Bones to Ashes

by Kathy Reichs

  I did another browser search using the words “death,” “fate,” and “mutilation.” Every link pointed me the same way.

  Death was a heavy metal band formed in 1983, disbanded in 1999. Its founder, Chuck Schuldiner, was considered the father of the death metal genre. The group’s Fate album was released in ’92. One cut was titled “Mutilation.”

  When I brought up the lyrics, my pulse jackhammered. The line from the e-mail was there. And the refrain. Over and over.

  You must die in pain.

  Mutilation.

  Jesus Christ! Where was Harry?

  I tried her cell. She didn’t answer. I left a message. Call me.

  Who was this creep, watching@hotmail.com?

  Same gut reaction I’d had to the phone call.

  Cheech?

  Same line of questions.

  Alpha male courtship? Threat? Why?

  And then I was angry.

  Pulling air into my lungs, I punched Fernand Colbert’s number. He answered.

  “Working on Saturday?” I asked.

  “Got a wiretap in place.”

  I knew not to ask details. “Hope my request isn’t jamming you up.”

  “Mais non. And I need the barbecue sauce.”

  “Any luck with the trace?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Let me explain. Phone companies track everything going in or out of a landline, with the possible exception of local calls that are handled within the same switcher. This is also true of cell phones.”

  “This is the yes part.”

  “Yes. Here’s how a cell call to a landline works. You dial a number on your mobile. It calls the closest tower. Using the same technology as your caller ID, it says, ‘I’m Tempe’s phone and I want to call 1-2-3-4-5.’ The tower sends your call to the MTSO, the central Mobile Telephone Switching Office, which connects to the land-based phone system. You with me?”

  “So far. I have a feeling you’re getting to the no part.”

  “The MTSO connects with the landline’s main exchange, which sends the call to the main exchange serving your destination. From there your call goes to the destination’s local exchange and then to the destination phone.

  “At every stop your phone’s identification is logged because everybody who touches the call wants to get paid. Your number is not only associated with you but also with your carrier. The kicker is, all your information isn’t kept in one place, and companies won’t release it without a subpoena and reimbursement of the cost of looking it all up.

  “The other kicker is that with some wireless services, you don’t need to provide any ID, much less valid ID, to start the service.”

  “And any mope can buy a convenience store throwaway mobile.”

  “Exactly. Having the phone number doesn’t help if you don’t know who owns the phone.”

  “My mope called from a cell phone bought at a Wal-Mart,” I guessed.

  “Or Costco or Kmart or Pop’s Dollarama. If it’s really important, we could find out where the phone was purchased, then check the store’s surveillance cameras, maybe nail the guy that way.”

  “No. That’s a bit extreme at this point. But I have another request.”

  “It’ll cost you a case.”

  “You’ve got it, barbecue boy.”

  I described the e-mail, but not the contents.

  “Same jerk?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably.”

  “He threatening you?”

  “Not overtly.”

  “If the guy’s that canny with the phone, it’s probably pointless to try to track him through e-mail.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  “Scenario. Guy drives around with a laptop equipped with a wireless card, lets it detect networks. When he finds one that’s unsecured, he sets up a Hotmail account using false information. Sends e-mail. Shuts down his laptop and drives away.”

  “You can just sit in a car using another person’s network?”

  “Oui. The originating IP address belongs to someone who probably doesn’t even have logging to show there was another user on his network. Some geeks do it for sport. Call it wardriving, even if they’re on foot. They wander around looking for vulnerable wifi networks, sometimes make directional antennas out of Pringles cans. You can buy pens that flash green when you’re within thirty feet of a signal.”

  Great. Something else to worry about.

  “Here’s another trick,” Colbert said. “Many hotels have wireless networks they leave open so they don’t have to train the guests how to log in with a Service Set Identifier, or SSID, which can be up to thirty-two characters long. With a closed system the user has to key in, but with an open system the SSID is broadcast to all wireless devices within range. So if you pull into a parking lot between a couple of airport hotels, you can probably log into their wireless network completely anonymously.”

  “Discouraging.”

  “Yeah. But I’m game to give it a shot.”

  Thanking Colbert, I disconnected.

  OK. Time to bring Ryan into the loop.

  Instead, I phoned Hippo.

  He answered immediately. So much for weekend leisure in the glam world of law enforcement.

  “I have news on the skeleton from Rimouski,” I said.

  “Yeah? I’ve been buried in these freakin’ cabinets so long, Gaston’s problem’s gone out of my head.”

  “Agent Tiquet got the bones from the Whalen brothers, who bought them at Jerry O’Driscoll’s pawnshop in Miramichi. O’Driscoll purchased them from Tom Jouns, who claimed to have dug them from a Native burial ground.”

  “Sounds like one of those road rallies where you follow clues.” Hippo slurped like he was chewing a caramel.

  “O’Driscoll said the cemetery was on an island. I found the name Île-aux-Becs-Scies written on the girl’s skull.”

  “Yeah, I remember you asking about becs scies.”

  “Île-aux-Becs-Scies is now called Sheldrake Island.”

  Hippo said something indecipherable.

  “Are you eating caramels?”

  “Taffy.”

  “Sheldrake is a thirty-two-acre island located in the Miramichi River, about eight miles east of Chatham. In the early nineteenth century the place served as a quarantine station for newly arriving immigrants. In 1844, the New Brunswick government turned Sheldrake into a leper colony.”

  All mastication stopped. “Say what?”

  “There was an outbreak of leprosy in the province.”

  “Like in the Bible? People with fingers and toes falling off?”

  “In some cases. Leprosy is caused by the Mycobacterium leprae bacillus. It’s now called Hansen’s disease.”

  “There were lepers in New Brunswick?”

  “Yes, Hippo. New Brunswick.”

  “How come I never heard of that?”

  “There’s a lot of stigma attached to leprosy. More so in those days. Many said lepers brought the disease on themselves through sin or lack of cleanliness. Entire families were shunned. People were reluctant to talk about it. When they did, they called it la maladie.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “The first cases appeared around 1820. During the next two decades more and more people began showing symptoms, at first within families, later among neighbors. Seven died. Public health officials began to panic.”

  “No shit.”

  “Keep in mind, leprosy is one of the most feared of all diseases. It’s been around for thousands of years, causes disfigurement, and, until the 1940s, had no known cure. Back then, no one even knew if leprosy was contagious.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes, but the mechanism is unclear. For many years, transmission was attributed to long-term contact between affected and healthy persons. Today, most researchers think the bacterium is spread through respiratory droplets. Like tuberculosis.”

  “So it is dangerous to be around lepers?”
r />   “Leprosy is neither fatal nor highly infectious. It’s a chronic condition communicable only to persons with a genetic predisposition, probably about five percent of the population. But that wasn’t known in the nineteenth century.”

  “So they banished people?”

  “In 1844, the New Brunswick government passed legislation mandating the isolation of anyone showing symptoms of leprosy. A board of health was named and authorized to visit, examine, and remove from their homes people suspected of being infected. Sheldrake was chosen because there were a few ramshackle buildings on the island.”

  “Like that place in Hawaii.”

  “Molokai. Yes. Only Sheldrake was worse. The sick were abandoned with little food, only crude shelter, and virtually no medical care. The colony existed for five years. Of the thirty-seven patients admitted, fifteen died and were buried on the island.”

  “ What happened to the rest?”

  “A handful escaped. One was a ten-year-old kid.”

  Barnabé Savoie. His story had almost made me cry. Terrified, the child had fled Sheldrake for the only haven he knew. Home. Barnabé was taken from his father at gunpoint, bound with ropes, and hauled back to the island.

  “They put kids out there?”

  “Many. Babies were born on Sheldrake.”

  “Crétaque! These escapees, they get caught?”

  “Most were rounded up and returned to the island. After that, even worse restrictions were imposed. All the sick were confined to one building, boundaries were set around it, and time was limited for fresh air and exercise. An armed guard was hired to enforce the new regulations.”

  An image flashed in my head. Children with twisted features and rag-wrapped fingers. Coughing. Weeping for their mothers. I willed it away.

  “What about the others, the ones that survived?”

  “I’m not sure what happened to them. I’m going to do more research.”

  “What’s this got to do with Gaston’s skeleton?”

  “The girl had leprosy.”

  I heard rattling. Pictured Hippo switching ears, considering the implications of my statement.

  “You’re saying the kid died a hundred and sixty years ago?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “So that’s the end of it.”

  “I know an archaeologist on faculty at UNB in Fredericton. Once the remains have been officially cleared for release, I can give her a call.”

  Something banged, then a voice called out in the background.

  “Hold on.”

  The connection muffled as Hippo must have pressed the phone to his chest. When he reengaged, his voice was jazzed.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t believe this.”

  27

  “S OMEONE POPPED OUR FAVORITE PHOTOGRAPHER.”

  “Cormier?”

  “Body was spotted early this morning behind a warehouse near the Marché Atwater. Two slugs to the back of the head. Ryan just left the scene. Says Cormier was capped elsewhere, then dumped. Time line points to sometime after midnight.”

  “Jesus. Is he there?”

  “Yeah. Hold on.”

  I heard rattling, then Ryan came on the line.

  “Whole new twist,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “In all the uproar over the Anne Girardin exhumation, I forgot to tell you that I heard from Dr. Suskind.”

  “Uh-huh.” I could tell Ryan was hardly listening.

  “Suskind is the marine biologist at McGill. Her findings on the Lac des Deux Montagnes case are complicated.”

  “Summarize.”

  “She recovered diatoms from the outer bone surface, but not from the marrow cavity.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Either the girl was dead when she hit the river, she drowned elsewhere in treated water, she drowned before April, she hyperventilated and died quickly, or Suskind’s recovery technique was flawed.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Suskind did learn something useful. The diatom assemblages found on the sock best match a control sample collected at the bottom of a boat ramp in a park not far from where the body was snagged off L’Île-Bizard.”

  “Say that again.”

  I did.

  “Could be where the vic went into the water,” Ryan said.

  “Or a spot the body hung up for a while. Anything further on the ID?”

  “I floated an interagency query about female white-Indian or white-Asian teenaged MP’s. Nothing yet.”

  “Any success locating Adelaide Girardin?”

  “I’m running some leads. But right now Cormier’s taking center stage. Hit fell to me because he’s a player in the Phoebe Quincy disappearance.”

  “Have you told Phoebe’s parents?”

  “No. I’m really looking forward to that conversation. Cormier was all we had. But the good news is his murder gives us the thumb drive. All that subpoena crap is now history.”

  I started to speak, halted. Ryan picked up on my hesitation.

  “What?”

  “Your plate’s already full.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It may be nothing.”

  “Let me decide.”

  “I mentioned it to Hippo, but thought maybe you’d want a heads-up, too.”

  “You plan to get to it sometime today?” Friendly enough.

  I described the anonymous phone call at the lab, and the e-mail containing the photo and Death lyrics.

  “Fernand Colbert hit a dead end tracing the call. He’s not optimistic about the e-mail.”

  “You’re thinking one of the two slugs who hassled you in Tracadie?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “You have a way of irking people.”

  “I work on it.”

  “You’re good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Leave this to me.”

  “My hero.”

  Humor intended. Neither of us laughed. New topic.

  “I’ve resolved the issue of Hippo’s girl,” I said, unconsciously using my nickname for the case.

  “Hippo’s girl?”

  “The skeleton I ordered confiscated by the coroner in Rimouski. The one that had upset Hippo’s friend Gaston.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The bones are probably old.”

  “Not your lost chum.”

  “No. When you have time, I’ll fill you in. Or Hippo can.”

  “You two kiss and make up?”

  “Hippo’s not one to bear grudges.”

  “Unload, move on. Healthy.”

  “Yes.”

  Again, awkwardness hummed across the line.

  “Tell Hippo I’ll help with Cormier’s files tomorrow.”

  “I’ll let you know what I dig up on these Tracadie thugs.”

  He did. Sooner than I would have imagined possible.

  Sunday morning, the long-promised rain finally arrived. I awoke to water streaking my bedroom windows, warping the courtyard and the city beyond. Wind tossed the branches of the tree outside, now and then mashed a leaf into the screening with a soft ticking sound.

  While Harry slept, I set off for Cormier’s studio.

  As I drove across town, my wipers slapped a rubbery beat on the windshield. My thoughts kept time to the rhythm of the blades. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead.

  I didn’t yet know the reason for the photographer’s murder. Knew it wasn’t good news.

  Sliding to the curb on Rachel, I raised the hood on my sweatshirt and sprinted. The building’s outer door was unlocked. The inner door was propped open with a rolled copy of Le Journal de Montréal. I assumed Hippo was already at work.

  Brushing water from my hair, I crossed the dingy lobby. A sign hung on the door of Dr. Brigault’s dental office. Fermé. Closed.

  I started climbing toward the second floor. The storm made the stairwell seem darker, more menacing than on my previous visit. The erratic wind
filled it with a hollow, ululating whine.

  As I continued upward, the narrow passage grew dimmer and dimmer. I stopped, allowed my brain to take this in. What little light was penetrating was doing so from below.

  I looked up. One bare bulb jutted from high in the wall. It was dark. Making the turn, I leaned over the railing and checked the bulb on the second floor. It, too, was dark.

  Had the storm knocked out the power?

  At that moment, I sensed movement above.

  “Hippo?”

  Nothing.

  “That you, Hippo?”

  Again, no response.

  Senses on high alert, I climbed to the second-floor landing. The door to Cormier’s flat was ajar. Relief. Of course. Hippo was in the rear, out of earshot of my voice.

  Opening the door wide, I stepped into the flat. Shadows of wind-jostled things played on the walls. Branches. Phone lines. Against the backdrop of the storm, the air in the studio seemed eerie in its stillness. I started down the hallway.

  At the kitchen, I felt the tiny hairs rise on my neck. The digits on the microwave were glowing green. The power was on. I wiped damp palms on my jeans. Why the dark corridor? Had someone unscrewed the bulbs?

  Breathing carefully, I listened. Wind. Rain pounding the top of a window AC one floor up. My own pulse. Then another sound separated itself out. Rummaging. Impatient.

  Moving as quietly as possible, I crept down the hall until I had a view through the open bathroom door. What I saw made me drop to a crouch, trembling fingers bracing on the wall.

  A man stood with his back to me, feet spread. He was looking down, as though examining something in his hands. The man was not Hippo.

  Every hair on my body joined those already upright on my neck.

  Outside, the wind made a fierce lap of the building, rattling windows and sending a metal object winging the length of Rachel.

  Inside, at my feet, a floorboard shrieked.

  Cold adrenaline flooded my neurons. Without thinking, I half rose and scuttled backward. Too fast. My heel caught a torn edge of carpet. I went down with a thud.

  From the bathroom I heard soles hitting linoleum. Footsteps.

  My mind raced through options. Try to outrun him? Lock myself in a bedroom and phone for help?

  Did those doors have locks?

  Bypassing the higher centers, my legs decided. Get out!