Кэти Райх - Death Du Jour

Now and then I glanced at LaManche. He watched silently, his face its usual solemn mask. In the time I’d known the chief, I’d rarely seen him express emotion. LaManche has witnessed so much over the years, perhaps sentiment is just too costly for him. After some time, he spoke.

“If there is nothing for me to do here, Temperance, I will be upstairs.”

“Sure,” I responded, thinking of the warming sun. “I’ll be at this awhile.”

I looked at my watch. Ten past eleven. Behind LaManche I could see Sincennes and Martineau, creeping along shoulder to shoulder, heads down, like miners seeking a rich vein.

“Do you require anything?”

“I’m going to need a body bag with a clean white sheet inside. Be sure they put a flat board or a gurney tray under it. Once I get these fragments out I don’t want everything slumping together in transport.”

“Of course.”

I went back to troweling and screening. I was so cold I was shaking all over, and had to stop now and then to warm my hands. At one point the morgue transport team brought the tray and body bag. The last firemen left. The basement grew quiet.

Eventually, I had exposed the entire skeleton. I made notes and sketched its disposition, while Halloran took photos.

“Mind if I grab a coffee?” he asked when we’d finished.

“No. I’ll holler if I need you. I’ll just be transferring bones for a while.”

When he left I began to move the remains to the body bag, starting at the feet and working toward the head. The pelvis was in good condition. I picked it up and placed it on the sheet. The pubic symphyses were embedded in charred tissue. They would not need stabilizing.

The leg and arm bones I left encased in sediment. It would hold them together until I could clean and sort them in the autopsy room. I did the same with the thoracic region, carefully lifting out sections with a flat-blade shovel. Nothing of the anterior rib cage had survived, so I did not have to worry about damaging the ends. For now I left the skull in place.

When I had removed the skeleton, I began to screen the top six inches of sediment, starting at the southwest stake and working northeast. I was finishing the last corner of the square when I spotted it, approximately a foot and a half east of the skull, at a depth of two inches. My stomach did a little flip. Yes!

The jaw. Gingerly, I teased away soil and ash to reveal a complete right ascending ramus, a fragment of the left ramus, and a portion of the mandibular body. The latter contained seven teeth.

The outer bone was checked by a latticework of cracks. It was thin and powdery white. The spongy interior looked pale and brittle, as if each filament had been spun by a Lilliputian spider then left to air dry. The enamel on the teeth was already splintering, and I knew the whole thing would crumble if disturbed.

I took a bottle of liquid from my kit, shook it, and checked to be sure no crystals remained in the solution. I dug out a handful of five-milliliter disposable pipettes.

Working on hands and knees, I opened the bottle, unwrapped a pipette, and dipped it in. I squeezed the bulb to fill the pipette with solution, then allowed the fluid to drip onto the jaw. Drop by drop I soaked each fragment, watching to be sure I was getting good penetration. I lost all track of time.

“Nice angle.” English.

My hand jumped, splattering Vinac on the sleeve of my jacket. My back was stiff, my knees and ankles locked, so lowering my rear quickly was not an option. Slowly, I sat back on my haunches. I didn’t have to look.

“Thank you, Detective Ryan.”

He circled to the far side of the grid and looked down at me. Even in the dim light of the basement I could see that his eyes were as blue as I remembered. He wore a black cashmere coat and a red wool muffler.

“Long see, no time,” he said.

“Yes. No time. When was it?”

“The courthouse.”

“The Fortier trial.” We’d both been waiting to testify.

“Still dating Perry Mason?”

I ignored the question. The previous fall I’d briefly dated a defense attorney I’d met through my Tai Chi course.

“Isn’t that fraternizing with the enemy?”

I still didn’t answer. Obviously my sex life was a topic of interest to the homicide squad.

“How have you been?”

“Great. You?”

“Can’t complain. If I did, no one would listen.”

“Get a pet.”

“Could try that. What’s in the eyedropper?” he asked, pointing a leather-gloved finger at my hand.

“Vinac. It’s a solution of a polyvinyl acetate resin and methanol. The mandible is toast and I’m trying to keep it intact.”

“And that will do it?”

“As long as the bone is dry this will penetrate and hold things together pretty well.”

“And if it’s not dry?”

“Vinac won’t mix with water, so it’ll just stay on the surface and turn white. The bones will come out looking like they’ve been sprayed with latex.”

“How long does it take to dry?”

I felt like Mr. Wizard.

“It dries quickly through evaporation of the alcohol, usually in thirty to sixty minutes. Although being in the subarctic won’t speed things up.”

I checked the jaw fragments, hit one with a few more drops, then rested the pipette on the solution jar cover. Ryan came around and held out a hand. I took it and rose to my feet, wrapping my arms around my middle and tucking my hands under my pits. I could feel nothing in my fingers, and suspected my nose was the shade of Ryan’s scarf. And running.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit down here,” he agreed, surveying the basement. He held one arm behind him at an odd angle. “How long have you been down here?”

I looked at my watch. No wonder I was hypothermic. One-fifteen.

“Over four hours.”

“Che-rist. You’re going to need a transfusion.”

It suddenly dawned. Ryan worked homicide.

“So it’s arson?”

“Probably.”

He pulled a white bag from behind his back, withdrew a Styrofoam cup and a machine sandwich, and waggled them in front of me.

I lunged. He backed up.

“You’ll owe me.”

“It’s in the mail.”

Soggy bologna and lukewarm coffee. It was wonderful. We talked while I ate.

“Tell me why you think it’s arson,” I said as I chewed.

“Tell me what you’ve got here.”

O.K. He was a sandwich up.

“One person. Could be young, but it’s not a little kid.”

“No babies?”

“No babies. Your turn.”

“Looks like someone used the old tried and true. The fire burned in trails way down between the floorboards. Where there still are floorboards, that is. That means liquid accelerant, probably gasoline. We found dozens of empty gas cans.”

“That’s it?” I finished the sandwich.

“The fire had more than one point of origin. Once it started it burned like a son of a bitch, because it set off the world’s largest indoor collection of propane tanks. Big boom every time one went. Another tank, another big boom.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

“It started in the kitchen?”

“And the adjoining room. Whatever that was. Hard to tell now.”

I thought it over.

“That explains the head and jaw.”

“What about the head and jaw?”

“They were about five feet away from the rest of the body. If a propane tank fell through with the victim and exploded later, that could have caused the head to relocate after it burned away from the trunk. Same with the jaw.”

I finished the coffee, wishing I had another sandwich.

“Could the tanks have ignited accidentally?”

“Anything’s possible.”

I flicked crumbs from my jacket and thought of LaManche’s doughnuts. Ryan fished in the bag and handed me a napkin.