No Mardi Gras for the Dead

by D. J. Donaldson

  The skull basically lay facedown, but turned slightly to the right, an angle that had allowed the posthole digger to shear off a part of the jaw without doing any other damage. Kit knew enough anatomy to recognize that she was also looking at the backs of vertebrae rather than the front. Obviously, the body had been pitched into the pit facedown. Allen and French continued to make measurements until Broussard and Gatlin arrived together.

  “We ready to learn something?” Gatlin said.

  Broussard looked into the pit, a lemon drop bulging one cheek. “Gonna be a cold trail behind this one.”

  Gatlin peered into the pit and smirked. “Gatlin’s law.”

  “Thought you’d like to be here for the ribbon cutting,” French said. “Allen, would you do it, please?”

  Allen got a bow saw from the supplies, stepped into the pit, and began to saw the root at its narrow end. When he finished, he crossed to the opposite side and cut it there. Broussard helped Allen out of the pit and Allen gave him the root.

  Broussard examined the cut surface on the thick end and glanced at the back of the house. “That faucet work?”

  Kit said it did, and Broussard walked over to it and twisted the handle. He held the root under the hose nozzle and waited for water. After washing the root, he looked at it again, nodded with satisfaction, and turned off the tap.

  “Body’s been down there at least ten years,” he said, coming back to the group.

  “Growth rings?” Gatlin said.

  “Ten of ’em, clear as can be.” Broussard gave the root to Gatlin.

  He looked at it too quickly to have counted the rings and put it on the folding table. “So let’s do it.”

  French stepped into the pit and picked up the skull. She studied it face-on, looked at it from the side and the top, turned it over, and looked at the base.

  “Caucasian female,” she said, handing it to Broussard. “At least twenty years old.” She bent to pick up something else.

  “How does she know those things?” Kit asked.

  Broussard held the skull up in profile. “Notice how the upper and lower parts of the face are vertically aligned? In blacks the lower jaw protrudes.” He turned the skull so that it was facing them and ran his finger along the lower border of the nasal openings. “These sharp sills also show it’s a Caucasian. In blacks, this area is slightly guttered.” He turned the skull to the side and pointed to the tooth farthest back. “Third molars are up… that usually doesn’t occur before age eighteen.” He looked at the base of the skull and pointed to a region in front of the large opening that in life transmitted the spinal cord. “See how smooth this is right here?”

  Kit nodded.

  “Well, it’s not one bone as it appears, but two. Before about twenty years of age, the suture line is obvious… like this.” He turned the skull over and pointed at a sharp wiggly line that crossed the crown of the skull from side to side. “The female part is sort of a guess at this point. In males, the sites of muscle attachment to the skull are more pronounced than what we see here… and here. As for her occupation…”

  “You’re not telling me you know her occupation?” Gatlin said.

  Broussard shifted his lemon ball to the other cheek. “Wouldn’t surprise me to find out she was a prostitute livin’ pretty close to the edge.”

  “Where do you get that?” Gatlin said in a challenging tone.

  Broussard turned the skull over and held it out toward Gatlin. “What dental work she had was mostly in front, even though she needed some in the back.”

  “Kinda like when you get a quart of strawberries home from da market and find dat da only ripe ones are on top,” Bubba said.

  “Much the same,” Broussard said.

  “Not dat Ah got any personal experience here understan’.”

  “So you’re saying if she was a high-priced hooker, she’d have had the money to fix all her teeth,” Gatlin said.

  Broussard nodded.

  Gatlin shook his head. “Pretty flimsy, Andy. Poor, I’ll give you that. But a hooker… I dunno…”

  “Bein’ a workin’ girl’ll get you a shallow grave a lot faster than just bein’ poor.”

  This last point seemed to score.

  “Pelvis looks female, too,” French said, holding up the two hipbones and the tailbone as a unit.

  Allen took the skull from Broussard and put it on the table. French handed the pelvis to Broussard, who looked at it briefly and said, “Nulliparous.”

  “Remember us ordinary folks?” Gatlin said.

  Broussard smiled inwardly. Often Gatlin would see things before Broussard got a chance to point them out. But today, he had Gatlin just where he wanted him. “It’s likely she never had kids,” Broussard said. “No parturition pits.”

  “How about I go over to Tulane,” Gatlin said, “and learn to speak say… Russian. Then when we get together like this, you speak pathology and I’ll speak Russian and we’ll see how far we get.”

  “I’d like that,” Broussard said.

  “Parturition pits?” Gatlin said, reminding Broussard of the point that had led to their digression.

  Broussard handed one hipbone and the tailbone to Allen. He held the other hipbone out to Gatlin. “Parturition pits are small depressions in the bone along here.” He ran his finger over the upper margin of a deep notch. “And here. They’re produced by damage to ligament attachments during birth. No pits… likely no kids.”

  “Sternal end of the clavicle is incompletely fused,” French said, passing the two bones to Broussard.

  He looked at the end of one of them and said, “Complete fusion of the shaft with the sternal end in this bone is usually complete by age thirty.”

  “So she was in her twenties when she died,” Gatlin said.

  “Looks that way.”

  Kit noticed a hint of sadness in Broussard’s voice.

  “Take a look at this,” French said, passing up three small objects.

  Kit leaned over to see into Broussard’s hand as he studied the bones French had given him. One of the bones was oval, the other two, elongated.

  Nodding knowingly, Broussard offered the bones to Gatlin, who kept his hands at his side. “Just show me.”

  “These three bones are all part of the hyoid, which sits right here.” Broussard made a U with his thumb and index finger and put it on his neck, just below where his short beard ended. He held the bones up in the palm of his hand. “In older folks the three parts are fused, oval body in the center, a wing on each side.” He pointed at one of the elongated bones. “See the fracture?”

  Gatlin leaned closer. “Damaged during the digging?” Sensing the dirty look French was giving him, he glanced her way and threw up a hand in apology. “No offense, Doc.”

  “No way,” Broussard said. “The fracture site is as stained as the rest of the bone.”

  “So she was—”

  Not wanting Gatlin to say it first, Broussard interrupted, “Most likely strangled. Ordinarily pressure on someone’s neck won’t fracture a hyoid wing unless the parts are fused, but it happens.”

  “Allen, get the cameras and the markers,” French said, setting aside the white bucket she’d been filling with vertebrae.

  “Somethin’ important?” Broussard asked, edging to the pit. The others followed.

  “Could be,” French replied. Allen handed her the arrow and the scale and she arranged them on the ribs, which she had yet to pick up. She took a 35mm shot standing up, then changed the focus, bent down, and took another. Bubba was leaning over so far to see what she had found that he lost his footing and would have fallen into the pit had Kit not grabbed him by his coveralls. French swapped the 35mm camera for the Polaroid and took another couple of shots with that, passing the pictures to Broussard as they whirred from the camera.

  “Looks like a toothpaste tube,” Broussard said, inspecting one of the pictures.

  “Any chance it was superficial debris that got shifted down when the hole was dug?” Gatlin a
sked.

  “Highly unlikely,” French said. “It was under a thoracic vertebra, which means that it went into the hole at the same time as the body.”

  Gatlin wiggled his finger at the pit. “Let’s have a look at the real thing.”

  French picked up the object and brushed the dirt from it with a paintbrush. She looked the object over and handed it to Broussard. “Nothing left of the lettering, I’m afraid, but a D and an A on a flaked red background.”

  Broussard examined it on both sides, then unscrewed the cap and gently squeezed. A dark cylinder of material began to ooze from the tip. “Contents have expired,” he remarked, putting the cap back on.

  “Suppose it is toothpaste,” Kit said. “Why would somebody be carrying around a tube of toothpaste?”

  “If Andy’s right about her being a hooker, I could come up with a reason or two why she might like to have had some toothpaste handy,” Gatlin said.

  Kit saw what he meant and she felt her cheeks flush. “Any sign of a purse?” It was a question asked as much to get everyone’s attention off her as to inquire after a salient point.

  “Can’t say for sure what we might find under the rest of the bones,” French said. “But I don’t think they could cover the remains of a purse.”

  When the entire skeleton was out of the pit and onto the table, French said to Broussard, “Andy, we’ve been at this for five hours and I’ve had enough. I think Allen has, too. Plus, it’s getting late and we have to take the remains back to the university. We still need to screen the pedestal for artifacts, but Allen can do that in the morning.” She looked at Kit. “Sorry to drag this out for another day. Is it all right for Allen to let himself in tomorrow?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Allen, we’ll leave the tent, but take everything else with us. Whatever you need in the morning, you can bring back.”

  Dogged by their lengthening shadows, French and Allen spread a piece of black plastic over the pit and secured it with dirt. Then they wrapped the bones in virgin newsprint and packed them in long cardboard boxes.

  *

  * *

  Compared to most of the houses in the heart of the city, Kit’s tiny driveway, which was two cars wide and barely two deep, was spacious. Having found it filled when she arrived, French had parked in the narrow one-way street out front. When she and Allen had everything loaded into her van, she signed a chain-of-evidence form indicating that she had taken possession of the remains. Broussard kept the original and gave her the carbon.

  Kit saw this as another surrealistic touch in a Salvador Dali day. Thank you very much ma’am. Appreciate your business. If you’re ever again in the market for the remains of a murdered young girl, hope you’ll remember us.

  “What happens now?” Kit said to French.

  “Monday, I’ll make some measurements on the skull and plug them into a computer program I’ve been developing for facial reconstruction. Should have a face by Tuesday.”

  French went around to the driver’s side of the van and got in. As they pulled away from the curb, Allen waved limply out the open window. Feeling that it was a little inappropriate to respond in kind, Kit did not acknowledge their departure but turned instead to Gatlin. “So what’s your next step?”

  “I’ll go back to the office, write up a report, and start a file.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I’ll continue working on murders I’ve got some chance of solving. Generally, if you can’t cough up a suspect within forty-eight hours of the crime, your chances of ever solving it go way down. After ten years… well, it’s the kind of thing you work on when you’ve got nothing else to do.”

  “But there’ll always be something else to do.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Kit’s large eyes narrowed and she looked at Gatlin suspiciously. “This cavalier attitude wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact she might have been nothing but a prostitute, would it?”

  Gatlin’s naturally unhappy expression darkened. “No,” he said sharply. “It’s because the case is at least ten years old, like I said. Social class is something you have when you’re alive. Murder is a great equalizer. A dead hooker and a dead senator are equally dead and their killers are guilty of the same crime. So you’ll forgive me if I find your remark offensive.”

  Kit melted under Gatlin’s hot response. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I had no right to say that. Guess I’m just feeling a little involved in this case.”

  The sparks in Gatlin’s eyes went out and his face softened. “No apologies necessary, Doc. I understand. Now, I better go and write that report.”

  As Gatlin’s Pontiac pulled out of the drive, Broussard said, “You gonna be okay?”

  “Sure, you go on.”

  “All right, see you Monday. Bubba, you still comin’ over tomorrow to clean that carburetor?”

  “Be dere about ten,” Bubba said. “Which one is it?”

  “The yellow one.” In addition to the white ’57 T-Bird now sitting in Kit’s driveway, Broussard had five more at home, all with the original paint. “If I’m not there, just go on into the garage.”

  Broussard slid behind the wheel of the little car, an impossible act that usually reminded Kit of the Ferragammos in her closet that were too tight to wear and too expensive to throw out. But today, her mind dwelt on other things.

  Broussard angled the T-Bird into the street and headed for St. Charles Avenue, which he would have to reach by circling the block.

  “If you want and Allen is finished,” Bubba said, “… Ah could work on your trellis some tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Appreciate the offer,” Kit said. “But why don’t we let it ride for a while.”

  She watched Bubba back his old truck into the street, where the sincerity in his wave good-bye coaxed the same from her. Turning to go inside, she saw the drapes in nosy old Mrs. Bergeron’s side window drop shut.

  4

  Listening carefully at Broussard’s door, Kit thought she heard him tell her to come in, but the hall air-handler unit overhead was making so much noise, she couldn’t be sure. All day Monday and for a few hours today, she had been working an apparent suicide that had occurred the previous Friday. Upon hearing a gunshot, a woman had gone to her husband’s study and found him dead on the floor beside the household .38. The physical circumstances pointed to suicide, but he had left no note and, by his wife’s account, had no motive for such an act. Broussard had therefore been quite eager to see what Kit would come up with as she probed the man’s background.

  Kit peeked around the door and saw Broussard at his desk. He waved her inside.

  Before she could mention her report, He picked up an X ray, shoved it into the clips of a view box on the table behind his desk, and flicked on the light.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  She leaned across the desk. There was a white blur at the top of the X ray and what looked like collarbones at the bottom.

  “An X ray of somebody’s head and shoulders,” she said.

  “And…?”

  “You’re lucky I see that.”

  “Here… right here,” he said, running a chubby finger along a line just below the skull.

  “I’m going to need a much bigger hint.”

  “You do see this curved structure?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s a set of dentures, caught in the larynx. Poor old fellow got lost while he and his wife were goin’ to visit their daughter. He got upset at bein’ lost and somehow his teeth slipped into his throat. When the ambulance arrived, they tried to intubate him but couldn’t get the tube in because of the dentures and they couldn’t see the dentures because the tooth side was down and the side facin’ up was flesh-colored.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with me,” Kit said.

  “So take care of your teeth,” Broussard replied. “What can I do for you?”

  She handed him a manila folder. “That’s my report on the Paxton case. I’ve gone as far
as I can. From talking to people at the bank where he worked, I get the feeling there’s money missing and that the deceased was involved. But no one will talk openly about it. To get more, somebody with a badge is going to have to go over there.”

  “Sounds like you did all right.”

  “Time will tell, I guess. Since I’m pretty well caught up, thought I’d go over to Tulane. I checked with French and she said she’s got a face to go with the bones we found in my yard.”

  “You handlin’ that all right?”

  “If you call thinking about it five or six times a day, handling it.”

  “Maybe it’d be better to let it go.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got to know what she looked like.”

  Kit left Charity Hospital and proceeded to an All Right parking lot where they knew better than to put her car up on one of those forklifts they used to increase the lot’s capacity. Many of the cars she passed had cardboard sun screens propped on the dash—one with a pair of giant sunglasses painted on it, one that looked like white shutters, another that read HELP, CALL POLICE.

  The small crack she’d left in the driver’s window had done little good and her car was like the inside of a dishwasher in midcycle. She started the engine and flicked on the air conditioner, closing the door only after the fan had pushed all the superheated air to the outside.

  When French had said that she was in Dinwiddie Hall, Kit had made a mental note of the fact and thought no more about it. Now, as she turned onto Tulane Avenue, that seemed odd, because Dinwiddie was where the geology department was located. Anthropology was way across campus. She turned onto Loyola and followed it to Howard. At Lee Circle, she looped to the right, stayed in the right lane, and turned onto St. Charles.

  Even if French’s office had been on the other side of the Tulane campus, Kit would probably have come this way, because she loved the street’s graceful old oaks and Victorian homes. Two streetcars going in opposite directions passed in what the natives called the “neutral ground.” Inside, the passengers on the aisle seats fanned themselves with folded newspapers, while those beside them hugged the open windows.