by Kathy Reichs
It was always like this at exhumations. The curiosity. The anticipation. The fear of failure. What lies below the next layer? What if it’s nothing? What if it’s something but I can’t get it out undamaged?
I had a desire to grab a spade and tunnel straight down. But strip-mining was not the answer. Tiresome as the process was, I knew proper technique was crucial. Maximum recovery of bones, artifacts, and contextual detail would be important in a case like this, so I plodded on, loosening dirt, then transferring it to buckets for screening. On the edge of my vision I could see the SIJ tech making the same motions, Claudel silent above him. At some point he had removed his jacket.
We saw the white flecks at the same time. Claudel was about to speak when I said, “Hell-o.”
He looked at me with raised brows, and I nodded.
“Looks like lime. That usually means there’s somebody home.”
The flecks gave way to a layer of sticky white ooze, then we found the first skull. It lay faceup, as if the dirt-filled orbits had twisted for one last look at the sky. The photographer shouted the news and the others dropped what they were doing and gathered around our pit.
As the sun moved slowly toward the horizon two skeletons emerged. They lay on their sides, one in a fetal position, the other with arms and legs bent sharply backward. The skulls and the leg and pelvic bones were devoid of flesh and stained the same tea brown as the surrounding soil.
The foot and ankle bones were encased in rotting socks, the torsos covered with shreds of putrefied cloth. The fabric enveloped each arm, clinging to the bones like some scarecrow parody of a human limb. Wire circled the wrists, and I could see zippers and large metal belt buckles nestled among the vertebrae.
By five-thirty my team had fully exposed the remains. Besides the boots, the plastic sheet held a collection of corroded cartridges and isolated teeth recovered during screening. The photographers were shooting stills and videos when Frog talked his guard into another visit.
“Allô. Bonjour,” he said, tipping the brim of an invisible hat to the skeletons in the pit. Then he turned to me. “Or maybe I should say bone jour, for you, lady.”
I ignored the bilingual pun.
“Holy shit. Why shirts and socks and nothing else?”
I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.
“That’s right,” he sniggered, staring into the pit. “They made them go shoeless and carry their shoes. But where the fuck are their pants?”
“Ashes to ashes, remember?” I said curtly.
“Shit to shit is more like it.” His voice was tense with excitement, as though the scrambler had been ratcheted up.
I found his callousness irritating. Death hurts. It’s as simple as that. It hurts those who die, it hurts those who love them, and it hurts those who find them.
“Actually, you’ve got it backward,” I spat. “It’s the shit that survives longest. Natural fibers, like cotton Levi’s, decompose much sooner than synthetics. Your buddies were into polyester.”
“Fuck, do they look gross. Anything else in there with them?” he asked, peering into the grave. His eyes glinted, like those of a rat sitting on a carcass.
“Bad decision about that party, eh?” he snorted.
Yes, I thought. A deadly decision.
I began cleaning the blade of my trowel, using activity to calm myself. Two bodies lay dead at our feet and this little rodent was getting high on it.
I turned to check if the photographers had finished and saw Quickwater walking in my direction.
Great. Make my day, I thought, hoping he was looking for someone else. He wasn’t. I watched him approach with as much enthusiasm as I’d have for frostbite.
Quickwater drew close and drilled me with one of his looks, his face rigid as granite. He smelled of male sweat and pine, and I realized he’d worked throughout the afternoon. While others had taken breaks to check the progress at the main burial, Quickwater had stayed at his task. Maybe he just wanted to keep some distance between us. Fine with me.
“There’s something you need to see.”
There was a stillness about him I found unnerving. I waited for further explanation, but Quickwater merely turned and walked back toward his site, fully confident that I would follow.
Arrogant prick, I thought.
The trees were casting long shadows, and the temperature was falling by the minute. I looked at my watch. Almost six. The bologna and cheese seemed like prehistory.
This better be good, I thought.
I trudged across the cleared area to coordinates 3 North 9 East, the site of the disturbance to which Quickwater’s team had been assigned. I was amazed to see they’d dug my entire grid.
The object of Quickwater’s concern lay one meter down, left in place as I’d instructed. The team had excavated the rest of the square to a depth of two meters.
“That’s it?”
Quickwater nodded.
“Nothing else?”
His expression did not change.
I looked around. They’d obviously been thorough. The screen still rested on its supports, flanked by cones of soggy earth. It looked as if they’d sifted every particle of dirt in the province. My eyes went back to the earthen pedestal and its macabre exhibit.
What they’d discovered made no sense at all.
I CLOSED MY EYES AND LISTENED TO COWS LOWING SOFTLY IN THE distance. Somewhere life was calm, routine, and made sense.
When I raised my lids the bones were still there but made little sense. Dusk was closing in quickly, robbing the landscape of detail, like a slow fade in an old-time movie. We wouldn’t finish the recovery that day, so answers would need to wait.
I would not risk destroying evidence by blundering around in the dark. The burials had been here for some time, and they could stay in place a few more hours. We would remove the exposed remains from each grave, but that was all. The site would be secured and work would resume in the morning.
Quickwater was still watching me. I looked around but couldn’t see Claudel.
“I need to talk to your partner,” I said, turning back toward my site.
Quickwater held up a finger. Then he pulled a cell phone from his jacket, punched in a number, and handed it to me. Claudel answered almost immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Behind a poplar. Should I have requested a bathroom pass?”
Stupid question, Brennan.
“Your partner didn’t think two skeletons were enough so he found us a third.”
“Sacré bleu!”
“Well, it’s not exactly a skeleton. From what I can see, bachelor number three consists of a skull and a couple long bones.”
“Where’s the rest?”
“Very perceptive question, Detective Claudel. That’s the source of some confusion on my part, as well.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Let’s get all the bones out, then shut it down until daylight. St-Basile will have to seal off the property and post a watch at each grave. It shouldn’t be too hard to guard the place since it has tighter security than Los Alamos.”
“The homeowners aren’t going to be thrilled.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t how I’d planned to spend my week, either.”
• • •
It took less than an hour to bag the bones and dispatch them to the morgue. The grill and other physical evidence were tagged and sent to the crime lab. Then I covered the holes with plastic sheets and left them in the care of the St-Basile PD.
Predictably, Quickwater and I returned to town in silence. At home, I tried Ryan’s number, but got no response.
“Why, Andy, why?” I whispered, as if he were there to hear me. “Please don’t let this be true.”
My evening consisted of a bath, a pizza, and early bed.
Dawn found us all reassembled at the Vipers’ picnic ground. The creek still gurgled, the birds still griped, and once again I could see my breath on the morning air. Only two things were diff
erent.
Claudel had opted to remain in town to pursue other leads.
Overnight, word of the bodies had leaked to the media, and an invasion force greeted us on our arrival. Cars and vans lined the highway, and reporters assaulted us in English and French. Ignoring them in both languages, we rolled past the cameras and mikes, identified ourselves to the officer on guard, and slipped through the gates.
I reopened each grave and began where I’d left off, starting with the double burial. I excavated to a depth of six feet, but found only a few hand bones and another pair of boots.
I did the same with Quickwater’s site, growing more baffled with each scoop of dirt. Aside from the skull and leg bones the pit was completely sterile. No jewelry or clothing remnants. No keys or plastic ID cards. Not a trace of hair or soft tissue. Additional GPR scans produced no evidence of other disturbances in the cleared area.
Another thing was eerie. Though the grave with the two skeletons had been rich with insect remnants, the one at 3 North 9 East produced not a single fossilized larva or pupa casing. I could see no explanation for the difference.
By five we’d refilled the holes and loaded my equipment into the crime scene van. I was tired, dirty, and confused, and the smell of death clung to my hair and clothes. All I wanted to do was go home and spend an hour with soap and water.
As Quickwater exited the gates, a TV crew surrounded the Jeep, refusing to allow us to pass. We slowed to a stop and a middle-aged man with lacquered hair and perfect teeth circled to my side and tapped on the glass. Behind him a cameraman trained his lens on my face.
Not in the mood for diplomacy, I lowered the window, leaned out, and told them in graphic terms to clear the way. The camera light went on and the reporter began to pepper me with shotgun questions. I made suggestions as to places for storage of their live-eye equipment, and destinations they might enjoy. Then, rolling my eyes, I retracted my head and hit the button. Quickwater gunned the engine and we shot away. I turned to see the reporter standing in the road, microphone still clutched in his hand, his flawless features wide with surprise.
I settled back and closed my eyes, knowing there would be no conversation from Quickwater. It was just as well. Questions swirled in my brain, twisting and eddying like the waters of a swollen creek.
Who was this third victim? How had he died? Those answers I hoped to find in the lab.
When had the death occurred? How had part of his cadaver ended up in a clandestine grave at the Vipers’ clubhouse? Those queries I figured the Vipers should field.
Most perplexing was the question of the absent body parts. Where was the rest of the skeleton? As I’d removed and packaged the bones for transport I’d watched closely for signs of animal damage. Bears, wolves, coyotes, and other predators will cheerfully dine on human corpses if given the opportunity. Ditto for the family dog or cat.
I saw nothing to indicate scavengers had absconded with the missing parts. There were no gnawed joints or shafts, no tooth scratches or puncture wounds. Nor had I seen any saw or knife marks to suggest the body had been dismembered.
So where was the rest of the deceased?
• • •
I planned Wednesday night as a modified replay of Tuesday. Bath. Microwave. Pat Conroy. Bed. Except for stage one, that’s not how it went.
I’d just toweled off and slipped into a green flannel nightshirt when the phone rang. Birdie trailed me to the living room.
“Mon Dieu, your face is becoming better known than mine.”
It was definitely not what I needed to hear. Having done theater and television for more than twenty years, Isabelle was one of the best-loved performers in Quebec. Wherever she went she was recognized.
“I made the six o’clock news,” I guessed.
“An Oscar-winning performance, charged with raw anger and burning with the passion of—”
“How bad was it?”
“Your hair looked good.”
“Did they identify me?”
“Mais oui, Docteur Brennan.”
Damn. When I dropped to the couch Birdie settled into my lap, anticipating a long conversation.
“Was the tape edited?”
“Not a thing. Tempe, I’m pretty good at reading lips. Where did you learn those words?”
I groaned, recalling some of my more colorful suggestions about placement of the cameras and mikes.
“But that’s not why I called. I want you to come to supper on Saturday. I’m having a few friends over and I think you need some social therapy, time away from these dreadful bikers and that Ryan thing.”
That Ryan thing.
“Isabelle, I don’t think I’d be very good company right now. I—”
“Tempe, I am not taking no for an answer. And I want you to wear pearls and perfume and get all dressed up. It will improve your whole outlook.”
“Isabelle. Tell me you’re not trying another fix up.”
For a moment I listened to silence. Then, “This type of work you do, Tempe, it makes you too suspicious. I told you. It will just be some of my friends. Besides, I have a surprise for you.”
Oh no.
“What?”
“If I tell you it won’t be a surprise.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Bon. There’s someone I want you to meet. And I know he would love to meet you. Well, actually you’ve met, but not formally. This man is not the least bit interested in a romantic relationship. Trust me.”
Over the past two years I’d met many of Isabelle’s friends, most of whom were involved in the arts. Some were boring, others captivating. Many were gay. All were unique in one way or another. She was right. A night of frivolity would do me good.
“O.K. What can I bring?”
“Nothing. Just wear your pumps and be here at seven.”
After unturbaning and combing my hair, I placed a seafood dinner in the microwave. I was programming the time when my doorbell sounded.
Ryan, I hoped suddenly, walking to the hall. It was all a mistake. But if it wasn’t, did I really want to see him? Did I want to know where he’d been, what he’d say?
Yes. Desperately.
The self-examination proved unnecessary since the security monitor showed Jean Bertrand, not his partner, standing in the outer vestibule. I buzzed him into the building, then went to the bedroom for socks and a robe. When he stepped inside the condo, he hesitated, as if trying to compose himself. After an awkward moment he extended his hand. It felt cold when I shook it.
“Hello, Tempe. Sorry to surprise you like this.”
Apparently surprising me was a hot thing these days. I nodded.
His face was drawn, and a dark crescent underscored each eye. Normally an impeccable dresser, he wore faded jeans tonight and a rumpled suede jacket. He started to speak again but I cut him off with a suggestion we move to the living room. He chose the sofa, and I curled into the chair opposite.
Bertrand studied me, his face tense with emotions I couldn’t read. In the kitchen the microwave hummed warmth into my whitefish, carrots, and curried rice.
This is your party, I thought, refusing to break the silence. Finally.
“About Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“I got your calls, but I just couldn’t talk about it then.”
“What exactly is ‘it’?”
“He’s out on bail, but he’s been charged wi—”
“I know the charges.”
“Don’t be angry at me. I had no idea where you stood in all this.”
“For God’s sake, Bertrand, how many years have you known me?”
“I knew Ryan a hell of a lot longer!” he snapped. “Evidently, I’m a lousy judge of character.”
“Neither of us seems to excel in that area.”
I hated myself for being so cold, but Bertrand’s failure to call had hurt. When I had needed information important to me he’d blown me off like I was a drunk on the street with his hand out.
“Look, I d
on’t know what to tell you. This thing’s wrapped tighter than a deb with new tits. I hear that when they’re finished with Ryan he won’t qualify for a paper route.”
“It’s that bad?” I watched my fingers work the fringe on a throw pillow.
“They’ve got enough to nail him into tomorrow.”
“What is it they’ve got?”
“When they tossed his apartment they found enough methamphetamine to fry a third world nation and over ten thousand dollars’ worth of stolen parkas.”
“Parkas?”
“Yeah. Those Kanuk things everyone’s pissing their pants to own.”
“And?” I’d twisted the fringe so tightly it sent pain up my hand and into my wrist.
“And witnesses, videos, marked bills, and a trail of stink leading right straight to the center of the dung heap.”
Bertrand’s voice betrayed his emotion. He took a deep breath.
“There’s more. A shitload more. But I can’t talk about it. Please understand, Tempe. Look, I’m sorry I left you hanging. It took me a while to work through this myself. I just didn’t believe it, but—”
He broke off, afraid to trust his own voice.
“I guess the guy never quite left his past behind.”
As a college student Ryan had gotten into booze and pills, eventually dropping the academic life for life on the edge. A knife-wielding cokehead had nearly killed him, and the wild child reversed course, became a cop, and rose to the rank of lieutenant-detective. I knew all that. But still . . .
“I learned that someone ratted Ryan out, and for all I knew it could have been you. But it’s not important now. The sonovabitch is dirty and he deserves what’s coming down.”
For a very long time neither of us spoke. I could feel Bertrand’s stare, but refused to meet it or say a word. The microwave beeped, then shut off. Silence. Finally, I asked.
“Do you really think he did it?” My cheeks felt hot and my chest burned below my sternum.
