206 BONES (35 page)

 

Around the main quad, gaunt stone buildings climbed from Sherbrooke to Docteur Penfield, gray and solid as Mont Royal at their backs. Students scurried the pathways, shoulders rounded, heads and backpacks coated with wet snow doilies.

 

Above me, the spiffy new Wong Building looked square and stark, a poster child for modern efficiency. Its neighbor, Strathcona, was a sterner vision from a different time. Constructed in the late nineteenth century, Strathcona’s architect had not striven to showcase his feminine side.

 

I trudged uphill and pushed through the door of Wong. Miller was waiting inside. I got a bear hug.

 

“My contact is in Materials and Mining.”

 

“Lead on.”

 

He did. To an office with the name
Brian Hanaoka
beside the door.

 

The man behind the desk wore clothes that looked older than he. Plaid shirt, faded jeans, ratty wool sweater. I put their owner at maybe thirty-five.

 

Miller made introductions. Hanaoka was short and pudgy, with a very round face and very black hair.

 

“Please. Make yourselves comfortable.” More an exaggerated correctness than an accent.

 

We all sat, Miller and I facing the desk, Hanaoka behind it.

 

“My friend tells me we can be of help to your lab.” Hanaoka’s face went even rounder when he smiled.

 

I considered, decided against righting the record on exactly who was asking the favor. If my suspicions were upheld, the lab would benefit.

 

“While consulting to the United States central identification laboratory in Hawaii awhile back, I learned of research involving wear facets on isolated teeth. The study used scanning electron microscopy and energy dispersive X-ray spectroscopy.”

 

“That is the facility that identifies your lost soldiers from southeast Asia, yes?” Miller asked.

 

“Yes. And Korea and World War Two,” I said.

 

“A difficult task.”

 

“Very. Remains are often fragmentary. Sometimes a few teeth are all that return, and dental records become very important. Occasionally an antemortem file documents a restoration in an
unrecovered
tooth. The record might say ‘gold crown,’ or ‘amalgam,’ for example. In such cases it can be useful to detect and identify specific elements on an adjacent though unrestored tooth that
has
been recovered.”

 

“That’s where these facets come in,” Miller guessed.

 

“Yes. Wear facets are tiny abrasive patches that form between teeth. To the naked eye they appear to have little relief. When viewed microscopically, they’re actually all corners and angles.”

 

“Making them great repositories of particulate debris.”

 

“Exactly.” This guy was smart. “The CILHI researchers used SEM to visualize the facets and EDS to determine the elemental composition of restorative residue trapped inside them.”

 

“Good.” Hanaoka did a continuous, bobble-head nod. “Very good.”

 

I unpocketed the Lac Saint-Jean vial and set it on his desk. Then, avoiding specifics, I shared my idea.

 

“Teeth A are associated with a recently recovered juvenile skeleton. The two baby molars exhibit features inconsistent with the rest of the remains. One is an upper-right second, the other a lower-right second.”

 

“You refer to the brown, smaller ones?” Hanaoka was holding the vial inches from his face.

 

“Yes.”

 

“One has a filling?”

 

“The upper.”

 

I produced the vial with the “itsy bitsy spider” tooth from Bergeron’s tub.

 

“Tooth B was obtained from another context. It is also a baby molar, an upper-right first. It has a wear facet on its distal side. It has no restoration.”

 

Hanaoka got it right away. “You want to see if upper-first baby molar B, which has a wear facet, once sat beside upper-second baby molar A, which has a filling.”

 

“Bingo.”

 

“Why are child A’s baby teeth brown?”

 

I explained the link to tetracycline, and the timing of crown formation.

 

More nodding. Then a pause. Then, “I like this.”

 

“Can you do what I’ve proposed?”

 

“I can do it.”

 

“When?”

 

“If you wait twenty minutes I will do it now.”

 

While Hanaoka was gone, Miller described his recent fieldwork in Jordan. Distracted by thoughts of Briel’s treachery, I took little in. But talk of archaeology reminded me of Sebastien Raines. When Miller had finished, I asked about Briel’s husband.

 

“Know him? Yeah, I know the weasely goat turd. Wait. That’s unfair to goats.”

 

“What about weasels?”

 

“Friendly amendment accepted. Raines is mean as a snake and a disgrace to the profession.”

 

“Don’t hold back.”

 

“The guy would dynamite Machu Picchu if someone offered cash. And write his report any way the buyer requested.” Miller’s face contorted in anger. “Raines had the cojones to apply for a position in our department. When we vetted his résumé, we found he’d fabricated almost everything.”

 

“He has a master’s degree, right?”

 

“Oh, yeah. Purchased online. Raines did enroll in a legitimate program in France, but got kicked out halfway through his first year of study. The project director caught him stealing artifacts.”

 

“Raines is a Quebecker. Why study in France?”

 

“No graduate program here would accept him.”

 

“I’m told he’s a separatist.”

 

“The guy’s a fanatic. Refuses to speak English unless forced.”

 

“Why apply for a job at McGill?”

 

“U of M and UQAM bonged him.”

 

“Raines’s specialty is urban archaeology.”

 

“Yeah.” Miller snorted in disgust. “The jerk can’t score funding, so he digs anything that’s close and not nailed down. You hear about his latest scheme?”

 

“Body Find?”

 

“
Corps découvert, madame, s’il vous plaît
. But, yeah. The concept is
classic Raines.” Miller shook his head. “Turn big bucks by skimming off the tragedy of others.”

 

I remembered an incident that occurred shortly after Briel was hired. I was eating lunch on one of the cement benches outside Wilfrid-Derome. A man was waiting by the door, smoking and looking very uptight. Briel came out and the two argued. The man stormed off and she went back inside. Barely knowing Briel, I paid little attention.

 

“Is Raines a tall muscular guy? Dark eyes, long black hair tied back at his neck?”

 

“That’s him. Thinks he’s Grizzly Adams. Here’s a story you’ll love. One time Raines—”

 

Hanaoka reappeared. Miller and I rose.

 

Apologizing for the length of his absence, our host led us to the basement, down a long narrow corridor, and through a blue door into a secure area marked
Microscopy Center
.

 

Indicating a stereomicroscope, Hanaoka asked that I locate the facet on the tub tooth. I did. At low magnification the contact point looked like a small dark spot.

 

The SEM system wrapped one corner of the room. Cylinder tanks, CPUs, monitors, a couple of keyboards, a gaggle of gizmos whose function eluded me. I’ll admit, I was clueless as to which part was actually the scope.

 

We moved to the setup. There being one chair and two men, Hanaoka insisted I sit. Or maybe he feared I’d mess with his dials.

 

“Do you require high-quality photos?”

 

“For now I’d just like to see if there’s debris in the facet. If so, I want to know if that material is consistent with the material used in the other kid’s filling.”

 

“Very well. If you need high-quality images later we’ll coat the surface with evaporated carbon or sputtered gold.”

 

Hanaoka took what appeared to be clay, positioned the tub tooth on a little platform, and inserted it into a rectangular airlock.

 

“This is the vacuum chamber. The process should require but a minute.”

 

Once vacuum was attained, Hanaoka flipped a switch to activate the electron beam. An image appeared on one screen.

 

The facet now looked like the Thornton Quarry. Piled in its corners and crevices were what looked like stones and pebbles.

 

“Wow,” I said.

 

“Wow,” Miller said.

 

Hanaoka beamed like a kid with a Kit-Kat.

 

After increasing magnification, Hanaoka used the screen image to focus the electron beam on a particularly impressive cluster of rocks. He continued speaking as he worked.

 

“I’m setting the spectrometer to collect characteristic X-rays emitting from the sample.”

 

When satisfied, Hanaoka indicated that I should roll my chair to a monitor at the far end of the setup. Miller clicked along behind.

 

A landscape materialized, green underbrush with three narrow pines spiking skyward. A two-letter code identified each tree.
Yb. Al. Si
.

 

“Ytterbium. Aluminum. Silicon. Does the combination mean anything to you?”

 

I shook my head, confused. I wasn’t a dentist, but I knew something about amalgams. I’d expected very different elements.
Hg. Sn. Cu. Ag
. Mercury. Tin. Copper. Silver. The stuff usually found in fillings.

 

“That’s the spectrum for the material in the facet. I’ll make a copy for you.” Hanaoka hit a button and a printer whirred to life. “Now, on to the filling.”

 

Hanaoka removed the tub tooth from the airlock, inserted the Lac Saint-Jean tooth, and repeated the process.

 

Moments later a second landscape filled the screen.

 

“Wow,” Miller said.

 

“Holy shit,” I said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

38

 

 

THE SECOND LANDSCAPE WAS IDENTICAL TO THE FIRST.
YB. AL. SI
.

 

The material in the filling was consistent with the debris in the facet. And unusual. That suggested that the tub tooth and the Lac Saint-Jean tooth erupted side by side in one child’s mouth.

 

Sonovabitch!

 

Two scenarios fountained up in my mind.

 

Scenario A. Briel read about tetracycline in Valentin Gouvrard’s antemorts, took the stained molars from the tub, and substituted them for the ones found with the Lac Saint-Jean bones.

 

Scenario B. The Lac Saint-Jean child’s first baby molar somehow migrated to Bergeron’s tub.

 

Migration was as likely as nooky in church.

 

My fingers tightened into fists.

 

Briel had sabotaged my case.

 

Would others be convinced?

 

“Consistent with” and “unusual” weren’t enough to nail her. I had to have more.

 

The elemental spectrum describing the stuff in the filling. That was the key.

 

Hanaoka’s voice broke through.

 

“… you could ask around, see if some type of database exists. Do you have a thumb drive? I can save the spectrum to an EMSA format if you like.”

 

“Yes,” I said, digging a drive from my purse. “Yes I do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was dark when I left the Wong Building. The snow was still coming down, though not with much gusto.

 

Instead of returning to my car, I trudged uphill to Strathcona at the corner of University and Pine. Originally headquarters for the medical faculty, the old fortress is currently home to the anatomy department and the school of dentistry.

 

It was Tuesday, the Tooth Sleuth’s teaching day at McGill. I didn’t make that up. Bergeron actually wears a shirt embroidered with that moniker. And likes it.

 

I found Bergeron in an office on the second floor. The overheads were off, and a green-hooded bankers’ lamp cast soft yellow light across the carved oak desk.

 

I outlined the problem, leaving out only the role played by his tub. Bergeron listened, long bony fingers intertwined in his lap. When he nodded understanding, I asked about the existence of a dental materials database.

 

Bergeron remembered talk of a project at the FBI’s Quantico SEM lab.

 

He made a call. Explained. Jotted notes. Uttered endless “Uh-huh’s” and “I see’s.” Finally hung up.

 

Such a database existed. Its developer was now retired, so the software was under the custody of an SEM lab at the State University of New York at Buffalo.

 

Bergeron made a second call. Again explained the problem.

 

Uh-huh.

 

I see.

 

I was almost wetting my shorts.

 

Finally the call ended.

 

The man’s name was Barry Trainer. Bergeron handed me a scribbled e-mail address. If I transmitted the spectrum as an EMSA file, Trainer would run it through the database.

 

Thanking Bergeron, I practically skipped down the hill.

 

And hydroplaned.

 

As I landed, something popped at my wrist. Inside my mitten, I felt hardness between my palm and the sidewalk.

 

Rising gingerly, I collected my purse, brushed myself off, and continued to my car at a more dignified pace.

 

Sherbrooke was a clogged artery. Between drumming the wheel and cussing at traffic, I fastened my watch. The crystal looked like I’d smashed it with a hammer.

 

Thirty minutes later I arrived at my condo. The underground garage was dark and deserted.

 

I was whrp-whrping my car lock when I thought I heard movement.

 

A footstep?

 

I froze.

 

Another.

 

Another.

 

I spun. A figure was emerging from the shadows of one corner.

 

My brain took in the basics.

 

Male.

 

Moving fast.

 

Instinct short-circuited my adrenaline-pumped nerves.

 

Whipping my purse, I caught the guy square in the ear.

 

His hand flew up and he bent at the waist.

 

“Fucking sonovabitch!”

 

Shit. Sparky.

 

“You startled me.”

 

“You broke my fucking eardrum.”

 

“Not likely.”

 

Sparky straightened, ear shielded theatrically. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”