Bones to Ashes (7 page)

I took inventory. Six ribs, most of the finger and toe bones, one clavicle, one tibia, one ulna, and both kneecaps were missing. So were all eight incisors.

“Why no front teeth?” Lisa asked.

“Each has only one root. When the gums go, there’s nothing to hold them in place.”

“There’s a lot of damage.”

“Yes.”

“Peri- or postmortem?” Lisa was asking if the injuries had occurred at the time of or following death.

“I suspect most is postmortem. But I’ll have to study the fracture sites under magnification.”

“It’s young, yes?”

Flashbulb image. A girl in a swimsuit on a Carolina beach. Carrying a small white book with pale green lettering. Reading poetry aloud with an odd French accent.

I pointed to a proximal right humerus, distal right ulna, proximal left fibula, and distal right femur. “See how some long bones look normal on their ends, while these look corrugated and incomplete?”

Lisa nodded.

“That means the epiphyses weren’t yet fused to the shafts. Growth was still ongoing.”

I lifted the skull and rotated the base upward.

Running between dunes. Dark curls dancing wild in the wind.

“The basilar suture is unfused. There are no wisdom teeth, and the second molars show minimal wear.”

I exchanged the skull for an innominate.

“Each hemi-pelvis starts out as three separate bones: ilium, ischium, and pubis. Union takes place around the time of puberty.” I indicated a faint Y trisecting the hip socket. “See that line? Fusion was just wrapping up when she died. Given the teeth, the long bones, and the pelvis, I’d estimate she was around thirteen or fourteen.”

Évangéline Landry, eyes closed, hands clasped, blowing out candles. There were fourteen on the cake.

“And the pelvis shows female?”

“Yes.”

“Was she white?”

“Race is going to be tough since the face is smashed and the palate is history, including the incisors.”

I picked up the skull. And felt a flicker of relief.

“The nasal aperture is wide and rounded. Its bottom edge is broken, but it looks like the nasal spine was small. Those are non-European traits. I’ll know better when I’ve cleaned out the dirt.”

“Why does her head look so”—Lisa floated a palm, searching for the English—“odd?”

“In adolescence, the cranial sutures are still wide open.” I referred to the squiggly gaps between the individual skull bones. “Following brain decomposition, with pressure, the bones can warp, separate, or overlap.”

“Pressure, as in burial?”

“Yes. Although skull distortion can result from other factors, expo sure to sunlight, for example, or to extremes of heat and cold. The phenomenon is very common with children.”

“There’s so much dirt. Do you think she was buried?”

I was about to answer when the desk phone shrilled.

“Can you check the box for anything we might have missed?”

“Sure.”

“How’s it hanging, doc?” Hippo Gallant.

I skipped pleasantries. “Your buddy Gaston’s skeleton arrived from Rimouski.”

“Yeah?”

“My preliminary exam suggests it’s an adolescent female.”

“
Indian?”

“There’s a good chance her racial background is mixed.”

“So it ain’t all that ancient?”

“The bones are dry and devoid of odor and flesh, so I doubt death occurred in the last ten years. Right now that’s about all I can say. She needs a lot of cleaning and it will have to be done by hand.”

“
Crétaque.
She got teeth?”

“Some. But there’s no dental work.”

“You going to do DNA?”

“I’ll retain samples, but if no organic components remain, sequencing will be impossible. There’s soil deep in crevices and in the medullary cavities, suggesting burial at some point. Frankly, I suspect the coroner up in Rimouski may be right. The remains may have washed out of an old cemetery or been looted from an archaeological site.”

“How about carbon fourteen or some fancy gizmo?”

“Except for a few specialized applications, C14 dating isn’t useful on materials less than hundreds of years old. Besides, if I report that this girl’s been dead half a century, the powers that be won’t pony up for DNA, radiocarbon, or any other type of test.”

“Think you’ll be able to sort it?”

“I’m going to try.”

“How ’bout I talk with the mope that had her. Get his story.”

“That would be good.”

Replacing the receiver, I returned to Lisa.

“Why does that one look different?” She pointed to the second right metacarpal.

Lisa was right. Though dirt-encrusted, one finger bone seemed to be a misfit.

Brushing free what soil I could without causing damage, I placed the odd metacarpal under my fabulous new scope, increased magnification, and adjusted focus until the distal end filled the screen.

My brows rose in surprise.

T
HE BONE’S OUTER SURFACE WAS A MOONSCAPE OF CRATERS.

“What is that?” Lisa asked.

“I’m not sure.” My mind was already rifling through possibilities. Contact with acid or some other caustic chemical? Microorganism? Localized infection? Systemic disease process?

“Was she sick?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s postmortem. There’s still too much impacted dirt to be sure.” Taking the metacarpal from the scope, I moved toward the skeleton. “We’ll have to clean and examine every bone.”

Lisa looked at her watch. Politely.

“What a dope I am. Already I’ve kept you too late.” It was five-twenty. Most lab workers left at four-thirty. “Go.”

“Shall I lock up?”

“Thanks, but I’ll stay a bit longer.”

That “bit” turned into two and a half hours. I might have worked through the night had my mobile not sounded.

Setting aside a calcaneus, I lowered my mask, pulled the phone from my pocket, and checked the screen. Unknown number.

I clicked on. “Brennan.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m great, thank you. And yourself?”

“I’ve been calling your condo since six.” Was Ryan actually sounding annoyed?

“I’m not at home.”

“There’s a news flash.”

“Guess I slipped out of my ankle monitor.”

A moment of silence. Then, “You didn’t mention you had plans.”

“I do have a life, Ryan.” Right. Teasing dirt from bones at 8 P.M.

I heard the sound of a match, then a deep inhalation of breath. After quitting for two years, Ryan was back on cigarettes. A sign of stress.

“You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan.” No rancor.

“I work on it.” My standard reply.

“You coming down with a cold?”

“My nose is irritated from breathing through a mask.” I ran my dental pick through the cone of dry soil that had collected on the tabletop in front of me.

“You’re in your lab?”

“Hippo Gallant’s skeleton arrived from Rimouski. It’s female, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. There’s something odd about her bones.”

Tobacco hit, then release.

“I’m downstairs.”

“So who’s the loser working after hours?”

“These MP and DOA cases are getting to me.”

“Want to come up?”

“Be there in ten.”

I was back at the scope when Ryan appeared, face tense, hair bunched into ragged clumps. My mind shot a stored image: Ryan hunched over a printout, restless fingers raking his scalp. So familiar.

I felt sick. I didn’t want Ryan to be angry. Or hurt. Or whatever the hell he was.

I started to reach out and stroke his hair.

Nor did I want Ryan controlling my life. I had to take steps when I decided steps needed taking. I kept both hands on the scope.

“You shouldn’t work alone here at night.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s a secure building and I’m on the twelfth floor.”

“This neighborhood’s not safe.”

“I’m a big girl.”

“Suit yourself.” Ryan’s voice wasn’t cold or unfriendly. Just neutral.

When Katy was young, certain cases at the lab caused me to rein in her personal life. Transference of caution. It wasn’t her fault. Or mine, really. Working a child homicide was like taking a step into my own worst nightmare. Maybe these missing and dead girls were making Ryan overly protective. I let the paternalism go.

“Take a look.” I shifted sideways so Ryan could see the screen. When he stepped close I could smell Acqua di Parma cologne, male sweat, and a hint of the cigarettes he’d been smoking.

“New setup?”

I nodded. “She’s a pip.”

“What are we seeing?”

“Metatarsal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Foot bone.”

“Looks funny. Pointy.”

“Good eye. The distal end should be knobby, not tapered.”

“What’s that hole in the middle of the shaft?”

“A foramen.”

“Uh-huh.”

“For the passage of an artery supplying nutrients to the bone’s interior. Its presence is normal. What may be unusual is the size. It’s huge.”

“The vic took a shot to the foot?”

“Enlarged nutrient foramina can result from repetitive microtrauma. But I don’t think that’s it.”

I exchanged the first metatarsal for another.

“That one looks scooped out on the end.”

“Exactly.”

“Any ideas?”

“Lots. But most of her foot bones are missing so it’s hard to choose.”

“Give me some ‘for instances.’”

“Rodent scavenging, with subsequent erosion of the surrounding bone surfaces. Or maybe the feet lay in contact with something caustic. Or rapidly running water.”

“Doesn’t explain the big holes.”

“Destruction of the toe bones accompanied by enlargement of the nutrient foramina could result from frostbite. Or rheumatoid arthritis. But that’s unlikely, since the joints aren’t affected.”

“Maybe she just has really big holes.”

“That’s possible. But it’s not just her feet.”

I placed Lisa’s oddball metacarpal under the scope. “This is a finger bone.”

Ryan regarded the pockmarked surface in silence.

I switched the metacarpal for one of the two surviving hand phalanges. “So is this.”

“That hole looks large enough to accommodate the Red Line metro.”

“Foramina show a range of variation in size. As you say, it could be that huge was normal for her.” Even to me, I didn’t sound convinced.

“What about the rest of the skeleton?” Ryan asked.

“I haven’t gotten past the hands and feet. And there isn’t much left.”

“Preliminary diagnosis?”

“Increased blood flow to the extremities. Maybe. Deformity of the toe bones. Maybe. Cortical destruction on a metacarpal.” My hands floated up in frustration. “Localized infection? Systemic disease process? Postmortem destruction, either purposeful or natural? A combination of the above?” The hands dropped to my lap. “I don’t have a diagnosis.”

Though far from high-tech, my lab is adequate. In addition to the worktables, boiler, and sprightly new scope, it is equipped with the usual: overhead fluorescents, tile floor, sink, fume hood, emergency eye wash station, photo stand, light boxes, glass-fronted cabinets. The small window above the sink overlooks the corridor. The big one behind my desk provides a view of the city.

Ryan’s eyes floated to the latter. Mine followed. Two ghost images played on the glass. A tall man and a slim woman, faces obscure, superimposed translucent over the St. Lawrence and the Jacques-Cartier Bridge.

A strained silence crammed the lab, a void begging to be filled. I acquiesced.

“But this skeleton looks pretty old.”

“LaManche isn’t going to pull out the stops.”

“No.” I switched off the scope light. “Would you like to talk about these cases you’re working?”

Ryan hesitated so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.” It was the last thing I needed. My fourth cup sat cold on my desk.

Habitat 67 is a modern pueblo of stacked concrete boxes. Built as a housing experiment for Expo 67, the complex has always engendered strong feelings. That’s an understatement. Montrealers either love it or hate it. No one’s neutral.

Habitat 67 is located across the St. Lawrence from the Vieux-Port. Since Ryan lives there and my condo is in centre-ville, we decided on a coffee shop halfway between.

Ryan and I both had cars, so we drove separately to Old Montreal. June is peak season, and, as expected, traffic was snarled, sidewalks were clogged, and curbs were bumper to bumper.

As instructed by Ryan, I nosed my Mazda into a driveway blocked by an orange rubber cone. A hand-painted sign said
Plein
. Full.

A man in sandals, shorts, and a Red Green T-shirt came forward. I gave him my name. The man lifted the cone and waved me in. Cop privilege.

Walking downhill through Place Jacques-Cartier, I passed old stone buildings now housing souvenir shops, restaurants, and bars. Tourists and locals filled the outdoor terraces and wandered the square. A stilt-walking busker juggled balls and told jokes. Another played spoons and sang.

Turning onto cobbled Rue Saint-Paul, I smelled fish and oil wafting off the river. Though I couldn’t see it, I knew Ryan’s home was on the far shore. My view? Habitat 67 resembles a huge cubist sculpture, like the cross on Mont Royal, better appreciated from afar than up close.

Ryan hadn’t arrived when I entered the coffee shop. Choosing a rear table, I ordered a decaf cappuccino. Ryan joined me as the waitress delivered it. In moments she was back with his double espresso.

“You planning an all-nighter?” Nodding toward Ryan’s high-test selection.

“I brought files home.”

No invite there, cowgirl. I waited until Ryan was ready to begin.

“I’ll take it chronologically. For the cold cases, there are three missing persons and two unidentified corpses. This week’s Lac des Deux Montagnes floater raises the un-ID’d body count to three.”

Ryan stirred sugar into his espresso.

“Nineteen ninety-seven. MP number one. Kelly Sicard, eighteen, lives with her parents in Rosemère. March twelfth, one-forty A.M., she leaves a group of drinking buddies to catch a bus home. She never makes it.”