by Kathy Reichs
I knew from past experience that riding with Hippo was like riding “El Torro” at the Rodeo Bar. I gripped the armrest as we hurtled through the countryside at neck-snapping speed, Hippo’s boot slamming gas pedal then brake.
“This Tiquet’s not a bad guy.”
I opened my eyes. We were looping onto the fifteen. “What did he tell you?”
“Says he got a call reporting a disturbance at a quarry maybe five, six years back. Busted a couple kids for trespass and destruction of property. Geeks claimed to be spray-paint artists creating timeless works of beauty.”
I braced against the dash as Hippo swerved around a pickup. The driver gave him the finger. Hippo’s expression suggested a rejoinder in the making.
“The skeleton?” I brought Hippo back on point.
“Turned up in the trunk when Tiquet tossed their car.”
“Where was this quarry?”
“Somewhere near the Quebec–New Brunswick border. Tiquet’s vague on that.”
“Did he remember the kids’ names?”
“No, but he pulled the file. I’ve got them written down.”
“Fair enough. He got the skeleton in a bust. But why did he keep it?”
“Says he contacted the coroner.”
“Bradette?”
“That’s the guy. Bradette dropped in, took a look, told him he should call an archaeologist. Tiquet didn’t exactly have one in his Rolodex.”
“And he never got around to looking one up.”
“Bingo.”
A pothole launched us both toward the ceiling.
“Moses! Sorry.”
“What explanation did these kids give?”
“Claimed they bought the bones from a pawnshop operator. Planned to do some sort of spray-painted sculpture with them.”
“Nice. Where did the pawnbroker get them?”
“Tiquet didn’t know.”
“Where was the pawn guy from?”
“Miramichi.”
I turned and looked out the window. We were back in the city now, and exhaust fumes had replaced the smell of turned earth. An auto body shop flashed by. A seedy strip center. A Petro-Canada station.
“Where is Miramichi?”
“New Brunswick.”
“It’s a big province, Hippo.”
Hippo’s brow furrowed. “Good point, doc. Miramichi’s a city of eighteen, maybe twenty thousand. But the name also refers to the river and the region in general.”
“But where is it?”
“Northumberland County.”
Fighting back an eye roll, I wiggled my fingers in a “give me more” gesture.
“Northeast coast of New Brunswick.”
“Acadia?”
“Deep in the heart.”
I listened to blacktop whump under our tires. Beyond the windshield, a layer of smog was buffing up the sunset, bathing the city in a soft, golden glow.
Miramichi. I’d heard of the place. In what context?
Suddenly, I remembered.
11
T HE SUMMER I WAS TEN AND ÉVANGÉLINE WAS TWELVE, SHE described an event that had occurred the previous December. The incident had so troubled her, she’d been unable to write of it in her letters.
Entrusting Obéline to a neighbor, Évangéline’s mother had driven to a nearby town for groceries. That was unusual, since Laurette habitually shopped in Tracadie. Leaving the market, she’d directed her daughter to return to their old Ford and wait for her.
Curious, Évangéline had watched her mother round the corner, then followed. Laurette entered a pawnshop. Through the window, Évangéline saw her in animated conversation with a man. Frightened, Évangéline had hurried back to the car.
Laurette owned a single piece of jewelry, a sapphire ring with tiny white diamonds. Though unaware of its history, Évangéline was certain the ring never left her mother’s finger. When Laurette slid behind the wheel that day, the ring was gone. Évangéline never saw it again.
Our childish imaginations conjured stories of heartbreak and lost love. A handsome fiancé killed in the war. A Montague-Capulet feud, Acadian style. We wrote verse rhyming the name of the town. Peachy. Beachy. Lychee.
That’s how I remembered.
Évangéline and her mother had gone to Miramichi.
Did Hippo’s girl come from Miramichi?
“How far is Miramichi from Tracadie?” More crazy possibilities swept through my mind.
“’Bout fifty miles.”
Impossible. There was no reason to think Évangéline was not alive.
“Straight down Highway 11.”
Yet? Ask Hippo to run a missing persons check? Not realistic. She could have taken another name, now be living elsewhere.
Drawing a deep breath, I told Hippo the story of Évangéline Landry. When I finished, he was mute for so long I thought his attention had wandered. It hadn’t.
“You really believe something happened to this kid?”
That question had tortured me over the years. Had Oncle Fidèle and Tante Euphémie, tired of nurturing their two young nieces, simply sent them home? Or had it been the other way around? Had Évangéline grown bored with the Lowcountry? With my friendship? Had my summer soul mate merely outgrown me? I didn’t believe it. She would have told me she was leaving. Why Tante Euphémie’s remark about danger?
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
We were crossing onto the island. I watched Hippo’s gaze slide sideways to the turgid water of the Rivière des Prairies. I wondered if he was thinking of the girl snagged by the boat in the Rivière des Mille Îles in 1999, Ryan’s DOA number one. Or the girl washed ashore in Dorval in 2001, Ryan’s DOA number two. Or the one found last week in Lac des Deux Montagnes, perhaps DOA number three in the chain.
“You say the skeleton’s of mixed race,” Hippo said. “Was your friend?”
“That’s my impression. But I haven’t had time to fully clean the skull. I never thought of Évangéline that way. I just thought she was exotic in a mysterious sort of way.”
Hippo took a moment to chew on that.
“You told me the stuff’s pretty beat up. You good with a PMI pushing forty years?”
I’d given the question of postmortem interval considerable thought. “I’m certain this girl was buried, then the bones were held for some period aboveground. The problem is, I’ve got zip on context. Buried how? In sandy soil? Acid soil? Shallow grave? Deep? Coffin? Fifty-gallon Hefty? Time since death could be ten, forty, or a hundred and forty.”
Hippo did some more mental chewing. Then, “How well did you know this kid’s family?”
“I knew Évangéline’s aunt and uncle, but only superficially. I didn’t speak French and they were self-conscious about their English. Laurette was at Pawleys very little, and wasn’t bilingual, so the few times I saw her it was mainly hello and good-bye.”
“You said there was a sister?”
“Obéline, eight years younger than Évangéline.”
Hippo turned onto Papineau. We were creeping now, with traffic bumper to bumper.
“Ben. You know the system, homicide cops gotta focus on fresh cases. They got time, they can look at old, unsolved ones. Problem is they never got time because people keep capping people. That’s where Cold Case comes in. We take files no one’s working.”
Hippo signaled a left, waited while three teens slouched through the crosswalk. Each wore clothing large enough to house the other two.
“Nineteen sixty to 2005 we got five hundred seventy-three dossiers non résolus in this province. Cold Case squad was created in 2004. Since then we’ve cleared six of those unsolved cases.”
Forty years. Six answers. Five hundred and sixty-seven victims’ families still waiting. That depressed me.
“How can so many get away with murder?”
Hippo hiked one shoulder. “Maybe there’s no evidence, no witnesses. Maybe someone screws up. Most investigations, you don’t score a viable lead the first couple days, the thing’s
going nowhere. Years pass. The jacket fills up with forms saying ‘no new developments.’ Eventually, the detective decides it’s time to move on. Sad, but what’s one more unsolved killing?”
We were just blocks from the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome. I wondered if Ryan was somewhere behind us, returning to SQ headquarters. Wondered if he would stop by my office or lab.
Making a right onto Parthenais, Hippo kept talking.
“Some of these murder squad cowboys think we cold-casers been put out to pasture. That ain’t how I see it. My thinking, a killing’s no less important because it happened ten years back. Or twenty. Or forty. Ask me, cold case vics should be getting priority. They been waiting longer.”
Hippo swung into the Wilfrid-Derome lot, shot down a row of cars and braked beside my Mazda. Throwing the Impala into park, he turned to me.
“And you can double that for kids. The families of missing and murdered kids live in agony. Every year that anniversary rolls around, the day the kid disappeared or the body was found. Every Christmas. Every time the kid’s birthday pops up on the calendar. A dead kid’s just one big ugly wound that refuses to heal.” Hippo’s eyes met mine. “The guilt eats at ’em. What happened? Why? Why weren’t we there to save her? That kinda hell don’t ever go cold.”
“No,” I agreed, feeling a new appreciation for the man beside me.
Hippo reached through the space between us, snatched his jacket from the backseat, and dug out a small spiral pad. Taking a pen from the center console, he wet a thumb and flipped pages. After reading a moment, his eyes met mine.
“My main focus right now is this job with Ryan. And don’t get me wrong, forty years is a long time. Witnesses leave town, die. Same for relatives, neighbors, friends. Reports go missing. Evidence gets lost. Forget the crime scene, if you ever had one. You do manage to unearth something, no one’s gonna stop in their tracks to process it. No one’s gonna fork over money for fancy tests.”
Here comes the blow-off, I thought.
“But if nobody pushes, nothing gets done. That’s what I do. I push.”
I started to speak. Hippo wasn’t finished.
“You think someone messed with this Évangéline, that’s good enough for me. You think this skeleton might even be her, that’s good enough, too. If not, it’s still someone’s kid.”
Hippo’s eyes dropped back to his spiral. He thumbed again, scribbled, then tore a page free and handed it to me.
“This thing is a long way from dead. We got leads.”
I read what Hippo had written. The names Patrick and Archie Whalen, a Miramichi address, and a phone number with a 506 area code.
“Tiquet’s spray-paint artists?” I asked.
“Apparently the genre ain’t a rocket to upward mobility. Mopes are in their late twenties now, still living at Mom and Dad’s place. Give them a ring. I’m guessing they’ll be more open with you.”
Because I’m female? Anglophone? Civilian? Hippo’s reasoning didn’t matter. I couldn’t wait to get to a phone.
“I’ll call as soon as I get home.”
“Meantime, I’ll start working the kid and her family. Can’t be that many Évangélines and Obélines walking the planet.”
“Can’t be,” I agreed.
It was almost eight by the time I reached my condo. I could have devoured Vermont and still had room for dessert.
Birdie met me at the door. One sniff sent him under the couch. I took the hint.
As I stripped, Charlie sent wolf whistles down the hall.
“Nicest compliment I’ve had all day, Charlie.”
“Strokin’!”
“The only compliment I’ve had all day.”
Charlie whistled.
I started to answer.
It’s a cockatiel, Brennan.
After a long, hot shower, I checked the answering machine.
Four messages. Harry. One hang-up. Harry. Harry.
My freezer offered two choices. Miguel’s Mexican flag fiesta. Mrs. Farmer’s country chicken pot pie. I went with the pie. It had been a barnyard sort of day.
As my frozen entrée baked, I dug out the number Hippo had provided.
No answer.
I phoned Harry. Thirty minutes later I’d learned the following.
Marital lawyers in Houston are plentiful. Divorce costs a bucket. Arnoldo’s parts aren’t zip-a-dee-doo-dah. A real ass-waxing lay in the man’s future.
After disconnecting, I ate my pie, then tried the Whalen brothers again.
Still no answer.
Disappointed, I clicked on the news.
There’d been a pile-up on the Metropolitan, one dead, four injured. A judge had been indicted for money laundering. Health officials had grown concerned about bacteria plaguing the beach on Île Sainte-Hélène. Police had learned nothing about the disappearance of Phoebe Jane Quincy.
The only good news involved the weather. Rain was on the way and, with it, cooler temperatures.
Disheartened, I killed the set and checked the clock. Ten-twenty. What the hell. I dialed the Whalens one last time.
“Your dime.” English.
“Mr. Whalen?”
“Might be.”
“Am I speaking with Archie Whalen?”
“No.”
“Patrick?”
“Who’s this?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m an anthropologist with the medico-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Uh-huh.” Wary or dull? I wasn’t sure.
“Am I speaking with Patrick Whalen?”
“Depends on what you’re peddling.”
“About five or six years ago, you and your brother purchased bones from a Miramichi pawnshop. Is that correct?”
“Where’d you get this number?”
“From an SQ cold case detective.”
“We bought that shit fair and square. Paid full asking.”
“Am I speaking with Patrick?”
“The name’s Trick.”
Trick?
“Are you aware that trafficking in human remains is illegal?”
“I may pee my shorts.” No question about IQ versus attitude there.
“We might be able to let the charges slide, Trick. Providing you cooperate with our investigation of the origins of that skeleton.” I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but it sounded more official.
“Already I’m breathing easier.”
OK, asshole. Let’s see how tricky you are.
“According to the police report, you claimed to have purchased the skeleton from a pawnbroker.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I didn’t background the guy. We saw it in his shop, flashed on the idea of a death scene sculpture, something totally war zone, bones, bullets, lots of black and green paint.”
“You made no inquiries as to the source of the skeleton?”
“Guy said it came from an old Indian cemetery. What did we care?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Skulls, man. Rattlesnakes. Shrouds. Bleak mojo, know what I mean?”
A dead child. I tried to keep the distaste from my voice.
“You were arrested in Quebec. Why were you there?”
“Visiting a cousin. He told us about a quarry. We thought jazzing all that rock would be a real mind-fuck. Look, when that cop busted us we were as freaked as anyone. We’d totally zoned on those bones.”
“How long had they been in your trunk?”
“A year. Maybe more.”
“What do you do now, Mr. Whalen?”
There was a pause. I thought I could hear a television in the background.
“Work security.” Defensive. “Nights at the high school.”
“And your brother?”
“Archie’s a fucking junkie.” The macho tone now sounded whiny. “Do us both a favor. Arrest his ass and get him out of this shithole.”
I had one last question.
“Do you remember the pawnbroker’s name?”
“�
�Course I remember that dickhead. Jerry O’Driscoll.”
I’d barely disconnected when my cell phone rang.
Hippo.
His news rocked my world.
12
“L AURETTE PHILOMÈNE SAULNIER LANDRY. DOB MAY 22, 1938. DOD June 17, 1972.”
Death at age thirty-four? How sad.
I pictured Laurette in Euphémie’s Pawleys Island kitchen. My child’s mind had never slotted her age. She was simply adult, younger than Gran, more wrinkled than Mama.
“She died so young. From what?”
“Death certificate lists natural causes, but doesn’t elaborate.”
“You’re sure it’s the right Laurette Landry?”
“Laurette Philomène Saulnier married Philippe Grégoire Landry on November 20, 1955. Union produced two kids. Évangéline Anastasie, DOB August 12, 1956. Obéline Flavie, DOB February 16, 1964.”
“Jesus. I can’t believe you found this so fast.” In addition to my early telephone probes, I’d periodically tried the New Brunswick Bureau of Vital Statistics. Never had a hit.
“Used my Acadian charm.”
Hippo’s charm and a token would get him on the subway. I waited.
“Back in the sixties, the church handled most of the vital stats record keeping. Some parts of New Brunswick, babies were still being birthed at home, especially in rural areas and smaller towns. Lot of Acadians had no time for government or its institutions. Still don’t.”
I heard a soft whop, pictured Hippo downing several Tums.
“Got a church-lady niece at St. John the Baptist in Tracadie. Knows the archives like I know the size of my dick.”
I definitely did not want to hear about that.
“You found baptismal and marriage certificates through your niece?” I guessed.
“Bingo. Since I’m a homeboy, I started dialing for dollars. We Acadians identify ourselves by ancestral names. Take me, for example. I’m Hippolyte à Hervé à Isaïe à Calixte—”
“What did you learn?”
“Like I warned you, forty years is a long time. But the Acadian National Memory Bank’s got a whopper of a vault. Found a few locals remembered Laurette and her kids. No one would talk much, respecting privacy and all. But I got the drift.
