KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“Shouldn’t this have been discussed prior to making a commitment?” Santangelo’s voice had an edge. “There are security and safety issues.”

Briel’s cheeks flamed again, reminding me of Chris Corcoran. Which reminded me of Edward Allen Jurmain and his snake-belly informant. I would begin digging as soon as I finished with the Oka woman.

“-visibility for the lab. I plan to present my findings to the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. And to publish them in the Journal of Forensic Sciences and the Journal of the Canadian Dental Association .”

Ayers started to comment. Morin cut her off.

“You are new here. There is much to absorb.”

Briel’s shoulders hitched back. “I have completed a residency program in anatomic and clinical pathology. And several postdocs. I am not without experience.”

“Our autopsy schedule is very demanding,” Ayers said. “Look at today. You have two cases.”

“I don’t mind working late. Or on weekends. The research will be done on my own time.”

Ayers shook her head. Santangelo wrote something on her roster.

“Access must be limited to our section alone,” Morin said. “As with your previous student, Ms. Duclos must not enter the morgue or any other restricted area of the building. And she must, for security purposes, submit to a full background check.”

“The background check has already been done.”

“Have Ms. Duclos come to my office when she arrives on Tuesday.” Morin looked around the table. “Other business?”

Nothing.

“Let’s get cutting.”

Downstairs, the Oka bones were as I’d left them.

The clock said ten past ten. Normally, I’d have begun with a full skeletal inventory. Since Hubert would be phoning soon, I decided to jump protocol and go straight to ID. Completion of the bone count could wait.

To avoid the influence of preconceived bias, I perform my analyses prior to viewing documentation. I see working in the dark as a sort of double-blind check.

Setting the antemortem records aside, I began to construct a biological profile.

By noon I’d determined that the skeleton was, in fact, that of a white female in excess of sixty-five years of age. Though I’d noted widespread osteoarthritis, advanced periostitis, and significant tooth loss, I’d found nothing sufficiently unique to positively establish ID.

I was sliding Christelle Villejoin’s medical records from their envelope when I heard the anteroom door open. Seconds later, Briel appeared.

Though the frown lines were present, she made a lip gesture I chose to interpret as a grin.

“Taking a break?” I asked.

“Bones interest me. May I watch while you work?”

I matched her nonanswer with one of my own.

“I apologize for knowing so little about you. I’m away so much. You come to us from where?”

She misinterpreted my meaning. “My father was a diplomat. We moved a great deal.”

OK. That explained the accent.

“Where was home before Montreal?”

“Montpellier, France.”

“Ooh, climate shock.” I laughed.

She did not. “My husband is from here.”

“Still. In winter.” I pantomimed weighing two objects, one in each hand. “South of France? Quebec? That’s devotion above and beyond.”

The perpetual frown never faltered.

“What does your husband do?”

“He is in private business.”

Conversation was like pulling impacted molars. I remembered why I’d given up in the past. Nevertheless, I soldiered on.

“Do you live in the city?”

“We have a condo on Fullum.”

“Handy. You can walk here.”

“Yes. May I observe you?”

When working, there are things I avoid like a case of the drips. Cops trying to rush me. Prosecutors trying to sway me. Anyone trying to look over my shoulder.

I started to dodge her request. As I had previous ones.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve explained. I don’t-”

“It’s my lunch hour. My own time.”

“I’m really humping to get this one done.” I smiled modestly. “Besides, most of what I do is flat-out boring.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

I was framing a firmer refusal when the door opened again. My second visitor was Ryan. His expression told me something was very wrong.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Ryan chin-cocked the remains. “Is it Villejoin?”

“I haven’t finished.”

Ryan nodded to Briel, then spoke to me. “The situation could be nastier than we thought.”

RYAN’S FINGERS RAKED HIS HAIR. TOUCHED HIS MOUTH. DRUMMED his belt.

“We may have a serial.”

Beside me, Briel went very still.

“In Montreal?”

“No. In Saskatoon.”

“Hardy friggin’ har.”

“I ran into your pal Claudel this morning.”

Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel, SPVM. A city cop. Claudel and I were pals in the sense Hatfields and McCoys were buds.

“He’s working an MP.”

Ryan referred to a missing person case.

“Ten days ago a landlord named Mathieu Baudry dropped in on one of his tenants, Marilyn Keiser, a seventy-two-year-old widow living alone. Baudry was pissed about unpaid rent.”

“Where’s the apartment?”

“Édouard-Montpetit. The place looked abandoned. Unopened mail. Dead plants. Spoiled food in the refrigerator. The usual. Baudry asked around the building. None of the neighbors had seen or talked to Keiser in months. One suggested she might have gone south for the winter.”

“Was that her pattern?”

“No. Keiser wasn’t a snowbird. She drove, occasionally made short trips. Quebec City. Ottawa. Charlevoix. That was about it.”

“Her car is also missing?”

Ryan nodded.

“Family?”

“Two kids, both married and living in Alberta. The only local relative is a stepson named Myron Pinsker. Baudry phoned Pinsker repeatedly. After a week of no contact and no returned calls he gave up and dialed nine-one-one.

“Claudel caught the case, did some digging, learned that since October Marilyn Keiser has missed medical appointments, book club meetings, a sit-down with her rabbi, and about a zillion other engagements. No apologies, no explanations.”

“That’s out of character?”

“Definitely. The stepson is a forty-four-year-old grounds worker at a West Island golf course. Beaconsfield, I think. Told Claudel he was unaware Keiser was missing.”

“Maybe they aren’t close.”

“Maybe not. But someone cashed Keiser’s last three old age insurance pension checks.”

“Crap.”

“Claudel learned that late yesterday. This morning he hauled Pinsker’s ass to the bag.”

“Detective Claudel thinks Madame Keiser is dead?”

Ryan and I glanced at Briel in surprise. She’d been so still, I think we’d both forgotten she was there.

“Doesn’t look good,” Ryan said.

“He suspects the stepson?”

“Pinsker better have a good explanation for those checks.”

Ryan turned to me.

“Four elderly women in two years.”

Three, yes. But four? I must have looked confused.

“Keiser. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin. This one.” Ryan jabbed a thumb toward the bones behind me. “Jurmain.”

“Rose Jurmain was hardly elderly,” I said.

“But she looked old. Remember Janice Spitz’s photos, the ones taken shortly before Jurmain’s death?”

I nodded understanding. Maybe the drugs. Maybe the booze. Rose had looked decades beyond her fifty-nine years.

Again, Ryan gestured at the table. “Keiser’s disappearance throws a whole new wrinkle into this ID.”

I remembered Hubert’s rhetorical question at graveside. How many grannies go missing around here?

Too many, I thought.