Bones Are Forever tb-15

by Kathy Reichs

  Pointedly ignoring me, Rainwater asked Ryan if he wanted to help run down a tip on Unka. Ryan gave me the courtesy of a raised-eyebrow query.

  I held out my hand.

  Ryan dropped the keys onto my palm. Behind him, across a tiled lobby, I noticed Maureen King from the Coroners Service talking on a cell phone. She was smaller than my perception of her standing over Castain, maybe five-two, 110 pounds.

  She had her back to us. She wore black jeans, a white turtleneck, and the same windbreaker as the night before.

  King switched ears and hiked a large black purse onto her other shoulder. As her body turned, she noticed me. Face registering surprise, she gestured me over. I crossed to her.

  King kept talking but raised one finger in a “hold on” gesture. A few more words, then she disconnected and dropped the phone into her purse.

  I held out a hand. “Temperance Brennan.”

  “I know who you are.” Maybe smiling.

  We shook.

  King was also older than I’d thought, probably late forties. Her hair was muddy blond and started too far back on her head. She tried to hide her expansive brow with long bangs, a mistake given their limpness and paucity.

  “You’re the anthropologist.”

  “You’re the coroner.”

  “Deputy chief.”

  “Forensic.”

  We exchanged a grin. Then King’s face went serious. “You fall off, you get back on.”

  “Excuse me?” I had no idea her meaning.

  “You feel the need, I could find us a meeting.”

  Heat geysered up the front of my throat and spread across my cheeks. “I don’t know what rumors you’ve heard, Ms. King, but—”

  “Maureen. And don’t bullshit me. I’m the empress of bullshit. Can spot it coming from three miles out.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m eight years dry. But still I have those days when I want to drive to another town, find a dark little bar where no one knows me, and erase the whole freakazoid world for a while.”

  Her words hit me like a Zamboni. Not because they weren’t true. They were. I knew exactly what she meant. But this time I wasn’t guilty. I hadn’t sought escape, had downed the Scotch only at Ryan’s insistence.

  “Does the whole freakazoid world think I was drunk?”

  “Some do.”

  “I saw Annaliese Ruben murdered. She was standing six feet from me. Afterward I took a shot of Scotch to calm myself.”

  “That’s another reason we do it.”

  “Yes.”

  We locked eyes. Hers were as green as mine.

  “Do you believe me?” I asked.

  “Sergeant Hasty says you’re solid.”

  Does he?

  “I understand you know Nellie Snook,” she said. “Lives on Ragged Ass.”

  “She tells an interesting tale.”

  King gave a go-ahead gesture with one hand.

  I explained the dead babies, the relationship between Snook and Ruben, Scarborough and Snook. I relayed what Snook had said about Scarborough protecting Ruben. She listened without interrupting.

  “Now Ruben and Scarborough are both dead,” I concluded.

  “Runs in the family, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s cold.” I remembered Snook’s comment about anglophone attitudes toward aboriginals.

  “Don’t mean it to be. I’m just stating a fact. Snook’s other half brother also died violently.”

  “Daryl Beck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Beck drinking or doping at the time of his death?”

  “Daryl had his problems.”

  “You knew him?”

  “I might have seen him now and again.”

  Her eyes held steady on mine. I knew what she was saying. By not saying. She and Beck had attended the same meetings. She was respecting the A.A. bond of privacy.

  “Did the Coroners Service investigate Beck’s death?” I asked.

  “We did. You’ve got to understand, Beck spent a lot of years waking up in his own vomit or sleeping off benders in the tank. Everyone assumed he got wasted that night and passed out while smoking.”

  “The chief coroner ruled his death accidental,” I guessed.

  “He did.” Something in King’s voice suggested I’d struck a chord.

  “Do you disagree?”

  King smiled in a way that imparted no humor. “There wasn’t much of Daryl left to examine, and we’re not exactly flush with anthropologist help up here. Besides, who’d want to kill the town drunk?”

  “Snook says Beck was working toward a high school GED.”

  “I could verify that.” She hesitated. Decided. “That call I just finished was Nellie Snook. Seems you made quite an impression.”

  “That’s news to me.”

  “Yeah. I heard about the frog pond.”

  You gotta love small towns.

  “Why did Snook phone you?”

  “She wants me to dig her brother up.”

  “What?” I was stunned. “Why? Does she suspect murder? Arson?”

  “Snook’s always questioned the coroner’s finding of accidental death. She knows you’re here, and she understands what you do.”

  “You have the authority to order an exhumation?”

  “At the request of the family.”

  This was insane. I’d gone from dead babies to a murdered hooker to a possible drug war. Now I was being asked to examine a corpse four years in the ground.

  What the hell? It was better than sitting on my thumbs. I could be useful and keep the heat on the Ruben investigation at the same time.

  And prove my sobriety.

  “Can you provide a facility?” I asked.

  “What do you need?”

  “What will I be looking at?”

  “The remains fit into one plastic tub.”

  “That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “No. What do you need?”

  “I can only do a preliminary evaluation. Any microscopy or specialty analysis will have to be done at my lab.”

  “Understood.”

  “Not much,” I said. “A worktable. Gloves, masks, aprons. A means of magnification. Calipers. X-ray capability.”

  She pulled out a small spiral and began a list. “I’ll need to obtain forms signed by the next of kin. Contact the cemetery for burial location. Round up a crew.” She scribbled as she spoke. “Arrange transport for the coffin.” She looked around. “We can do the analysis here. It’ll take some time.” She jammed the tablet in her purse and pulled out her phone.

  I handed her one of my cards. “My mobile number.”

  “Snook can’t afford your fee. And our budget doesn’t allow for external consults.”

  “This one’s on me.”

  “Let’s dig him up,” she said.

  “Let’s dig him up,” I said.

  * * *

  Normally, the justice system moves at the pace of continental drift. By “time,” I assumed King meant a couple of days.

  I underestimated the sheer doggedness of Yellowknife’s deputy chief coroner.

  I was downing lo mein at the Red Apple on Franklin when my iPhone rang.

  “Can you be at Lakeview Cemetery at six o’clock?”

  “Give me directions.”

  “Take Old Airport Road north out of town for about a mile. Hang a right toward Jackfish Lake. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I looked at my watch: three-twenty. King and I had parted only forty minutes earlier.

  Pure pit bull.

  I loved this woman.

  I called Ryan to tell him what I was doing. He sounded surprised but rendered no opinion. Mostly, he sounded frustrated. “The tip on Unka was a bust. The asshole’s still in the wind.”

  “I don’t suppose Ruben’s body has turned up.”

  “No.”

  “Is anyone looking for it?”

  “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

 
At the Book Cellar, I bought a volume on the search for diamonds in the Arctic. Another on Canadian diamond mining. Then I returned to the Explorer.

  Before going upstairs, I went into the woods for another go at Tank. Though I called and called, the dog made no appearance.

  I stood a moment, breathing the odor of the dark, sticky pitch running through the trees. Who was I kidding? The dog was dead.

  Feeling a deep ache, I returned to my room.

  Four P.M.

  I dug out my warmest clothes and set them on a chair.

  Four-ten.

  To kill time, I propped myself in bed and flipped open the book on mining. Though pumped about the exhumation, I could feel the effect of my recent lack of sleep. As a safeguard, I set my phone alarm to wake me at five-twenty.

  On the book’s inside back cover was a map of Nunavut and the Northwest Territories.

  All my life, I’ve been fascinated by atlases and globes. As a kid, I’d close my eyes and arrow into a random spot with one finger. Then I’d read the place-name and imagine the exotic people who lived in that town or island or desert.

  I was hooked.

  And shocked.

  I thought Yellowknife sat at the top of the planet. Not even close. There was a whole lot of geography north of the 60th parallel.

  Umingmaktok. Kugluktuk. Resolute. Fort Good Hope. The names were a tip-off to the clash of cultures that had taken place in the region. And we all know the final score on that one.

  Again I thought of Snook’s bitterness over lingering prejudice toward aboriginal peoples. Wondered if she was right.

  My room had two options for temperature control, neither dictated by the broken switch on the plastic thermostat half attached to the wall. The system’s current choice was Tropic of Cancer.

  My lids grew heavy. My head dropped, snapping me awake.

  I refocused on the map. I found the Ekati and Diavik diamond mines, practically hugging the border between Nunavat and NWT. To the southeast was Snap Lake and south of that, Gahcho Kué.

  My thoughts drifted.

  Gahcho Kué. Formerly Kennady Lake. The new mine proposed by De Beers.

  My lids again sought each other.

  An image of Horace Tyne floated up from somewhere.

  Horace Tyne opposed the Gahcho Kué project. Claimed its existence would threaten the caribou.

  I saw a herd.

  A sign saying Wildlife Preserve.

  A sticker from the Alberta Wilderness Association.

  A pair of fish, one off-white, one gold.

  Gold.

  Horace Tyne. The Giant gold mine.

  Church bells bonged.

  My eyes flew open.

  Five-twenty.

  I threw on my sweatshirt and jacket, laced on my boots, and dropped my iPhone into my backpack.

  Time to unearth Daryl Beck.

  ONE ADVANTAGE OF SUMMER IN THE FAR NORTH: TWENTY-plus hours of daylight. The sky was noon-bright as I drove the squiggle of road out to Lakeview.

  Several cars and pickups were already parked in the lot. A kid sat behind the wheel of a hearse, playing a game on a handheld device. He did not look up as I pulled in beside him.

  One disadvantage of summer in the far north: man-eater insects. Mosquitoes struck the instant I left the Camry, whining around me to telegraph the happy news of another food source.

  Lakeview Cemetery had old-style markers, not just ground-level slabs for the convenience of mowers. Some were homemade: a wooden chair, a pair of carved elk or caribou horns, an engraved paddle. Others were more traditional headstones, featuring crosses or angels holding flowers or harps.

  I spotted King to the right of a grave surrounded by a white picket fence. At her side was a man in a tweed jacket several sizes too large for his frame. An idle backhoe sat ten feet beyond them, bucket in the upright and locked position.

  I started toward King and her companion, slapping away predators the size of pelicans. Though damp, the evening was reasonably warm. The air smelled of dead grass, moldy wood, and freshly turned earth. Eau de exhumation.

  King’s crew consisted of six men, all native. They’d removed the topsoil and gone down three feet with the backhoe, then jumped in with spades. They stood shoulder-deep in the hole, shoveling dirt from around Beck’s coffin and tossing it onto the ground above.

  King introduced the tweed guy as Francis Bullion and explained that he was with the Department of Community Services. Bullion had confirmed the location of Beck’s grave. We shook hands. He had gray hair, rimless glasses, and a very small head.

  “Everyone was here, so I figured we might as well start,” King said.

  “I’m good with that.”

  “This is so extraordinary.” Bullion sounded like a bird. A very excited one.

  I smiled at Bullion, then refocused on King. “You move fast.”

  “People need work. Snook was eager.”

  “As was I.” Bullion, chirpy. “I don’t mind that today is Saturday. Not at all.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “I saw this on television. It was just like this.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  The crew was equally eager. And efficient. They had the coffin out by seven-forty. Loaded into the hearse by eight. Bullion offered to hang with the team. King thanked him and sent him on his way.

  King and I followed the hearse to Stanton. A nurse and two male orderlies met us at a loading dock in back. They, King, the kid driver, and I wrestled the coffin onto a hospital gurney. Then it was just us girls.

  The nurse’s name was Courtney. She had long blond hair, hazel eyes, and looked about twenty. She addressed King by first name, so I assumed they were acquainted. Or related.

  Courtney led us to a large room entered through swinging double doors. It had a green tile floor, buzzing fluorescents overhead, a wall clock with a second hand that moved in noisy little hops, and a stainless-steel tub and counter.

  A second gurney had been centered on the tile. The items I’d requested lay on a tray on the counter.

  We positioned the casket along one wall. It was an inexpensive model, probably eighteen-gauge steel. The exterior was pink, the hardware embellished with orchids. It was in good shape, given its four years underground.

  Already the room had taken on the odor of the coffin and its contents. Rusting metal. Rotting fabric. Moist earth. I noted none of the sickly organic smell associated with most disturbed burials.

  King and I removed our outerwear. She set up a case file card and shot pictures. Then we all gloved and tied aprons behind our waists and necks.

  I held out a hand. King handed me a metal implement. I stepped to the coffin and opened the locking mechanism. The upper portion of the lid lifted easily.

  The plastic tub was snugged between mildewed and badly stained pink velvet cushions once marketed as an “eternal-rest adjustable bed.”

  King shot more photos.

  I transferred the tub to the second gurney.

  Courtney watched with very large eyes. She’d yet to say word one to me.

  I lifted the lower portion of the casket lid. King offered a flashlight. I checked the coffin’s interior, removing padding and fabric, probing creases and recesses with my fingers.

  Found nothing.

  I looked at King.

  “Let’s pop her,” she said.

  I pried off the lid of the tub.

  King wasn’t kidding. The fire had left little of Daryl Beck. More likely, those who’d processed the scene hadn’t possessed the skill to recognize or the patience to recover badly burned bone.

  The tub held only the thicker, more robust parts of the skeleton. Or those portions protected by large muscle masses. I saw no vertebrae or ribs. No scapula, clavicle, or sternum. Nothing from the face, hands, or feet.

  Every element had suffered extensive heat damage. The skull had exploded, then the individual fragments had burned. Only two small bits of mandible remained, each from the area near t
he angle of the jaw. The ends were missing from the six long bones that had survived. The pelvis consisted of two charred masses, once the hip sockets, and a hunk of sacrum.

  I began arranging the bones in anatomical order. Cranium. Right arm. Left arm. Right leg. Left leg. Straightforward. Until I came to the pelvis.

  Then I stopped.

  Stunned.

  Grabbing the lens from the counter, I reexamined each carbonized ilia under magnification.

  No way.

  I held them side by side. Reoriented them. Did it again. Again.

  No freakin’ way!

  “What?” King picked up on my agitation.

  I’d left the jaw fragments for last. Ignoring her question, I studied first one, then the other. The gonial angle. The foramen. The mylohyoid groove. The truncated bits of ascending ramus and dental arcade.

  No freakinsonofabitching way!

  But there was no question.

  Palms sweaty inside my latex gloves, I set one pelvic fragment and one jaw fragment off to the side, then added their counterparts to my reconstruction.

  “What does that mean?” King asked.

  I pointed to the isolated fragments. “These are portions of jaw and pelvis. Both come from the right side of the body.” I pointed to the corresponding fragments in the partial skeleton I’d created. “These fragments are from identical locations. They also come from the right side of the body.”

  “Meaning?” Her expression said she already knew the answer.

  “There are two people here.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “How was Daryl identified?”

  “Mostly context. It was his house. His bike was there. A neighbor heard him pull in that night, never heard him leave. Said he would have heard, since the bike was noisy as hell.”

  “That was it? No dental records?”

  “Daryl wasn’t big on oral hygiene. Couldn’t have afforded a dentist if he’d wanted one.”

  The lights hummed. The clock ticked.

  “So which one is Daryl?” King was staring at the gurney.

  “Both are male,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s enough detail.” I lifted the two hunks of ilia. “Both sciatic notches are deep and narrow.” I pointed to a slice of crescent that had survived on each fragment. “These rough areas are the points where these ilia articulated with their respective sacra. Neither surface is elevated; both are flush with the surrounding bone. And neither has a groove along its edge.”