by Kathy Reichs
“Male traits.”
“Yes.”
I noticed that Courtney had edged closer. “Would you like to see?” I asked her. She nodded. I showed her the features I’d described.
“There’s a little of the acetabulum left on each fragment. The hip socket. Eyeballing the partial diameters, I can say that one man was larger than the other.”
I got the calipers from the counter. The others watched as I took measurements to confirm my suspicion.
“Can you say anything about age?” King asked.
“A little.” I held a fragment in each hand. “Notice that the larger man’s articular surface is billowy and that the bone looks granular. That of the smaller man appears smoother and denser.” Oversimplified but close enough.
I looked up. King and Courtney were clearly baffled.
I set the fragments on the table, got the flashlight, and killed the overheads. “Watch this.”
I directed the beam horizontally across each surface. The subtle indentations appeared as transverse shadows on that of the larger man.
Courtney spotted the difference first. “The bigger guy has furrows. The smaller guy has none.”
Maybe King saw it, maybe not. “What does it mean?” she asked.
“The bigger man was younger, probably in his twenties. The smaller man was more likely in his forties. These are very rough estimates. This aging technique only allows for broad ranges, and only a portion of each surface is observable.”
“Daryl was twenty-four,” King said. “A six-footer.”
The hopping hand ticked off seconds.
“So who’s the other guy?” King spoke aloud, more to herself than to us.
I raised both palms in a “who knows” gesture.
“Can you determine race?” King asked.
“Very unlikely. When exposed to extreme heat, fluids in the brain expand, causing the skull to explode. Then the fragments burn. That’s what happened here.”
“Did anyone go missing at the time of the fire?”
Good question, Nurse Courtney.
“You two good here if I leave to check on that?” King asked.
Courtney and I nodded.
“It’s all so black and gray and crumbly.” Courtney was staring at the partial skeleton. “How can you be sure the bones are sorted right?”
Nurse Courtney nails another one. Because of a preconceived mind-set, I’d made the amateur mistake of assuming the remains represented a single individual.
I turned on the lights and studied one jaw fragment under magnification. It was toast. I studied the other.
And felt a little flip in my gut.
“Hot diggety.”
“Zippy whiz bang?”
I looked up. We both smiled.
“This fragment retains about two centimeters of the posterior end of the dental arcade, including two molar sockets. I may see root fragments down in them.”
“Shazam!”
“Nurse Courtney, you’re on for X-ray.”
She did everything but snap a salute.
I got the tray, transferred the jaw fragments, and instructed her on the angles I needed. “While you do that, I’ll reexamine every bone. Then you can shoot films of both individuals.”
The skull fragments were mostly parietal and occipital. All edges and surfaces were fried. Not a single ectocranial or endocranial detail remained. Only DNA would sort them out. I doubted any had survived the fire.
Based on size, I was able to separate what remained of the midshaft portions of the long bones. A femur, tibia, and ulna stayed with Daryl. A femur and tibia transferred to the smaller man. A humerus went with the unassigned cranial fragments.
I was recording observations in my notebook when Courtney returned, pushing a portable light box. The jaw fragments sat atop small brown envelopes on the lower shelf.
“I think you were right.” Electric with excitement. “And I think the older guy had dental work.”
I slid the films free, clamped the first onto the box, and thumbed the switch. The fragments lit up in shades of gray. The one on the right showed nothing but amorphous trabecular bone. Courtney pointed to it. “That’s Daryl. The younger guy.”
The older man’s fragment had more of the dental arch, including the sockets I’d spotted. They appeared as dark indentations in the spongy gray. Deep in each was a tiny white cone, a root fragment. Running vertically up the center of each cone was a brilliant white filament.
“Those are root canals, right? That could get him identified?”
She was correct. On both points.
That wasn’t what stopped the breath in my throat.
THE FRAGMENT LOOKED LIKE IT WAS EXPERIENCING A BLIZzard. A cloud of white dots stippled the lower mandibular border. Outliers spread across the angle and up the ascending ramus.
“What is it?” Courtney asked.
“I want you to x-ray every bone.” I kept my voice calm. “First Beck.” I pointed to the partial skeleton. “Then the other man.” I pointed to the pile containing the chunk of ilia, the femur, and the tibia. “Then those.” I pointed to the cranial fragments and the unassigned humerus. “Do them separately. Do not mix them up. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Start with Beck.” I removed Beck’s jaw fragment and placed his other bones on the tray.
When Courtney had gone, I phoned King. She picked up right away.
“The older vic was shot,” I said.
“No way.”
“There was lead snowstorm on the X-ray of his jaw.”
Silence.
“Very fine particles dispersed as a result of a high-velocity rifle round passing through the body,” I explained.
“Like a hunting rifle?”
“That’s my thinking,” I said.
“Got a few thousand of those babies around here. What about Beck?”
“We’re doing a full-body series. I’m also checking the bones I shifted to the older vic. You finding anything?”
“I pulled Beck’s death certificate. DOD is March fourth, 2008. I checked MP reports for that entire year, moving forward from that date. No one fits your profile.”
“The older guy had root canals on a couple of his lower molars, probably the second and third. We should run the film past a forensic odontologist, get it right before coding the dentals into CPIC.”
“You got one on your speed dial?”
“I do. But he’s in Montreal, and it’s the middle of the night there.” And flexibility was not one of Marc Bergeron’s attributes. I didn’t say it.
“Beck’s been dead a while,” King said. “He can wait a while longer.”
Using my iPhone, I took photos of the older man’s dental work, then e-mailed them to Bergeron. He’d have them when I called in the morning.
I looked at my watch. Twelve-ten. It was morning.
Figuring Ollie was tied up with Scar’s murder investigation, I called Ryan. He and Rainwater were at a bar on Highway 4, following another lead on Unka. I could hear music in the background, the noise of a lot of people in a small space.
“Rainwater thinks we’re being played.” Ryan sounded as tired as I felt. “He’s ordered a sweep, plans to sweat whoever gets caught in the net.”
I told Ryan about the commingled remains and the lead scatter.
“Both were capped?”
“I’ll know soon. The older vic had a couple of root canals.”
“You plan to call Bergeron?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve sent him pics.”
“Good thinking.”
“Keep me in the loop,” I said.
“Ditto.”
Courtney returned as I was disconnecting. While she x-rayed the rest of the older man, I viewed Beck’s postcranial films.
His femur and pelvic fragment were blizzard all the way. That answered one question. But generated more.
Had Beck and the older man both been murdered? If so, why?
Had one shot the other, then turned
the gun on himself? If so, why? And which way around?
Had Beck and his companion fought following a night of drugs, alcohol, or both? Was Snook wrong about her half brother’s new commitment to sobriety?
The murder-suicide scenario wasn’t persuasive. Face-to-face shootings rarely involve a rifle. I made a note to ask if remnants of a weapon had been found at the scene.
Had Beck or the older man torched the house? Had someone else? Was the fire accidental?
Who was the older guy? Why had no one reported him missing? Was he not local?
I flipped to a blank page in my notebook and began a time line.
Farley McLeod died in 2007, Daryl Beck in 2008, Annaliese Ruben and Ronnie Scarborough yesterday. All were connected by kinship. Were their deaths connected? How?
Castain was also murdered yesterday. He wasn’t a relative. Where did he fit in?
Castain and Scarborough were taken out in drive-bys. Ruben was shot by a man on foot, almost certainly with a rifle. Beck and his buddy were killed with a hunting rifle.
Had the same weapon been used in all five shootings? Had the drive-bys been by pistol?
McLeod went down in a Cessna. His body was never recovered. Ruben’s body was also missing. Was this coincidental? Significant?
I felt agitated. Too many questions and too few answers. So complicated.
Too complicated.
And such a high body count. Even excluding the babies.
Courtney returned with the cranial fragments and X-rays.
Snowing on some, not on others. I saw no feature to allow assignment as Beck or non-Beck.
Courtney looked at me, eager for the inside poop.
“Thank you so much for your help.” I smiled an ultra-sincere smile. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
She opened her mouth to speak.
“Do you have something I can use to keep the bones separated?”
She hurried off, hurt darkening her hazel eyes.
I was placing Beck’s bones in the tub when she returned with two cotton towels. I wrapped the cranial fragments in one, the older man’s remains in the other, tucked the bundles next to Beck, and pressed the lid into place.
“And the casket?” A wee bit petulant.
“Call,” I said. “The funeral home will collect it. And again: thank you so much. Maureen will be very pleased.”
Courtney nodded, trying but failing to hide her disappointment.
“I’m sorry. You know I can’t share details of an investigation.”
“I know.”
“Please keep everything you’ve seen here confidential.”
“Of course.”
“You’d make an excellent forensic nurse, Courtney.”
“Honestly?”
“If you’d like, I’ll send information.”
“Yes, please. And … anytime.”
* * *
“First I’ll explain what I see. Then you’ll explain why I’m looking at it on a beautiful Sunday morning.”
Marc Bergeron hadn’t given me the same time-zone consideration I’d given him. His call blasted me awake at six-forty-five.
“Do you have the images?” Booting my laptop.
“I’ve transferred them to my computer.”
I pictured Bergeron squinting through grimy lenses, dandelion hair backlit by the screen.
“Are they clear enough to determine which teeth have the root canals?” I asked.
“They will do. I assume the issue is identity.”
“The fragment was recovered from a house fire. It’s from the right posterior, near the mandibular angle.”
“I see that.”
I’d also downloaded the images to my Mac. During the pause that ensued, I opened the file so we were looking at the same thing.
“I also see evidence of a gunshot wound,” Bergeron said.
“Yes.”
I waited quite a long time.
“From the positioning of the sockets relative to the ramus, their sizes, and the recurve and compression of the roots themselves, I’d say the mesial tooth is forty-seven and the distal tooth is forty-eight.”
I’d been expecting him to say thirty-one and thirty-two. Then I remembered. CPIC uses the FDI dental scoring system, NCIC the universal system.
“The right second molar and wisdom tooth,” I said.
“Though small, as is common, the third molar is well formed and fully erupted. Whatever necessitated the root canal came later. It’s quite unusual to see one in a third molar.”
“Terrific. Thanks. Listen, the coroner is striking out with MP reports here in Yellowknife. Can you get this into CPIC for me?”
“Is this a lab case?” Bergeron was a stickler for rules.
“Yes.” In the very broadest sense, true. Three of Ruben’s babies were found in Quebec. My involvement had started there.
I could practically hear Bergeron frown.
“I’d have Ryan do it, but I’m afraid he’d screw up the coding,” I said.
“Does Dr. LaManche know of this case?”
“He does.” I made a note to e-mail the chief immediately.
“Please give me the details.”
“All we know is that the victim was male, in his forties, and not overly large. He died in March 2008.”
“That’s not much.”
“It’s not.”
“If the system finds a match, we must request original records.”
“Of course.”
After shooting a note to LaManche, I grabbed my new books and headed downstairs.
Another dawn in the Trader’s Grill. My fellow diners were an elderly couple all atwitter about wildflowers.
I didn’t expect to see Snook and didn’t. I ordered eggs and toast, then checked e-mail. Mostly out of boredom. It was too soon to hear from Bergeron, and I doubted King had learned much since midnight.
I was opening the book on Fipke and his pals when Ryan appeared. He looked like hell. Baggy eyes. Tension in his jaw that made him look gaunt. He spotted me and crossed to my table.
“Company?”
“Sure.”
Ryan dropped into the other chair and looked around. “Glad I found an empty seat.”
“Apparently, it will be hopping later.”
Ryan cocked a brow.
“The place is famous for Sunday brunch.”
“Don’t they do brunch every day?”
“I’m just reporting what I read.”
The waitress brought my eggs and poured Ryan coffee. He ordered what I was eating, and she left.
“Haven’t seen much of you,” he said.
“Things aren’t going as we’d hoped.” And the locals think I’m hitting the sauce. I didn’t say it.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
I smiled. It was our code for sharing info on cases. In the good days.
I briefed him on the exhumation and outlined my conversation with Bergeron.
He told me Rainwater had some of Unka’s thugs cooling their heels at G Division. He and Ollie were heading over there shortly.
Updates exchanged, we sat, avoiding each other’s eyes.
Ryan’s breakfast came. He ate it.
Across the restaurant, the two gray-hairs pored over their book of flora. My gaze drifted to them. I thought, How happy they look. How perfectly matched.
I felt Ryan’s fingers graze the back of my hand. They ran to my wrist, rested at my watch. My skin tingled in their wake. Startled, I looked over at him.
His eyes were on my face. I met them.
So impossibly blue. And tormented, like my own staring back from the rearview mirror.
“Lily’s in jail,” he said softly.
“She’s using again?” I was shocked. “She was doing so well.”
“The kid’s a born actress.”
“Oh, Ryan. I’m so sorry. How … ?” I let the question hang.
“She reconnected with the creep she was seeing last year. He provided
a few freebies, then she was on her own. Security nailed her boosting a smartphone at the Carrefour Angrignon.”
“The mall out in LaSalle?”
“Yeah. This time there was nothing I could do.”
Ryan looked so dejected, I wanted to wrap him in my arms and hold him close. To feel the scratch of his stubble against my cheek. To breathe the scent of his cologne.
Instead I sat, picturing in my mind the mixed blessing that was Lily. Recalling Ryan’s account of her entrance into his life.
Lily’s mother, Lutetia, was an Abaco Islander living in Nova Scotia during Ryan’s disastrous undergrad days. The two weren’t exactly lovers, but they were very, very compatible.
After getting knifed in a bar fight, Ryan changed allegiance from the dark side and joined the SQ. He and Lutetia went their separate ways but hooked up years later for a bonus round of enchantment.
Enter Lily.
Wanting to return to her Caribbean home and fearing Ryan might try to stop her, Lutetia didn’t share the fact of her pregnancy. Though mother and daughter returned to Canada twelve years later, Mama opted not to correct that omission.
Fast-forward to the inevitable.
A few years back, Lily showed up at Daddy’s door. She was seventeen, resentful, and angry as hell. And, it turned out, addicted to heroin.
Again and again Ryan got Lily into rehab. Again and again she went back on the junk.
Like every father, Ryan wanted to shield his child from pain, to protect her from every evil in the world. Lily made that impossible, and the toll on Ryan was heavy. One casualty was our relationship.
No matter. Ryan loved his little girl with every fiber of his being.
Dear God. I was worried about Katy joining the army, and Ryan’s daughter had resumed shooting poison into her veins. I was mortified.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“Listen?”
“Of course I will. You know I’m always here.”
“Where?” A ghost of the old Ryan grin.
“What?”
“Yellowknife? The Explorer? Trader’s Grill?”
Eye roll. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Ryan stroked my hand, then gestured at the books. “Planning to invest in a diamond mine?”
“I’m trying to educate myself on the history of the place.”
