Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

  “Maggots mature rapidly, and when they reach maximum size they undergo a dramatic change in behavior. They stop feeding and look for drier digs, usually away from the body.”

  “Act three.”

  “Yep. The larvae burrow in and their outer skins harden and form protective encasements called puparia. They look like tiny footballs. The maggots stay inside the pupal casings until their cells have reorganized, then emerge as adult flies.”

  “That’s why the empty puparial cases are significant?”

  “Yes. Remember the flesh flies?”

  “The Sarcophagidae. The larvipositers.”

  “Very good. They’re usually the first to emerge as adults. It takes them anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four days to mature, given temperatures around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. They’d be slowed under the conditions you describe.”

  “Yes. It wasn’t that warm.”

  “But the empty puparial casings mean some of the flesh flies had finished their development.”

  “Flown the pupae, as it were.”

  “It takes the blowfly about fourteen to twenty-five days to mature, probably longer in the wet environment on your island.”

  “Those estimates tally.”

  “You also collected what I’m pretty sure are Muscidae larvae, maggots of the housefly and its relatives. Typically these species don’t show up for five to seven days after death. They prefer to wait for what we call the late fresh or early bloat stages. Oh, and there were cheese skippers.”

  Cheese skippers are maggots that jump. Though not always easy, I’ve learned to ignore them while working on putrefied bodies.

  “My personal favorites.”

  “Everybody’s got to make a living, Dr. Brennan.”

  “I suppose one has to admire an organism that can jump ninety times its body length.”

  “Have you measured?”

  “It’s an estimate.”

  “A particularly useful critter for estimating PMI is the black soldier fly. They don’t usually show up until twenty days after death, and they’re fairly consistent, even with buried remains.”

  “They were present?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else?”

  “The beetle assemblage was more limited, probably due to the wet habitat. But the typical predator forms were there, no doubt munching happily on the maggots and soft-bodied forms.”

  “So what’s your estimate?”

  “I’d say we’re talking about three to four weeks.”

  “Both bodies?”

  “You measured four feet to the bottom of the pit, three feet to the top of the lower body. We’ve already discussed the preburial larviposition by the flesh flies, so that explains the puparial cases you found on and above the deeper body. Some held adults, half in and half out. They must have been trapped by the soil while trying to exit. The Piophilidae were there, also.”

  “Lou?”

  “Cheese skippers. I also found some coffin flies in the soil sample you took from above the lower body, and some larvae on the body itself. These species are known to burrow down to corpses to deposit their eggs. The soil disturbance in the grave and the presence of the upper body would have facilitated their access. I forgot to mention I found coffin flies on the upper body.”

  “Were the soil samples useful?”

  “Very. You don’t want to hear about all the critters that chow down on maggots and decompositional materials, but I found one form that’s helpful with PMI. When I processed the soil I collected a number of mites which support a minimum time since death of three weeks.”

  “So you’re saying three to four weeks for both bodies.”

  “That’s my preliminary estimate.”

  “This is very helpful, Lou. You guys amaze me.”

  “Does all this square with the condition of the remains?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “There’s one other thing I want to mention.”

  What he told me next sent an icy wind rocketing through my soul.

  24

  “I’M SORRY, LOU. GO OVER THAT AGAIN.”

  “It’s not new. The increase in drug-related deaths in recent years has prompted research into testing for pharmaceuticals in carrion-feeding insects. I don’t have to tell you that bodies aren’t always found right away, so investigators may not have the specimens they need for tox analysis. You know, blood, urine, or organ tissues.”

  “So you test for drugs in maggots?”

  “You can, but we’ve had better luck with the puparial casings. Probably because of the longer feeding time compared to the larvae. We’ve also played with beetle exuviae and frass . . .”

  “Which is?”

  “Cast-off beetle skins and fecal matter. We’re finding the highest drug levels in the fly puparia, though. That probably reflects feeding preference. While beetles prefer dried integument, flies go for soft tissues. That’s where drug concentrations are likely to be greatest.”

  “What’s been found?”

  “The list is pretty long. Cocaine, heroin, methamphetamine, amitriptyline, nortriptyline. Most recently we’ve been working with 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine.”

  “Street name?”

  “Ecstasy is the most common one.”

  “And you’re finding these substances in puparial casings?”

  “We’ve isolated both the parent drugs and their metabolites.”

  “How?”

  “The extraction method is similar to that used on regular pathology samples, except that you have to break down the tough chitin/protein matrix in the insect puparia and exuviae so the toxins can be released. You do that by crushing the casings, then using either a strong acid or base treatment. After that, and a pH adjustment, you just use routine drug-screening techniques. We do a base extraction followed by liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. The ion breakdown indicates what’s in your sample and how much.”

  I swallowed.

  “And you’re telling me you found flunitrazepam in the puparial casings I sent?”

  “The ones associated with the upper body contained flunitrazepam and two of its metabolites, desmethylflunitrazepam and 7-aminoflunitrazepam. The concentration of the parent drug was much greater than the metabolites.”

  “Which is consistent with acute rather than chronic exposure.”

  “Exactamundo.”

  I thanked Lou and hung up.

  For a moment I just sat there. The shock of discovery had curdled my stomach and I felt I might throw up. Or maybe it was the Moon Pie.

  Flunitrazepam.

  The word had finally roused the stored memory.

  Flunitrazepam.

  Rohypnol.

  That was the wake-up call my brain had been sounding.

  With trembling hands I dialed the Lord Cartaret Motel. No answer. I redialed and left my number on Ryan’s pager.

  Then I waited, my sympathetic nervous system broadcasting a low-level alert, telling me to fear. Fear what?

  Rohypnol.

  When the phone rang I lunged for it.

  A student.

  I cleared the line and waited some more, feeling a dark, cold dread.

  Rohypnol. The date rape drug.

  Glaciers formed. Ocean levels rose and fell. Somewhere a star spun planets from dust.

  Eleven minutes later Ryan called.

  “I think I’ve found another link.”

  “What?”

  Slow down. Don’t let the shock interfere with your thinking.

  “The Murtry Island and St-Jovite murders.”

  I told him about my conversation with Lou West.

  “One of the women on Murtry had massive amounts of Rohypnol in her tissue.”

  “So did the bodies in the upstairs bedroom at St-Jovite.”

  “Yes.”

  Another memory had slammed to the surface when Lou spoke the name of the drug.

  Boreal forest. Aerial views of a smoldering chalet. A meadow, shrouded bodies arranged
in a circle. Uniformed personnel. Stretchers. Ambulances.

  “Do you remember the Order of the Solar Temple?”

  “The wing nut worshipers that offed themselves en masse?”

  “Yes. Sixty-four people died in Europe. Ten in Quebec.”

  I fought to steady my voice.

  “Some of those chalets were wired to explode and burn.”

  “Yeah. I’ve thought of that.”

  “Rohypnol was found in both locations. Many of the victims had ingested the drug shortly before they died.”

  Pause.

  “You think Owens is rezoning for the Temple?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think they’re dealing?”

  Dealing what? Human lives?

  “I suppose it’s a possibility.”

  For several moments neither of us spoke.

  “I’ll run this past the guys who worked Morin Heights. Meantime, I’m going to shove a deadbolt up Dom Owens’ ass.”

  “There’s more.”

  The line hummed softly.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “West estimates the women died three to four weeks ago.”

  My breath sounded loud in the receiver.

  “The fire in St-Jovite was on March tenth. Tomorrow’s the first.”

  I listened to the hum as Ryan did the math.

  “Holy Christ. Three weeks ago.”

  “I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen, Ryan.”

  “Roger that.”

  Dial tone.

  In looking back I always have the sense events accelerated after that conversation, gathered speed and grew more frantic, eventually forming a vortex that sucked everything into itself. Including me.

  That evening I worked late. So did Hardaway. He called as I was pulling his autopsy report from the envelope.

  I gave him the profile for the subsurface body, and my age estimate for the deeper one.

  “That squares,” he said. “She was twenty-five.”

  “You’ve got an ID?”

  “We were able to lift one readable print. Got nothing from the local or state files, so they sent it up to the FBI. Nothing in their AFIS.

  “Screwiest thing, though. Don’t know what made me do it, probably ‘cause I know you work up there. When the guy at the bureau suggested we try the RCMP I said, what the hell, fire it through. Damned if she doesn’t pop up Canadian.”

  “What else did you find out about her?”

  “Hang on.”

  I heard the creak of springs, then the rustle of paper.

  “The sheet came through late today. Name’s Jennifer Cannon. White race. Height five foot five, weight one hundred thirty pounds. Hair brown. Eyes green. Single. Last seen alive . . .” There was a pause while he calculated. “. . . two years, three months ago.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Let’s see.” Pause. “Calgary. Where’s that?”

  “Out west. Who reported her missing?”

  “Sylvia Cannon. It’s a Calgary address, so it must be the mother.”

  I gave Hardaway the pager number and asked him to phone Ryan.

  “When you speak to him, please have him call me. If I’m not here I’ll be at home.”

  I boxed and locked up the Murtry bones. Then I stuffed my diskette and case forms, Hardaway’s autopsy report and photos, and the CAT scan paper into my briefcase, secured the lab, and left.

  The campus was deserted, the night still and moist. Unseasonably warm, the broadcasters would call it. The air was heavy with the smell of grass just cut and rain about to fall. I heard the faint rumble of distant thunder, and pictured the storm rolling down from the Smokies and across the Piedmont.

  On the way home I stopped for take-out at the Selwyn Pub. The after-work crowd was dispersing, and the younger set from Queens College had not yet arrived to take over the premises for the evening. Sarge, the rascally Irish co-owner, sat on his usual corner stool dispensing opinions on sports and politics, while Neal the bartender dispensed any one of a dozen draft beers. Sarge wanted to discuss the death penalty, or rather have his say about the death penalty, but I was not in the mood for banter. I took my cheeseburger and left quickly.

  The first drops were patting the magnolias as I slipped my key into the Annex lock. Nothing greeted me but a soft, steady ticking.

  It was almost ten when I heard from Ryan.

  Sylvia Cannon had not lived at the address provided in the missing person report for over two years. Nor was she residing at the one given the post office for forwarding.

  Neighbors at the earlier address remembered no husband and only one daughter. They described Sylvia as quiet and reclusive. A loner. No one knew where she had worked, or where she had gone. One woman thought there was a brother in the area. The Calgary PD were trying to locate her.

  Later in bed, up under the eaves, I listened to rain tick on the roof and leaves. Thunder rumbled and lightning popped, now and then backlighting the silhouette of Sharon Hall. The ceiling fan brought in a cool mist, and with it the smell of petunias and wet window screen.

  I adore storms. I love the raw power of the spectacle: Hydraulics! Voltage! Percussion! Mother Nature has dominion and everyone awaits her whim.

  I enjoyed the show as long as I could, then got up and crossed to the dormer. The curtain felt damp and water was already pooling on the sill. I closed and latched the left window, took hold of the right, and breathed deeply. The thundershower cocktail triggered a flood of childhood recollections. Summer nights. Lightning bugs. Sleeping with Harry on Gran’s porch.

  Think about that, I told myself. Listen to those memories, not the voices of the dead clamoring in your brain.

  Lightning flashed and my breath froze in my throat. Was something moving under the hedge?

  Another flicker.

  I stared, but the shrubs looked still and empty.

  Could I have imagined it?

  My eyes searched the dimness. Green lawn and hedges. Colorless walks. Pale petunias against the darkness of pine chips and ivy.

  Nothing moved.

  Again the world lit up and a loud crack split the night.

  A white form burst from the bushes and tore across the lawn. I strained to see, but the image was gone before my eyes could focus.

  My heart beat so frantically I could feel it in my skull. I threw back the window and leaned into the screen, searching the darkness where the thing had disappeared. Water soaked my nightgown and goose bumps spread across my body.

  I scanned the yard, trembling.

  Stillness.

  Forgetting the window, I turned and raced down the stairs. I was about to throw open the back door when the phone shrilled, sending my heart pounding into my throat.

  Oh, God. What now?

  I grabbed the receiver.

  “Tempe, I’m sorry.”

  I looked at the clock.

  One-forty.

  Why was my neighbor calling?

  “. . . he must have gotten in there on Wednesday when I showed the place. It’s empty, you know. I went over just now to check on things, with the storm and all, and he came tearing out. I called, but he just took off. I thought you’d want to know . . .”

  I dropped the receiver, threw open the kitchen door, and rushed outside.

  “Here, Bird,” I called. “Come on, boy.”

  I stepped off the patio. In seconds my hair was drenched and my nightie clung like wet Kleenex.

  “Birdie! Are you there?”

  Lightning flared, illuminating walkways, bushes, gardens, and buildings.

  “Birdie!” I screamed. “Bird!”

  Raindrops pounded brick and slapped at leaves above my head.

  I shouted again.

  No response.

  Over and over I called his name, a madwoman, prowling the grounds of Sharon Hall. Before long I was shaking uncontrollably.

  Then I saw him.

  He was huddled under a bu
sh, head down, ears forward at an odd angle. His fur was wet and clumped, revealing ribbons of pale skin, like cracks on an old painting.

  I walked over to him and squatted. He looked like he’d been dipped then rolled. Pine needles, bark chips, and minced vegetation clung to his head and back.

  “Bird?” I said in a soft voice, holding out my arms.

  He raised his head and searched my face with round yellow eyes. Lightning flicked. Birdie rose, arched his back, and said, “Mrrrrp.”

  I turned my palms up. “Come on, Bird,” I whispered.

  He hesitated, then crossed to me, pressed his body sideways against my thigh, and repeated himself. “Mrrrrrp.”

  I scooped my cat up, hugged him close, and ran for the kitchen. Birdie draped his front paws over my shoulder and pressed himself to me, like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. I felt his claws through my rain-soaked gown.

  Ten minutes later I’d finished rubbing him down. White fur coated several towels and drifted in the air. For once there’d been no protest.

  Birdie wolfed down a bowl of Science Diet and a saucer of vanilla ice cream. Then I carried him up to bed. He crawled under the covers and stretched full length against my leg. I felt his body tense then relax as he extended his paws, then settled into the mattress. His fur was still damp but I didn’t care. I had my cat back.

  “I love you, Bird,” I said to the night.

  I fell asleep to a duet of muffled purring and pelting rain.

  25

  THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY SO I DIDN’T GO TO THE UNIVERSITY. I planned to read Hardaway’s findings, then write my reports on the Murtry victims. After that I would purchase flowers at the garden center and transplant them to the large pots I keep on my patio. Instant gardening, one of my many talents. Then a long talk with Katy, quality time with my cat, the CAT scan paper, and an evening with Élisabeth Nicolet.

  That’s not how it turned out.

  When I woke Birdie was already gone. I called but got no response, so I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs to find him. The trail was easy. He’d emptied his dish and fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight on the couch in the living room.