Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“ Ben. You know the system, homicide cops gotta focus on fresh cases. They got time, they can look at old, unsolved ones. Problem is they never got time because people keep capping people. That’s where Cold Case comes in. We take files no one’s working.”

Hippo signaled a left, waited while three teens slouched through the crosswalk. Each wore clothing large enough to house the other two.

“Nineteen sixty to 2005 we got five hundred seventy-three dossiers non résolus in this province. Cold Case squad was created in 2004. Since then we’ve cleared six of those unsolved cases.”

Forty years. Six answers. Five hundred and sixty-seven victims’ families still waiting. That depressed me.

“How can so many get away with murder?”

Hippo hiked one shoulder. “Maybe there’s no evidence, no witnesses. Maybe someone screws up. Most investigations, you don’t score a viable lead the first couple days, the thing’s going nowhere. Years pass. The jacket fills up with forms saying ‘no new developments.’ Eventually, the detective decides it’s time to move on. Sad, but what’s one more unsolved killing?”

We were just blocks from the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome. I wondered if Ryan was somewhere behind us, returning to SQ headquarters. Wondered if he would stop by my office or lab.

Making a right onto Parthenais, Hippo kept talking.

“Some of these murder squad cowboys think we cold-casers been put out to pasture. That ain’t how I see it. My thinking, a killing’s no less important because it happened ten years back. Or twenty. Or forty. Ask me, cold case vics should be getting priority. They been waiting longer.”

Hippo swung into the Wilfrid-Derome lot, shot down a row of cars and braked beside my Mazda. Throwing the Impala into park, he turned to me.

“And you can double that for kids. The families of missing and murdered kids live in agony. Every year that anniversary rolls around, the day the kid disappeared or the body was found. Every Christmas. Every time the kid’s birthday pops up on the calendar. A dead kid’s just one big ugly wound that refuses to heal.” Hippo’s eyes met mine. “The guilt eats at ’em. What happened? Why? Why weren’t we there to save her? That kinda hell don’t ever go cold.”

“No,” I agreed, feeling a new appreciation for the man beside me.

Hippo reached through the space between us, snatched his jacket from the backseat, and dug out a small spiral pad. Taking a pen from the center console, he wet a thumb and flipped pages. After reading a moment, his eyes met mine.

“My main focus right now is this job with Ryan. And don’t get me wrong, forty years is a long time. Witnesses leave town, die. Same for relatives, neighbors, friends. Reports go missing. Evidence gets lost. Forget the crime scene, if you ever had one. You do manage to unearth something, no one’s gonna stop in their tracks to process it. No one’s gonna fork over money for fancy tests.”

Here comes the blow-off, I thought.

“But if nobody pushes, nothing gets done. That’s what I do. I push.”

I started to speak. Hippo wasn’t finished.

“You think someone messed with this Évangéline, that’s good enough for me. You think this skeleton might even be her, that’s good enough, too. If not, it’s still someone’s kid.”

Hippo’s eyes dropped back to his spiral. He thumbed again, scribbled, then tore a page free and handed it to me.

“This thing is a long way from dead. We got leads.”

I read what Hippo had written. The names Patrick and Archie Whalen, a Miramichi address, and a phone number with a 506 area code.

“Tiquet’s spray-paint artists?” I asked.

“Apparently the genre ain’t a rocket to upward mobility. Mopes are in their late twenties now, still living at Mom and Dad’s place. Give them a ring. I’m guessing they’ll be more open with you.”

Because I’m female? Anglophone? Civilian? Hippo’s reasoning didn’t matter. I couldn’t wait to get to a phone.

“I’ll call as soon as I get home.”

“Meantime, I’ll start working the kid and her family. Can’t be that many Évangélines and Obélines walking the planet.”

“Can’t be,” I agreed.

It was almost eight by the time I reached my condo. I could have devoured Vermont and still had room for dessert.

Birdie met me at the door. One sniff sent him under the couch. I took the hint.

As I stripped, Charlie sent wolf whistles down the hall.

“Nicest compliment I’ve had all day, Charlie.”

“Strokin’!”

“The only compliment I’ve had all day.”

Charlie whistled.

I started to answer.

It’s a cockatiel, Brennan.

After a long, hot shower, I checked the answering machine.

Four messages. Harry. One hang-up. Harry. Harry.

My freezer offered two choices. Miguel’s Mexican flag fiesta. Mrs. Farmer’s country chicken pot pie. I went with the pie. It had been a barnyard sort of day.

As my frozen entrée baked, I dug out the number Hippo had provided.

No answer.

I phoned Harry. Thirty minutes later I’d learned the following.

Marital lawyers in Houston are plentiful. Divorce costs a bucket. Arnoldo’s parts aren’t zip-a-dee-doo-dah. A real ass-waxing lay in the man’s future.

After disconnecting, I ate my pie, then tried the Whalen brothers again.

Still no answer.

Disappointed, I clicked on the news.

There’d been a pile-up on the Metropolitan, one dead, four injured. A judge had been indicted for money laundering. Health officials had grown concerned about bacteria plaguing the beach on Île Sainte-Hélène. Police had learned nothing about the disappearance of Phoebe Jane Quincy.

The only good news involved the weather. Rain was on the way and, with it, cooler temperatures.

Disheartened, I killed the set and checked the clock. Ten-twenty. What the hell. I dialed the Whalens one last time.

“Your dime.” English.

“Mr. Whalen?”

“Might be.”

“Am I speaking with Archie Whalen?”

“No.”

“Patrick?”

“Who’s this?”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m an anthropologist with the medico-legal lab in Montreal.”

“Uh-huh.” Wary or dull? I wasn’t sure.

“Am I speaking with Patrick Whalen?”

“Depends on what you’re peddling.”

“About five or six years ago, you and your brother purchased bones from a Miramichi pawnshop. Is that correct?”

“Where’d you get this number?”

“From an SQ cold case detective.”

“We bought that shit fair and square. Paid full asking.”

“Am I speaking with Patrick?”

“The name’s Trick.”

Trick?

“Are you aware that trafficking in human remains is illegal?”

“I may pee my shorts.” No question about IQ versus attitude there.

“We might be able to let the charges slide, Trick. Providing you cooperate with our investigation of the origins of that skeleton.” I wasn’t sure who “we” were, but it sounded more official.

“Already I’m breathing easier.”

OK, asshole. Let’s see how tricky you are.

“According to the police report, you claimed to have purchased the skeleton from a pawnbroker.”

“Yes.”

“Where did he get it?”

“I didn’t background the guy. We saw it in his shop, flashed on the idea of a death scene sculpture, something totally war zone, bones, bullets, lots of black and green paint.”

“You made no inquiries as to the source of the skeleton?”

“Guy said it came from an old Indian cemetery. What did we care?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Skulls, man. Rattlesnakes. Shrouds. Bleak mojo, know what I mean?”

A dead child. I tried to keep the distaste from my voice.