people with problems was unnerving.

  Around six I made myself a dinner of sautéed chicken breast, boiled red potatoes with butter and chives, and steamed asparagus. A glass of Chardonnay would have made it perfect. But not for me. That switch had been in the off position for seven years and it was staying there. I’m not flat-ass stupid either. At least not when I’m sober. The meal still beat the hell out of last night’s soda crackers.

  As I ate, I thought about my baby sister. Harry and formal education have never been compatible. She married her high school sweetheart the day before graduation, three others after that. She’s raised Saint Bernards, managed a Pizza Hut, sold designer sunglasses, led tours in the Yucatán, done PR for the Houston Astros, started and lost a carpet-cleaning business, sold real estate, and, most recently, taken up riders in hot air balloons.

  When I was three and Harry was one, I broke her leg by rolling over it with my tricycle. She never slowed down. Harry learned to walk while dragging a cast. Unbearably annoying and totally endearing, my sister offsets with pure energy what she lacks in training or focus. I find her thoroughly exhausting.

  At nine-thirty I turned on the hockey game. It was the end of the second period and the Habs were losing four-zip to St. Louis. Don Cherry blustered about the ineptness of the Canadiens management, his face round and flushed above his high-collar shirt. He looked more like a tenor in a barbershop quartet than a sports commentator. I watched, bemused that millions listened to him every week. At ten-fifteen I turned off the TV and went to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning I got up early and drove to the lab. Monday is a busy day for most medical examiners. The random acts of cruelty, senseless bravado, lonely self-loathing, and wretched bad timing that result in violent death accelerate on weekends. The bodies arrive and are stored in the morgue for Monday autopsy.

  This Monday was no exception. I got coffee and joined the morning meeting in LaManche’s office. Natalie Ayers was at a murder trial in Val-d’Or, but the other pathologists were present. Jean Pelletiér had just returned from testifying in Kuujjuaq, in far northern Quebec. He was showing snapshots to Emily Santangelo and Michel Morin. I leaned in.