by Kathy Reichs
We hung up and I called US Airways to arrange for a morning flight. As I was replacing the receiver Craig Beacham appeared in the doorway. I explained about Quickwater.
"Constable?"
"He's RCMP Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Or GRC if you prefer French. Gendarmerie royale du Canada."
"Um. Huh."
Craig punched in a number and asked about the constable's whereabouts. After a pause he jotted something down and hung up.
"Your guy's in a major case management session in one of the conference rooms down here." He offered the number he'd written, then gave me directions. "Just slide in and take a seat. They'll probably break at three."
I thanked him, and wormed my way through the halls until I'd located the room. Muffled voices came through the closed door
My watch said two-twenty. I turned the knob and slipped in.
The room was dark save for the beam of a projector and the apricot glow of an illuminated slide. I could make out half a dozen figures seated around a central table. Some heads turned in my direction as leased into a chair against the side wall. Most eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
For the next thirty minutes I saw LaManche's premonition brought to life in horrifying detail. A bombed-out bungalow, tissue spattered on the walls, body parts strewn across the lawn. A female torso, face a red mass, skull bones mushroomed by a shotgun blast. The blackened chassis of a sports utility vehicle, one charred hand dangling from a rear window.
A man seated to the right of the projector commented about biker gang wars in Chicago as he clicked through the presentation. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't make out the features.
More shootings. Explosions. Stabbings. Now and then I scanned the silhouettes around the table. Only one had hair that was not closely cropped.
Finally, the screen blazed white. The projector hummed and dust motes floated in its beam. Chairs squeaked as their occupants stretched and reoriented toward one another.
The speaker rose and crossed to the wall. When the overhead lights came on I recognized him as Special Agent Frank Tulio, a graduate of the recovery course from years back. He spotted me, and a smile spread across his face.
"Tempe. How's it hanging?"
Everything about Frank was precise, from his razor-cut gray hair, to his compact body, to his immaculate Italian-made shoes. Unlike the rest of us, throughout the bug and body exercises Frank had remained perpetually well groomed.
"Can't complain. Are you still with the Chicago office?"
"Up until last year I'm here now, assigned to CIRG."
Every eye was focused on us, and I was suddenly conscious of my current state of cleanliness and coiffure. Frank turned to his colleagues.
"Does everyone know the great bone doctor?"
As Frank made introductions, those around the table smiled and nodded. Some I recognized, others I did not. One or two made jokes about past episodes in which I'd played a role.
Two of those present were not affiliated with the academy. The fuller hair I'd spotted belonged to Kate Brophy, supervisor of the Intelligence Unit of North Carolina's State Bureau of Investigation. Kate had been the SBI's expert on outlaw motorcycle gangs for as long as I could remember We'd met in the early eighties when the Outlaws and Hells Angels were at war in the Carolinas. I'd identified two of the victims.
At the far end of the table a young woman typed on what looked like a stenotype machine. Next to her Martin Quickwater sat behind a laptop computes His face was broad, with high cheekbones, and eyebrows that angled up at the ends. His skin was the color of fired brick.
"I'm sure you two foreigners know each otherjsaid Frank.
"Actually, we don't," I said. "But that's why I'm intruding. I need to speak to Constable Quickwater."
Quickwater graced me with approximately five seconds of attention, then his eyes went back to his computer screen.
"Good timing. We're ready for a break." Frank looked at his watch, then crossed back to click off the projector "Let's get some caffeine and regroup at three-thirty."
As the agents filed past me one of the members of NCAVC made an exaggerated show of squaring his fingers and peering through, as though focusing on me through a viewfinder. We'd been friends a decade and I knew what was coming.
"Nice do, Brennan. Do you get a deal from your lawn man? Hedges and hair trims, one price?"
"Some of us do real work, Agent Stoneham."
He moved on, laughing.
When only Quickwater and I were left, I smiled and began a fuller introduction.
"I know who you are," said Quickwater in softly accented English.
His abruptness surprised me, and I fought back an equally impolite rejoinder Perhaps being sweaty and uncombed had made me touchy.
When I explained that LaManche had been trying to reach him, Quickwater slipped his pager from his belt, checked the screen, then tapped it hard against his hand. Shaking his head and sighing, he reattached the device to his waistband.
"Batteries," he said.
The constable watched me intently as I repeated what LaManche had said. His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. When I'd finished, he nodded, then turned and left the room.
I stood a moment, wondering at the man's odd demeanor Terrific. I not only had two vaporized bikers to piece together, I now had Constable Congenial as an associate.
I picked up my pack and headed back to the woods.
No problem, Mr Quickwater I've cracked tougher nuts than you.
Chapter 3
The trip to Montreal was uneventful, except for an overt snub by Martin Quickwater. Though we were on the same flight, he did not speak to me or move to one of the empty seats in my row. We nodded at Washington-Reagan, then again as we waited in the customs line at Montreal's Dorval. His coolness suited me. I really didn't want to deal with the man.
I took a taxi to my condo in Centreville, offloaded luggage, and zapped a frozen burrito. My old Mazda turned over after three tries, and I headed to the city's east side.
For years the forensic lab had been located on the fifth floor of a structure known as the SQ building. The provincial police, or Sureté du Québec, had the rest of the floors, except for my office and a detention center on the twelfth and thirteenth. The morgue and autopsy rooms were in the basement.
The Quebec government had recently spent millions to renovate the building. The jail was relocated, and the medico-legal and crime labs now sprawled throughout the top two floors. It had been months since the move, but I still couldn't believe the change. My new office had a spectacular view of the St. Lawrence River, and my lab was first-rate.
At three-thirty on Friday the normal weekday hustle and bustle were beginning to taper off. One by one doors were closing, and the army of lab-coated scientists and technicians was dwindling.
I unlocked my office and hung my jacket on the wooden hall tree. Three white forms lay on my desk. I selected the one with LaManche's signature.
The "Demande d'Expertise en Anthropologie" is often my first introduction to a case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it provides data critical to tracking a file.
My eyes drifted down the right-hand column. Lab numben Morgue number. Police incident number. Clinical and efficient. The body is tagged and archived until the wheels of justice have run their course.
I shifted to the left column. Pathologist. Coroner. Investigating offices Violent death is the final intrusion, and those who investigate it are the ultimate voyeurs. Though I participate, I am never comfortable with the indifference with which the system approaches the deceased and the death investigation. Even though a sense of detachment is a must to maintain emotional equilibrium, I always have the feeling that the victim deserves something more passionate, more personal.
I scanned the summary of known facts. It differed from LaManche's telephone account in only one respect. To date, two hundred and fifteen remnants of flesh and bone had been rec
overed. The largest weighed eleven pounds.
Ignoring the other forms and a stack of phone messages, I went to find the director.
I'd rarely seen Pierre LaManche in anything but lab-coat white or surgical green. I couldn't imagine him laughing or wearing plaid. He was somber and kind, and strictly tweed. And the best forensic pathologist I knew.
I spotted him through the rectangle of glass beside his office door. His rangy form was hunched over a desk heaped with papers, journals, books, and a stack of files in all the primary colors. When I tapped he looked up and gestured me in.
The office, like its occupant, smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. LaManche had a manner of moving silently, and sometimes the scent was my first clue to his presence.
"Temperance." He accented the final syllable and made it rhyme with France. "Thank you so much for returning eariy. Please, sit down."
Always the perfect French, with never a contraction or word of slang.
We took places at a small table in front of his desk. On it lay a number of large brown envelopes.
"I know it is too late to begin analysis now, but perhaps you are willing to come in tomorrow?"
The face was army mule long with deep, vertical creases. When he raised his brows in a question, the furrows paralleling his eyes elongated and veered toward the midline.
"Yes. Of course."
"You might want to begin with the X rays.
He indicated the envelopes, then swiveled to his desk.
"And here are the scene and autopsy photos." He handed me a stack of smaller brown envelopes and a videocassette.
"The two bikers carrying the bomb to the Vipers' clubhouse were pulverized, their remains scattered over an enormous area. A lot of what the recovery team is finding is stuck to walls and caught in bushes and tree branches. Amazingly, the largest fragments retrieved so far have come from the clubhouse roof. One chunk of thorax has a partial tattoo that will be useful for establishing identity."
"What about the driver?"
"He died in the hospital this morning."
"The shooter?"
"He is in custody, but these people are never helpful. He will go to jail rather than give anything to the police."
"Even information about a rival gang?"
"If he talks, he is probably a dead man."
"Are there still no dentals or prints?"
"Nothing."
LaManche ran a hand over his face, raised and lowered his shoulders, then laced his fingers in his lap.
"I fear we will never get all the tissue sorted out."
"Can't we use DNA?"
"Have you heard the names Ronald and Donald Vaillancourt?"
I shook my head.
"The Vaillancourt brothers, Le Clic and Le Clac. Both are full patch members of the Heathens. One was implicated a few years back in the execution of Claude 'Le Couteau' Dube. I don't remember which."
"The police think the Vaillancourts are the victims?"
"Yes."
The melancholy eyes looked into mine. "Clic and Clac are identical twins."
By seven that evening I'd examined everything but the video. Using a magnifier I'd gone over scores of photos showing hundreds of bone fragments and bloody masses of varying shapes and sizes. In shot after shot arrows pointed to red and yellow globs lying in grass, entangled in branches, and flattened against cinder blocks, broken glass, tar-paper roofing, and corrugated metal.
The remains had arrived at the morgue in large black plastic bags, each containing a collection of Ziploc bags. Each bag was numbered and held an assortment of body parts, dirt, fabric, metal, and unidentifiable debris. The autopsy photos moved from the unopened bags, to shots of the small plastic sacks grouped on autopsy tables, to views of the contents sorted by categories.
In the final photos the flesh lay in rows, like meat arranged in a butcher's case. I spotted pieces of skull, a fragment of tibia, a femoral head, and a portion of scalp with a complete right ear. Some close-ups revealed the jagged edges of shattered bone, others showed hairs, fibers, and scraps of fabric adhering to the flesh. The tattoo LaManche had mentioned was clearly visible on a flap of skin. It depicted three skulls, bony hands covering eyes, ears, and mouths. The irony was priceless. This guy wouid be seeing, hearing, and saying nothing.
After examining the prints and X rays I'd come to agree with LaManche. I could see bone in the photos, and the radiographs revealed the presence of more. That would allow me to determine the anatomical origin of some tissue. But sorting the jumble of flesh into specific brothers was going to be tough.
Separating commingled bodies is always hard, especially if the remains are badly damaged or incomplete. The process is infinitely more difficult when the dead are of the same gender, age, and race. I'd once spent weeks examining the bones and decomposing flesh of seven male prostitutes excavated from a crawl space beneath their killer's home. All were white and in their teens. DNA sequencing had been invaluable in determining who was who.
In this case that might not work. If the victims were monozygous twins they had developed from a single egg. Their DNA would be identical.
LaManche was right. It seemed unlikely I'd be able to divide the fragments into separate bodies and attach a name to each.
A gastric growl suggested it was time to quit. Tired and discouraged, I grabbed my purse, zipped my jacket, and headed out. Back home, the flashing light told me I had a message. I spread my take-out sushi on the table, popped a Diet Coke, and hit the button.
My nephew Kit was driving from Texas to Vermont with his father Intent on bonding, they were coming north to fish for whatever it is one hooks in inland waters in the spring. Since my cat prefers the space and. comf ort of a motor home to the efficiency of air travel, Kit and Howie had promised to pick him up at my home in Charlotte and transport him to Montreal. The message was that they and Birdie would arrive the next day.
I dipped a slice of maki roll and popped it in my mouth. I was going for another when the doorbell sounded. Puzzled, I went to the security screen.
The monitor showed Andrew Ryan leaning against the wall in my hallway. He wore faded blue jeans, running shoes, and a bomber jacket over a black T-shirt. At six foot two, with his blue eyes and angular features, he looked like a cross between Cal Ripkin and Indiana Jones.
I looked like Phyllis Diller before her makeover. Great.
Sighing, I opened the door.
"Hey, Ryan. What's up?"
"Saw your light and figured you might be back early"
He gave me an appraising look.
"Rough day?"
"I spent today traveling and sorting flesh," I said defensively, then tucked my hair behind my ears. "Coming in?"
"Can't stay" I noticed he was wearing his pager and gun. "Just thought I'd inquire as to your dinner plans for tomorrow night."
"I'll be sorting bomb victims all day tomorrow, sol may be a little zonked."
"You will have to eat."
"I will have to eat."
He placed one hand on my shoulder and twirled a strand of my hair with the other
"If you're tired we could skip dinner and just relax," he said in a low voice,
"Hmm."
"Broaden our horizons?"
He swept back the hair and brushed his lips across my ear. Oh yes. "Sure, Ryan. I'll wear my thong panties. "I always encourage that." I gave him my "yeah, right" look. "Will you spring for Chinese?"
"Chinese is good," he said, drawing my hair upward and swirling it into a topknot. Then he let it fall and wrapped both arms around my back. Before I could object he pulled me close and kissed me, his tongue teasing the edges of my lips, then gently probing the inside of my mouth.
His lips felt soft, his chest hard against mine. I started to push away but knew that was not what I wanted to do. Sighing, I relaxed and my body molded to his. The horrors of the day evaporated, and for that moment I was safe from the madness of bombs and murdered children.
Eventually we needed
air
"You're sure you don't want to come in?" I asked, stepping back and holding the door open. My knees felt like Jell-O salad.
Ryan looked at his watch.
"I'm sure a half hour won't matter."
At that moment his pager sounded. He checked the number "Shit."
Shit.
He rehooked the pager to the waist of his jeans.
"Sorry" he said, grinning sheepishly "You know I'd really rath-"
"Go." Smiling, I placed two palms on his chest and shoved him gently. "I'll see you tomorrow night. Seven-thirty"
"Think about me," he said, as he turned and headed down the hall.
When he'd gone I went back to the sushi, definitely thinking about Andrew Ryan.
Ryan is SQ, a homicide detective, and occasionally we work the same cases. Though he'd been asking for years, only recently had I started seeing him socially It had taken some self-persuasion, but I'd come around to his point of view Technically, we didn't work together, so my "no office romance rule" didn't apply unless I wanted it to.
Nevertheless, the arrangement made me edgy After twenty years of marriage, and several as a not-so-swinging single, new relationships just weren't that easy for me. But I enjoyed Ryan's company, so I'd decided to give it a whirl. To "date" him, as my sister would say.
Oh, God. Dating.
I had to admit that I found Ryan sexy as hell. Most women did. Wherever we went, I'd notice female eyes checking him out. Wondering, no doubt.
I was wondering, too. But at the moment that ship was still in port, the engines stoked and ready to go. The Jell-O knees had just reconfirmed that. Dinner out was definitely a better idea.
The phone rang as I was clearing the table.
"Mon Dieu, you're back." Deep, throaty English with a heavy French accent.
"Hi, Lsabelle. What's up?"
Though I'd known Isabelle Caillé only two years, in that time we'd grown quite close. We'd met during a difficult time in my life. In the space of one bleak summer I was targeted by a violent psychopath, my best friend was murdered, and I was finally forced to face the reality of a failed marriage. In a display of self-indulgence, I had booked a single at a Club Med, and flown off to play tennis and overeat.
