KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“I didn’t exactly send her.”

“You authorized a pathologist to conduct a disinterment.”

“You left half the burial behind.”

“Hardly half.”

“Dr. Briel offered.”

“A freebie.” Scornful. “On the house.”

“Dr. Briel is an accomplished young woman.”

“She may kick ass at the cha-cha-cha. But she’s not an anthropologist.”

“She has training and experience.”

I shot forward in my chair. “Amateur hour!”

Hubert drummed the desk in annoyance.

“You said it yourself. This is homicide. If the case goes to court, you think Briel will qualify as an expert because she took some bullshit short course in anthropology?”

“It’s only four bones.”

“Four critical bones.”

“Then you shouldn’t have missed them.”

“I’d have gotten them.”

“You weren’t here.”

“I suggested a return to Oka before I left town. You declined my offer.”

Hubert glared at me.

I glared back.

Seconds passed.

Hubert looked away first.

“You will analyze the phalanges, of course.”

I said nothing.

“Is that it?” Message clear. Subject closed.

“That is definitely not it.”

I yanked the Demande d’expertise form from Briel’s clipboard and sailed it onto the desk.

Hubert glanced at it, up at me.

“And?”

“Replay the tape.”

Deep sigh. So patient.

“Have you read the police incident report? Or did you storm down here totally unacquainted with the facts?”

“I read enough to know you asked a pathologist to do anthropology.”

“ Câlice! Not anthropology. Osteology. Simple sorting and counting. And again, I didn’t ask . Dr. Briel offered.”

“If she offered to shave your nuts would you let her do that?”

The chief coroner worked hard at looking prim. Didn’t quite pull it off.

“There’s no need for vulgarity.”

True. But when that switch trips in my brain, civility boogies.

Hubert ran a hand down his face. Leaned back, flesh overflowing the armrests of the chair.

“Two weeks ago, SQ-Chicoutimi got a call about a man running bareass on a highway. Turns out it was some wingnut living near Lac Saint-Jean. Frontiersman type. Loner. Cops found him sitting in the snow outside his shack, gnawing on a rabbit. After bundling the guy off to psych, they tossed the property, found bones in an old storage locker.

“The coroner up there’s a gynecologist name of Labrousse. The bones looked old, so Labrousse figured they’d washed up at the lakeshore, or eroded from an abandoned cemetery or Indian burial ground. Figured the happy hermit had collected and stashed them in his trunk.

“Bottom line, the remains came to us. Since you were away, Briel offered to take a look. I figured why not?”

“Here’s why not.” I tossed the whole clipboard not so gently onto the desk. “Briel went a whole CSI episode beyond”-I hooked quotation marks with my fingers-“taking a look.”

As Hubert skimmed the pages, his brows rose, rippling his forehead.

“ Eh, misère. ”

“Age, sex, race, height. I’m surprised she didn’t include Social Security numbers.”

“I can see why you’re upset.”

“Insightful on your part.”

“She means well. I’ll speak to her.”

“So will I.”

Hubert picked up his pen and drummed it on the blotter, impatient for me to be gone.

I decided to power through. Why not?

“While I’m here, I’d like to discuss an issue arising from the Jurmain case.”

Hubert aimed disinterested eyes at mine.

I reminded him of Rose Jurmain, L’Auberge des Neiges, the Chicago trip. Then I described the encounter with Perry Schechter, and related the tale of Edward Allen’s tipster.

“I’m convinced the allegation came from this end, from someone with knowledge of my involvement in the case. Someone who was either too incompetent to know that no mistake was made or, worse, who wanted to embarrass me while knowing that no mistake was made.”

“Ask the old man.”

“He’s dead.”

First surprise, then irritation crossed Hubert’s face.

“Are you accusing a member of my staff?”

“I’m accusing no one. Yet. But I will find the bastard who placed that call. I’m convinced it was someone working either at the LSJML or in the coroner’s office.”

Hubert thought about that.

“I’ll pose some questions.” Insincere.

“Thank you.” More insincere.

I was at the door when Hubert spoke again.

“Dr. Briel is young and ambitious. I appreciate your understanding.”

“I have a choice?”

By noon I knew the name of the old lady from Oka.

First I called Ryan. Then Hubert.

Each listened as I described the oddly deformed finger bones. Neither cared much about the camptodactyly. Both cared greatly about the ID.

Christelle Villejoin.

While I’d examined the phalanges, Joe had maintained a frosty distance. My assistant’s fragile ego had obviously been bruised. Tough titties. Mine had also taken a hit. I knew I should have made a conciliatory gesture. Instead, I ignored the pouting.

But, as I’d worked, I’d been forced to make a not so proud admission to myself. I’d been as welcoming to Joe as I had been to Briel. Despite two years’ proximity, I knew little about him.

Quick inventory. Joe was not yet forty. He lived alone, somewhere in the burbs, often biked to work. Disliked pickles. Drank Pepsi. Gelled and bleached his hair. Worried about being too thin.

Beyond those few inconsequential facts, I was blank on my tech’s personal life. Was he divorced? Gay? Vegan? Sagittarian? I vowed to make more of an effort.

After reporting to Hubert, I went to apologize and appease. The histology, pathology, and anthropology labs were empty. Assuming Joe had gone downstairs for lunch, I did the same.

My assistant wasn’t in the cafeteria.

But Ryan was.

Not in the mood for clever repartee, I dropped my eyes, hoping Ryan wouldn’t spot me. Birdie’s trick. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. Stupid.

“Expecting George Clooney?” Ryan’s form loomed above the table.

“Tiger Woods.”

“What’s the matter, buttercup?” Ryan deposited his tray and sat. “The other kids shunning you?”

I jabbed at my salad.

“Come on. Why the gloom-and-doom face?”

Christ. Where to start?

I told him about Santangelo’s resignation.

“Can’t blame a gal for moving on.”

“No. But her leaving is …” What? “… symptomatic.”

“Symptomatic?” Skeptical.

“Morale seems to have tanked in médico-légale .”

“Tanked?”

“What? Am I talking to a parrot?”

“Parrot?”

I rolled my eyes. Couldn’t help it.

“Tell me, jelly bean.”

“How’s this for a morning? An asshole at my condo is trying to get me evicted because I own a cat. I have a new pen pal who thinks I’m the spawn of the devil. I had a bastard of an argument with Hubert. I ripped Joe a new anatomical part.”

“Sparky-larky still on a rip?” We’d discussed my lunatic neighbor on more than one occasion.

I nodded.

“What’s that guy do for a living?” Ryan downed a hunk of lasagna.

“I think Winston said he’s with Montreal Public Works.”

“Who’s the pen pal?”

I shook my head, indicating I didn’t want to pursue the subject.

“Think it could be greetings from the same creep who called Edward Allen Jurmain?”

I hadn’t thought of that.

“I doubt it,” I said.

Though few in number, I’d received hostile letters in the past. Typically, such mail was harmless venting by discontented next of kin or disgruntled convicted persons.