Kathy Reichs - Cross bones

Only one case for me.

Objects had been found in the basement sink of an apartment high-rise in Côte Saint-Luc. Police suspected they were the skull bones of an infant or toddler.

After the morning meeting, I asked LaManche to follow me to my lab. I showed him Morissonneau’s skeleton, filled him in on its history and possible provenance, and explained how it had come into my possession.

As expected, LaManche assigned the remains an LSJML number, and told me to treat them as a coroner case. Final resolution would be my call. Should I declare the bones ancient, I was free to release them to the appropriate archaeologists.

When LaManche had gone, I asked my lab technician, Denis, to X-ray the skeleton’s dentition. Then I got down to the baby.

I had to admit the specimens looked like two very young and incomplete parietal bones. The concave surfaces showed the vascular patterning produced by close association with the brain’s outer surface.

Cleaning resolved the issue.

The “bones” were fragments of coconut shell. The venous patterning was the result of water action on caked mud.

When I’d delivered my report to the secretary’s office, Denis handed me a small brown envelope. I dumped the contents onto my light box.

One look strengthened my suspicion that the first maxillary molar had been reinserted into the skeleton’s jaw. And not too skillfully. On X-ray, I could see that the tooth’s angle was slightly wrong, and that the roots didn’t conform properly to their sockets.

And something else.

As a tooth ages, its cusps grind down. Okay. I’d spotted the discrepancy in wear. But other features also change with time. The older a tooth, the more secondary dentin in its pulp chamber and canal.

I’m no dentist, but the right first maxillary molar looked less radio-opaque than the other molars.

I phoned Marc Bergeron. His receptionist put me on hold. I listened to a Thousand Strings play something resembling “Sweet Caroline.” In my mind’s eye I saw a patient, reclined, agape, tubing sucking at his mouth. I was glad it wasn’t me.

Marc picked up during a mind-numbing version of “Uptown Girl.” He’d squeeze me in that afternoon.

Jake called as I was packaging the skull.

“Did you get my messages?” I asked.

“I checked out Saturday and took the midnight flight to Tel Aviv.”

“You’re in Israel?”

“ Jerusalem. What’s up?”

I told him about the inconsistency between the skeleton in the photo and the skeleton in my lab, and described the seemingly aberrant molar.

“What does it mean?”

“I’m seeing our odontologist this afternoon.”

There was a long, long pause. Then, “I want you to pull that molar and one or two others.”

“Why?”

“For DNA testing. I also want you to cut femoral segments. Is that a problem?”

“If Ferris and Lerner are right, these bones are almost two thousand years old.”

“It’s possible to extract mitochondrial DNA from old bone, right?”

“It’s possible. But then what? Forensic analysis is based on comparison, either to the victim’s own DNA, or to that of a family member. If mtDNAcould be extracted and amplified, to what would you compare it?”

Long Jake pause. Then, “New finds are unearthed every day. You never know what will turn up, or what will be relevant down the road. And I’ve got grant money specifically earmarked for this type of thing. What about race?”

“What about it?”

“Wasn’t there a recent case where profilers said the perp was white and some lab predicted, correctly, that the guy was black?”

“You’re thinking of the Derrick Todd Lee case in Baton Rouge. That test relies on nuclear DNA.”

“Can’t nuclear DNA be extracted from ancient bone?”

“Some claim to have done it. There’s a growing field of study on aDNA.”

“aDNA?”

“Ancient DNA. Folks at Cambridge and Oxford are working on getting nuclear DNA from archaeological material. Here in Canada, there’s an institute called the Paleo-DNA Laboratory in Thunder Bay.”

I remembered a recent article inThe American Journal of Human Genetics.

“A French group reported on nuclear and mitochondrial DNA from skeletons dug from a two-thousand-year-old necropolis in Mongolia. But Jake, even if you could get nuclear DNA, racial prediction is very limited.”

“How limited?”

“There’s a Florida company that offers a test that translates genetic markers into a prediction of likely racial mix. They claim they can predict the percentage present of Indo-European, Native American, East Asian, and sub-Saharan-African ancestry.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

“Not much help with the bones of an ancient Palestinian.”

“No,” I agreed.

I listened to another of Jake’s pauses.

“But either mito or nuclear DNA analysis might show whether that odd molar belonged to a different individual.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“But it might.”

“It might,” I conceded.

“Who does these tests?”

I told him.

“Visit your dentist, see what he says about the odd tooth. Then take samples. And cut enough bone for radiocarbon analysis, too.”

“The coroner’s not going to foot the bill,” I said.

“I’ll use my grant money.”

I was zipping my parka when Ryan came through the door.

What he told me sent my thoughts winging a one-eighty.

“MIRIAMFERRIS IS RELATED TOHERSHELKAPLAN?”

“Affinal tie.”

“Affinal.” I was having trouble wrapping my mind around Ryan’s statement.

“It’s a kinship term. Means linked by marriage.” Ryan gave his most boyish smile. “I use it in tribute to your anthropological past.”

I sketched a mental diagram of what he’d just said. “Miriam Ferris was married to Hershel Kaplan’s wife’s brother?”

“Former wife.”

“But Miriam denied knowing Kaplan,” I said.

“We asked about Kessler.”

“One of Kaplan’s known aliases.”

“Confusing, isn’t it?”

“If Kaplan was family, Miriam would have known him.”

“Presumably,” Ryan agreed.

“She’d have recognized him at the autopsy.”

“If she’d seen him.”

“You really think Kaplan is Kessler?” I asked.

“You were reasonably convinced by the mug shot.” Ryan was looking at the box on my table.

“Is Kaplan’s wife’s brother still alive?”

“Former wife. Before the divorce, Miriam’s husband would have been Kaplan’s brother-in-law. Anyway, the guy died of diabetic complications in ninety-five.”

“So Kaplan and his wife split, leaving him single. And Miriam’s husband died, leaving her single.”

“Yep. Ferris’s murder was a return engagement for the grieving widow. You’d think she’d be better at it. What’s in the box?”

“I’m taking Morissonneau’s skull to Bergeron for an opinion on the teeth.”

“His patients should love that.”

Ryan pulled his lips back in a ghoulish grimace.

I rolled my eyes.

“When did Miriam tie the knot with Avram Ferris?” I asked.

“Ninety-seven.”

“Pretty quick after her first husband’s death.”

“Some widows bounce right back.”

Miriam didn’t strike me as a bouncer, but I kept the thought to myself.

“How long has Kaplan been divorced?” I asked.

“The missus bailed during his second stretch at Bordeaux.”

“Ouch.”

“I checked Kaplan’s prison sheet. The guy caused no problems, appeared sincere in his desire to improve himself, got cut loose at half time.”

“So he has a parole officer?”

“Michael Hinson.”

“When was he released?”