by Kathy Reichs
Kit reached over and pulled off the note.
"On te surveil1e." The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. "What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?"
"We're watching you.
With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.
"Think it's a joke?" Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard hedes-Sceurs.
"I don't know" My voice sounded high-pitched.
Sensing my mood, he didn't press the point.
Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator
Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'll take it to the lab on Monday," I explained. "It's a real eye, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Think it's a joke?" He repeated his earlier question.
"Probably." I didn't believe that, but had no desire to alarm him. "I get the feeling I shouldn't ask, but, if it's a joke, why take it to the lab?"
"Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare," I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. "Now, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow we'll find something fun to do."
"That's cool. Mind if I listen to some music?"
"Be my guest."
When Kit's door closed I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and made sure the security system was functioning. I resisted the urge to check for lurkers in my closet or under the bed.
Kit's musical choice was Black Sabbath. He played it until two fifteen.
I lay in bed for a long time listening to the thud of heavy metal, wondering if it qualified as music, wondering how many calls I'd receive from the neighbors, and wondering who felt strongly enough about sending me a message to underscore it with a human eye.
Though I'd showered for twenty minutes, the smell of formaldehyde remained lodged in my brain. I fell asleep queasy, with goose bumps still prickling my flesh. I slept late the next morning. When I woke, still tired from having started awake repeatedly throughout the night, my thoughts turned at once to the thing in my produce crisper. Who? Why? Was it work-related? Was there a sicko in the neighborhood? Who was watching me?
I pushed the questions into the deep background, resolving to address them on Monday In the meantime, I would be extra-vigilant. I checked my Mace, then the direct-dial buttons on the phones and security box to make sure they were set to 911.
The sun shone brightly and the thermometer on my patio said five degrees Celsius. Forty Fahrenheit at 10A.M. It was going to be a Canadian scorcher.
Knowing the diurnal rhythm of teenagers I didn't expect to see Kit before noon, so I threw on my gear and hiked to the gym. I walked with more caution than usual, skin prickling with tension, eyes alert for anyone or anything suspicious.
After working out I picked up bagels and cream cheese, and a few goodies to go on top of the cream cheese. I also made an impulse buy at the flower cart. Birdie had largely abandoned me since Kit's arrival, so I'd lure back his affection with a catnip plant.
Neither the bagels nor the catnip were very effective. My nephew appeared around one-fifteen, the cat trailing languidly behind.
"Utter no sentence that includes the phrase 'early bird,' or 'dawn,"' said Kit.
"Bagel?"
"Acceptable."
"Cream cheese, smoked salmon, lemon, onions, capers?"
"Delete capers. Run program.
Birdie eyed the catnip but said nothing.
As Kit ate, I laid out the options.
"It's a gorgeous day out there. I suggest outdoor activities."
"Agreed."
"We can take in the Jardin Botanique, prowl around up on the mountain, or I can scare up some bicycles and we can hit the old port, or pedal the path along the Lachine Canal."
"Do they allow skates?"
"Skates?"
"Rollerblades. Can we rent some in-lines and do this bike path?"
"I think so." Oh boy.
"I'll bet you're a popper on Rollerblades. Harry's pretty good."
"Um. Huh. Why do you call your mom Harry?"
I'd always been curious. Since he first started speaking, Kit had referred to his mother by name.
"I don't know. She's not exactly Little House on the Prairie."
"But you've done it since you were two years old."
"She wasn't domestic back then. Don't change the subject. Are you up for in-line skating?"
"Sure."
"You're a can o' corn, Aunt Tempe. Let me grab a shower and we re on our way
It was close to a perfect day I started out rocky but quickly picked up the rhythm, and was soon gliding along as if born on skates. It brought back memories of roller-skating on city sidewalks as a little girl and the several times I had almost hit pedestrians or skated into the paths of cars. The sunshine brought out swarms of jocks, crowding the path with cyclists, skateboarders, and other in-line skaters. Though shaky on turns, I learned to maneuver well enough to avoid coilisions. The only skill I didn't master was that of the sudden stop. Drag brakes for skates had not been invented when I was a kid.
By the end of the afternoon I was sailing along smooth as Black Magic I in the America's Cup. Or shit through a mallard, as Kit put it. I did insist, however, on wearing enough padding to defend an NHL goal.
It was after five when we turned in the skates and pads and headed to Chez Singapore for an Asian dinner Then we rented The Pink Panther and A Shot in the Dark and laughed as Inspector Clouseau demonstrated how one could he both part of the solution and part of the problem. The movies were Kit's choice. He said the French immersion would acclimatize him to Montreal.
Not until I lay in my bed, tired and achy and full of popcorn, did I even remember the eye. I tossed and turned, trying not to picture the object in my refrigerator and the evil person who put it on my car.
Monday was still warm, but dark clouds had gathered over the city They hung lox~ trapping a loose fog close to the ground, and forcing drivers to use headlights.
Arriving at work, I took the jar to the biology section and made a request. I didn't explain the source of the specimen, and they didn't ask. We gave the sample an unregistered number, and the technician said she'd call with results.
I had a suspicion about the eye's origin, which I hoped was wrong. The implications were just too frightening. I held on to the note, pending the analysis.
The morning meeting was relatively brief. The owner of a Volvo dealership was found hanged in his garage, a suicide note pinned to his chest. A single-engine plane had gone down in St-Hubert. A woman had been pushed from the Vendome metro platform.
Nothing for me.
Back in my office, I logged on to my terminal. Using anthropologie, squelette, inconnue, fernelle, and partiel as my descriptors, I searched the database for cases consisting of unidentified partial female skeletons. The computer came up with twenty-six LML numbers spanning the past ten years.
Using that list, I asked for all cases lacking a skull. That worked for remains received since I'd been at the LML. Prior to that, complete bone inventories hadn't been done. Skeletal cases were simply designated partial or complete. I highlighted the cases recorded as partial.
Next, using the list of incomplete skeletons analyzed during my tenure, I requested those lacking femora.
No go. The data had been entered as skull present or absent, postcranial remains present or absent, but specific bones had not been recorded. I would have to request the actual files.
Wasting no time, I walked down the hall to the records department. A slim woman in black jeans and a peasant blouse occupied the front desk. She was almost monochromatic, with bleached hair, pale skin, and eyes the shade of old dishwater Her only signs of color
were cherry red streaks around her temples, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I was unable to count the number of studs and rings displayed in each of her ears. I'd never seen her before.
"Bonjour. Je m'appelle Tempe Brennan." I held out my hand, introducing myself.
She nodded, but offered neither a hand nor name.
"Are you new?"
"I'm a temp."
"I'm sorry but I don't think we've met.
"Name's Jocelyn Dion." One shoulder shrugged.
O.K. I dropped my hand.
"Jocelyn, this is a list of files I need to review
I handed her the printout and indicated the highlighted numbers. When she reached for the paper I could see definition through the gauzy sleeve. Jocelyn spent time at the gym.
"I know there are quite a few, but could you find out where the files are stored and pull them for me as quickly as possible?"
"No problem."
"I need the full jacket on each one, not lust the anthropology report.
Something crossed her face, just a flicker of change and then it was gone.
"Where would you like them?" she asked, dropping her eyes to the list.
I gave her my office number, then left. Two strides down the corridor I remembered that I hadn't mentioned pictures. When I turned back I could see Jocelyn's head bent low over the printout. Her lips moved as a lacquered finger worked its way down each side of the paper She seemed to be reading every word.
When I mentioned the photos, she started at my voice.
"I'm on it," she said, sliding from her stool.
Weird one, I thought as I headed back to work on the Gately and Martineau reports.
Jocelyn brought me the dossiers within an hour, and I spent the next three going through them. In all, I'd worked on six headless women. Only two had lacked both thigh bones, and neither was young enough to be the girl in the pit.
From the years before I'd arrived in Montreal, seven female skeletons without crania remained unidentified. Two were young enough, but the descriptions of the remains were vague, and without skeletal inventories there was no way to know what bones had been recovered. Neither folder contained photographs.
I went back to the computer and checked the disposition of the earliest case. The bones had been held five years, rephotographed, then released for burial or destruction.
But the file contained no pictures. That was odd.
I asked for site of recovery. The bones had come in from Salluit, a village around twelve hundred miles north on the tip of the Ungava Peninsula.
I entered the more recent LML number and asked for site of recovery.
Ste-Julie. My pulse quickened. That was not twelve miles from St-Basile -le-Grand.
Ally McBeal's therapist was right. I needed a theme song for times when I felt stressed.
Runnin' down the road tryin' to loosen my load Got a world of trouble on my mind…
Maybe.
Slow down, you move too fast. Got to make the morning last…
As I reached for the sandwich an image of Saturday night's grotesque offering flashed across my mind. Again my skin went cold and prickly
Forget it. It could be a pig's eye. Your picture was in the paper, and any moron could have stuck it on the car for laughs. If anyone is out there watching, it's some twisted nitwit without a life.
I am woman watch me-
Definitely no.
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood…
Oh boy
Game plan. Finish the reports on Gately and Martineau, finalize those on the Vaillancourt twins. Talk to Claudel. Based on his report, CPIC, then NCIC.
Life is under control. This is my job. There is no reason to feel stressed.
That thought had hardly materialized when the phone rang, destroying the calm I had worked so hard to achieve.
Chapter 16
A female voice said, "I have a call from Mr. Crease, hold, please."
Before I could stop her he was on the line. "I hope you don't mind my calling you at work." I did, but held my tongue.
"I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed Saturday night, and hoped the two of us might get together."
Original.
"Would you be free to have supper some night this week?" "I'm sorry but that's not possible right now. I'm really swamped." I could be free until the end of the next millennium and I wouldn't dine with Lyle Crease. The man was too glib for my taste. "Next week?"
"No, I don't think so."
"I understand. Can I have your nephew as a consolation prize?"
"What?"
"Kit. He's a fabulous kid." Fabulous?
"I have a friend who owns a motorcycle shop. He must stock five thousand items of Harley-Davidson paraphernalia. I think Kit would find it interesting."
The last thing I wanted was my impressionable young nephew under the influence of a media smoothie. But I had to agree, Kit would enjoy it.
"I'm sure he would."
"Then it's cool with you if I give him a call?"
"Sure." Cool as dysentery~
Five minutes after I hung up Quickwater appeared at my door. He gave me his usual stony stare, then flipped a folder onto my desk.
I really needed to settle on a theme song.
"What are these?"
"Forms."
"For me to fill out?"
Quickwater was preparing to ignore my question when his partner joined us.
"I take it this means you came up empty.
"As Al Capone's vault," Claudel replied. "Not a single match. Not even close."
He gestured at the packet on my desk.
"If you get the papers filled out, I can access CPIC while Martin does NCIC. Bergeron's working on the dental descriptors."
CPIC is the acronym for the Canadian Police Information Centre, NCIC for the National Crime Information Center operated by the FBI. Each is a national electronic database providing quick access to information crucial to law enforcement. Though I'd used CPIC a few times, I was much more familiar with the American system.
NCIC first went on line in 1967 with data on stolen autos, license plates, guns, and property, and on wanted persons and fugitives. Over the years more files were added, and the original ten databases expanded to seventeen, including the interstate identification index, the U.S. Secret Service protective files, the foreign fugitive file, the violent gangs/terrorist file, and files on missing and unidentified persons.
The NCIC computer is located in Clarksburg, West Virginia, with connecting terminals in police departments and sheriffs' offices throughout the United States, Canada, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands. Entries can be made only by law enforcement personnel. And they definitely make them. In its first year NCIC recorded two million transactions. It currently handles that many each day.
The NCIC missing persons file, created in 1975, is used to locate individuals who are not "wanted," but whose whereabouts are unknown. A record can be entered for missing juveniles, and for people who are disabled or endangered. Victims of abduction and those who have disappeared following a disaster also qualify. A form is completed by the missing person's parent or guardian, physician, dentist, and optician, and entered by a local department.
The unidentified persons file was added in 1983 to provide a way to cross-reference recovered remains against missing persons records. Entry into the system is permitted for unidentified bodies and body parts, for living persons, and for catastrophe victims.
It was this packet that Quickwater had tossed onto my desk.
"If you'll fill out the NCIC form we can work both networks. It's basically the same data, lust different coding systems. How long will you need?"
"Give me an hour." With only three bones I'd have little to say.
As soon as they left I began working my way through the form, periodically checking the data collection entry guide for codes.
I checked the box for EUD for unidentified deceased.
I placed an "5"
in boxes 1, 9, and 10 of the body pans diagram, indicating that a skeletonized head and right and left upper leg bones had been recovered, All others boxes got an "N" for not recovered.
I marked "F" for female, "W" for white, and wrote in the approximate height range. I left empty the space for estimated year of birth and estimated date of death.
In the personal descriptors section I wrote SHUNT CERB, for cerebral ventricular shunt, and checked that item on the supplemental form. That was it. No fractures, deformities, tattoos, moles, or scars.
Since I hadn't any clothing, jewelry, eyeglasses, fingerprints, blood type, or information as to cause of death, the rest of the document remained blank. All I could add were a few comments about where the body was found.
I was completing the sections on agency name and case number when Quickwater reappeared. I handed him the form. He took it, nodded, and left without a word.
What was it with this guy?
An image flicked through my mind and was gone. A bloated eyeball in a jelly jar.
Q uickwater?
No way. Nevertheless, I decided to make no mention of the incident to Claudel or his Carcajou partner I might have asked Ryan, might have turned to him for advice, but Ryan was gone and I was on my own.
I completed the Gately and Martineau reports and walked them to the secretarial office. When I returned, Claudel was seated in my office, a computer printout in his hand.
"You were right with the age but a bit off on the date of death. Ten years wasn't enough."
I waited for him to go on.
"Her name was Savannah Claire Osprey."
In French it came out Oh-spree, with the accent on the second syllab]e. Nevertheless, the name told me that the girl was probably Southern, or at least had been born Southern. Not many people outside the Southeast named their daughters Savannah. I lowered myself into my chair, relieved but curious.
"From?"
"Shallotte, North Carolina. Isn't that your hometown?"
"I'm from Charlotte."
Canadians have difficulty with Charlotte, Charlottesville, and the two Charlestons. So do many Americans…I'd given up explaining. But Shallotte was a small coastal town that didn't qualify to be part of the confusion.
