Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

Stepping onto the curb, Cheech made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and aimed it in our direction. “And be careful with those fine wheels.”

Driving off, I glanced into the rearview mirror. The men were still standing on the sidewalk, watching our departure.

On the plane, Harry and I again discussed Obéline, and speculated about our encounter with Cheech and Chong.

“Testosterone weenies trying to impress.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said.

“Probably amuse themselves making fart noises under their armpits.”

I wasn’t convinced that it was that casual.

The men knew we’d visited Obéline. Knew we’d come from Montreal. How? Had they been following us? Was Cheech’s parting comment a threat or merely a macho adieu? Not wishing to alarm, I kept these concerns to myself.

Back at the condo, Birdie remained hidden, cheesed off at having been left alone. I was dumping my overnighter on my bed when Harry called out.

“Your bird’s a Korn fan?”

“What did he say?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Though Charlie’s quips weren’t always approved for all audiences, I couldn’t help but admire the breadth of his material. I was transporting him to the dining room when my cell phone chirped.

Depositing the cage, I checked the screen. No caller ID.

I clicked on.

“How’s it going?” Ryan sounded tired.

“Good.” Neutral.

“Got a minute?”

“Hang on.”

“Do you have everything you need?” I asked Harry.

She mouthed “Ryan?”

I nodded.

She arm-pumped “Yes!”

Shaking my head, I walked to my bedroom and closed the door.

“Do you listen to Korn?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Black Eyed Peas?”

“No. Why?”

“Never mind.”

“Someone there at your place?”

Ryan was good. Two queries in one casual question. Am I home? Am I alone?

“Harry’s here.”

“Unplanned trip?” Query three.

“She’s split with her husband.”

I heard a deep inhalation followed by a slow exhalation. Ryan was smoking. That meant he was anxious. Or angry. I braced for a rant about my trip to Tracadie. It didn’t come.

“I need your help.”

I waited.

“Warrant came through, so we tossed Cormier’s studio. Took all friggin’ day to get through maybe an eighth of the file cabinets. Guy’s got crap going back decades.”

“He doesn’t store his images digitally?”

“Dickhead thinks he’s Ansel Adams. Claims digital can’t capture the same ethereal quality as film. Uses a Hasselblad that went out of production sometime in the eighties. The guy’s probably too thick to keep up with technology.”

“There are other photographers who agree with him.”

“Cormier does mostly portraits. Couples. Pets. Lots of women. Glamour shots. You know, heavy makeup, big hair.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You should try that. Maybe with a boa.”

“Is that what you called to tell me?”

“Cormier also did kids. Hundreds of them.”

“Phoebe Jane Quincy?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Kelly Sicard?”

“No.”

I didn’t ask about Claudine Cloquet or Anne Girardin.

Ryan dragged smoke into his lungs, released it. I waited for him to get to the point.

“I want you to browse through the kiddie shots. See if you spot any of my MP’s. Or the kid recovered from the Dorval riverbank.”

“Her photo was circulated in 2001 when the body was found.”

“It was an autopsy pic. People tune out.”

Ryan was right. And I’d seen it go both ways. Next of kin giving a positive on a body that wasn’t a relative, or failing to recognize one that was.

“You know bones.” Ryan was still talking. “Facial architecture. You see someone resembling one of my MP’s or DOA’s, maybe at a younger age, maybe all vamped up, you could do that thing you do with surveillance tapes.”

Ryan was referring to a technique in which images are compared metrically, one of a known suspect, another of a perpetrator caught on camera. Measurements are taken between anatomical landmarks, ratios are calculated, and statistical probabilities are computed as to whether the suspect under arrest and the perp caught on tape are the same individual.

“Anthropometric comparison.”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose it’s worth a shot. I could also dig out the facial approximation we did on the girl recovered from the Rivière des Mille Îles.”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“You really think Cormier is dirty?”

“The guy’s a sleaze.”

“What about his home?”

“Judge says get something from that studio linked to one of these kids. Then he’ll cut paper.”

I opened my bedroom door. Coincidentally, Harry just happened to be passing by.

“Your evidence.” She held up her purse. Quickly.

“Lame.”

“Are you suggesting I was eavesdropping?”

“I’ll get some ziplocks.”

When I returned from the kitchen, Harry was sitting cross-legged on my bed. Reversing each baggie over my hand, I removed the can, then the tissues from Harry’s purse.

“You’ve done some doggie-poop scooping,” Harry observed.

“I’m multitalented.”

“I’ve got something else.”

Reclaiming her purse, Harry pulled an object from the side pocket and laid it on the bed.

The significance didn’t register at first. I picked the thing up.

And felt a buzz of excitement.

“Where did you get this?”

“Obéline’s bedside table.”

19

IWAS HOLDING A SMALL BOOK WITH A DELICATE GREEN RIBBON curling from the binding. The cover was red. The lettering was black.

Bones to Ashes: An Exultation of Poems.

“Looks like one of those sixties things quoting Mao,” Harry said.

“You stole this?”

“I liberated it.” Sanctimonious. “Mao would approve.”

I turned back the cover. The pages were grainy and yellow, the same cheap paper used in comic books. The print was faded and fuzzy.

No author. No date. No ISBN number. Besides the title, the volume’s only identifier was the name of the publisher. O’Connor House.

I flipped to the last page. Sixty-eight. Blank.

I opened to the ribbon. It was marking a poem titled the same as the collection.

“It’s poetry, Tempe.” Harry’s body language told me she was pumped.

“I’ve never heard of O’Connor House. Could be a vanity press.”

“What’s that?”

“A vanity press charges the author for printing and binding.”

Harry looked confused.

“A commercial publisher’s intended market is the general public. A vanity press’s intended market is the author him-or herself.”

The heavily mascaraed eyes widened.

“OK. That computes. Évangéline wanted to be a poet, right?”

“Right.”

“What if she’s the author?”

I looked at Harry’s excited face.

“We have absolutely no reason to believe that’s so,” I said, knowing I was about to hear one of my sister’s imaginative but virtually baseless hypotheses.

“Any guess why I snitched this particular little volume?”

I shook my head.

“Did you notice the books in that parlor?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “’Course not. You were parlay-voo-ing. But I did. There were dozens. Scores. Every last one in French. Same in the bedroom. Which, don’t get your gizzard twirling, I had to traverse to get to the loo. The one and only English book in that whole place was this one. And it was lying right by Obéline’s bed.”

“What’s your point?”

“One lonely little English paperback? Right there at her bedside?”

“That hardly means—”