Monday Mourning (5 page)

The world retreated into a different dimension. Phones. Printers. Voices. Carts. All disappeared. Nothing existed but the fragile remains on my table.

I worked straight through lunch, my sense of sadness mounting with each observation.

I am often accused of feeling more warmth toward the dead than toward the living. The charge isn’t true. Yes, I grieve for those on my table. But I am also keenly aware of the sorrow visited on those left behind. This case was no exception. I felt great empathy for the families who had loved and lost these girls.

At exactly one thirty-four the phone shrilled. Lowering my mask, I crossed to the desk.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“You have finished?” Though he did not identify himself, I knew the voice.

“I have some preliminary information. Room four.”

“I am waiting in your office.”

Sure, Claudel. That’s fine with me. Make yourself at home.

“Would you like to observe what I’ve found?”

“That will not be necessary.”

Claudel’s aversion to autopsies is legendary. I used to play on this, think up ruses to force him belowdecks. I no longer bothered.

“I’ll need a few minutes to clean up,” I said.

“This is probably pointless, anyway.”

“I sincerely hope so.” I hung up.

Easy. It’s Claudel. The man is a throwback.

Drawing a sheet over the table, I stripped off my gloves, scrubbed, and headed upstairs, a growing dread hanging heavy on my mind.

I knew my bones. I knew I was right.

Despite his sanctimonious arrogance, I hoped to God Claudel was right, too.

C
LAUDEL WAS SEATED FACING MY DESK, BROWS, NOSE, AND
mouth pointing south. He did not rise or greet me when I entered. I returned his cordiality.

“You have finished?”

“No, Monsieur Claudel. I have not finished. I have hardly begun.” I sat. “But I have made some disturbing observations.”

Claudel curled his fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.

“Based on cranial and pelvic features, I can tell you that skeleton 38426 is that of a female who died in her mid to late teens. Analysis of the long bones will allow me to narrow that age estimate, but it’s obvious that the basilar suture has only recently fused, the iliac crest—”

“I do not need an anatomy lesson.”

How about my heel up your ass?

“The victim is young.” Chilly.

“Go on.”

“They’re all young.”

Claudel’s brows angled up in a question.

“Females. In their teens or barely past.”

“Cause of death?”

“That will require a detailed examination of each skeleton.”

“People die.”

“Not usually as kids.”

“Racial background?”

“Uncertain at this point.” Though I had yet to verify ancestry, cranio-facial details suggested all three were white.

“So it’s possible we’ve dug up Pocahontas and her court.”

I bit back a response. I would not let Claudel goad me into a premature statement.

“While the bones from the crate and those from the northeastern depression retain no soft tissue, those from the bundled burial show traces of adipocere. Grave wax. I am not convinced these deaths took place in the distant past.”

Claudel spread both hands, palms up. “Five years, ten, a century?”

“A determination of time since death will require further study. At this point I would not write these burials off as historic or prehistoric.”

“I do not require instruction on how to prepare my reports. What exactly are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you we just recovered three dead girls from a pizza parlor basement. At this stage of inquiry, it is not appropriate to conclude that the remains are of great antiquity.”

For several seconds Claudel and I glared at each other. Then he reached into a breast pocket, extracted a Ziploc baggie, and tossed it onto the desktop.

Slowly, I dropped my eyes.

The baggie contained three round items.

“Feel free to remove them.”

Unzipping the baggie, I dropped the objects onto my palm. Each was a flat metal disk measuring slightly over an inch in diameter. Though corroded, I could see that each disk had a female silhouette engraved on the front, an eyelet on the back. The initials ST were etched beside each eyelet.

I looked a question at Claudel.

“With some persuasion, the Prince of Pizza admitted to liberating certain items while crating the bones.”

“Buttons?”

Claudel nodded.

“They were buried with the skeleton?”

“The gentleman is a little vague on provenance. But yes, they are buttons. And it’s obvious they are old.”

“How can you be certain they’re old?”

“I can’t. Dr. Antoinette Legault at the McCord could.”

The McCord Museum of Canadian History houses over a million artifacts, with more than sixteen thousand of those belonging to the clothing and apparel collection.

“Legault is a button expert?”

Claudel ignored my question. “The buttons were manufactured in the nineteenth century.”

Before I could reply, Claudel’s cell phone warbled. Without excusing himself, he rose and stepped into the hall.

My eyes went back to the buttons. Did they mean the skeletons had been in the ground a century or more?

In less than a minute, Claudel was back.

“Something important has come up.”

I was being dismissed.

I have a temper. I admit that. Sometimes I lose it. Claudel’s condescension was prodding me toward one of those times. I had rushed through a preliminary evaluation to accommodate his schedule on the assumption that this investigation was of immediate priority, and now he was brushing me aside after a cursory inquiry.

“Meaning this case is
not
important?”

Claudel lowered his chin and looked at me, a picture of infinitely strained patience.

“I am a police officer, not a historian.”

“And I am a scientist, not a conjecturer.”

“These artifacts” — he flapped a hand at the buttons — “belong to another century.”

“Three dead girls now belong to this one.” I rose abruptly.

Claudel’s body stiffened. His eyes crimped.

“A prostitute has just arrived at l’hôpital Notre-Dame with a fractured skull and a knife in her gut. Her colleague is less fortunate. She is dead. My partner and I are going to arrest a certain pimp to improve other ladies’ odds of surviving.”

Claudel jabbed a finger in my direction.

“That, madame, is important.”

With that he strode out the door.

I stood a moment, face burning with anger. I despise the fact that Claudel has the power to turn me pyrotechnic, sometimes illogically so. But there it was. He’d done it again.

Dropping into my chair, I swiveled, put my feet on the sill, and leaned my head sideways against the wall. Twelve floors down, the city stretched toward the river. Miniature cars and trucks flowed across the Jacques-Cartier Bridge, motoring toward Île Ste-Hélène, the south shore suburbs, New York State.

I closed my eyes and did some Yogic breathing, Slowly, my anger dissipated. When I opened them, I felt — what?

Flattened.

Confused.

Death investigations are complex enough. Why was it always doubly difficult with Claudel? Why couldn’t he and I enjoy the easy exchange that characterized my professional interactions with other homicide investigators? With Ryan?

Ryan.

Doris tapped on my shoulder for a few frames of
Pillow Talk.

Some things were clear. Claudel’s mind was made up. He didn’t like rats. He didn’t like the pizza parlor. He didn’t think these bones were worth his attention. Whatever investigative support I needed I would have to find through other sources.

“OK, you supercilious, knee-jerk skeptic. Scoff at my analysis without trying to understand it. We’ll do this without you.”

Grabbing my clipboard, I headed back downstairs.

Three hours later I’d finished a skeletal inventory on LSJML-38426. The remains were complete save for the hyoid, a tiny U-shaped bone suspended in the soft tissue of the throat, and several of the smaller hand and foot bones.

Long bones continue to increase in length as long as their epiphyses, the small caps at each end, remain separate from the bone itself. Growth stops when a bone’s epiphyses unite with its shaft. Luckily for the anthropologist, each set of epiphyses marches to its own clock.

By observing the state of development of the arm, leg, and collarbones, I was able to narrow my age estimate. I’d requested dental X-rays so I could observe molar root development, but already I had no doubt. The girl in the crate had died between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.

My case form had a dozen checks in the column indicating European ancestry. Narrow nasal opening. Sharply projecting lower nasal border. Highly angled nasal bridge. Prominent nasal spine. Cheekbones tight to the face. Every feature and measurement placed the skull squarely in the Caucasoid category. I was certain the girl was white.

And tiny. Leg bone measurements indicated she stood approximately five feet two inches tall.

Though I’d examined every bone and bone fragment, I’d found not a single mark of violence. A few scratches in the vicinity of the right auditory canal looked superficial and V-shaped under magnification. I suspected the marks were a postmortem artifact, caused by abrasion with the ground surface, or careless handling during removal to the crate.

The teeth showed evidence of poor hygiene and no dental restorations.

Now I was turning to postmortem interval. How long had she been dead? With just dry bone, PMI was going to be a bitch.

The human body is a Copernican microcosm composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. The heart is the daystar, providing life source to every metabolic system in the galaxy.

When the heart stops pumping, it’s cytoplasmic chaos. Cellular enzymes begin a cannibalistic feast on the body’s own carbohydrates and proteins. Cell membranes rupture, releasing food for armies of microorganisms. Bacteria in the gut start munching outward. Environmental bacteria, carrion insects, and scavenging animals start munching inward.

Burial, submersion, or embalming retards the process of decomposition. Certain mechanical and chemical agents boost it.

So how long are we talking for dust to dust?

With extreme heat and humidity, loss of soft tissue can occur in as little as three days. But that’s a land record. Under normal conditions, with shallow burial, a body takes six months to a year to go skeletal.

Enclosure in a basement might slow that. Enclosure in a basement in the subarctic might slow that a lot.

What facts did I have?

The bodies were found in shallow graves. Was that the original place of burial? How soon after death had they been placed there?

At least two had been flexed, knees drawn tight to the chest. At least one had been bundled, wrapped in an outer covering of leather. Beyond that, I knew squat. Moisture. Soil acidity. Temperature fluctuation.

What
could
I say?

The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel’s buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.

Best estimate: more than a year and less than a millennium. Claudel would have a field day with that.

Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions.

I was rolling out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel’s arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.

“Brennan.”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” A female voice, quavery and uncertain.

“Oui.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rolled over to the night service.

“I didn’t expect you to actually answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat—”

“Is there something I can help you with?” I matched her English.

There was a pause, as if the caller was actually considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.

“Well, I don’t know. Actually, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you.”

Great. Another citizen volunteer.

Members of crime scene recovery units are typically not scientists. They are technicians. They collect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit’s involvement is over. No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveillance. No hot lead shoot-outs. Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.

But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hollywood myth needs a kick in the pants.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process.”

“Oh.” I heard a sharp intake of air.

“If you stop in the personnel office, I’m certain that printed material exists giving job descript—”

“No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in
Le Journal
yesterday. I phoned your office.”

Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.

Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The call was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.

“This may sound crazy.” Nervous throat clearing. “And I know how very busy you must be.”

“Actually, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.—?”

The name was distorted by static. Gallant? Ballant? Talent?

“—bones you dug up.”

Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.