Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

21

IDON’T KNOW WHAT I EXPECTED. A H HAH ! HEAD SLAP! EPIPHANY! If so, I disappointed myself.

Other than evidence of disease, I found nothing in Hippo’s girl’s bones to alter my original age estimate, and nothing to exclude the possibility that she was sixteen. The nature of the skeletal pathology still baffled me.

At nine, I phoned a private DNA lab in Virginia. Bad news: prices had skyrocketed since I’d last used their services. Good news: I was permitted to submit samples as a private citizen.

After downloading and completing the proper forms, I packaged the Sprite can, the tissues, a molar, and a plug from the girl’s right femur. Then I went in search of LaManche.

The chief listened, fingers steepled below his chin. Évangéline. Obéline. Agent Tiquet. The Whalen brothers. Jerry O’Driscoll’s pawnshop. Tom Jouns.

LaManche raised some points for clarification. I answered. Then he called the coroner.

Hippo was right. No way, José.

I leveled with LaManche about my personal agenda. Reluctantly, he granted my request to pay for the tests out of pocket.

LaManche informed me I had one new case. Nothing urgent. Long bones had been found near Jonquiére. Probably old cemetery remains.

He updated me on the Doucet situation. The psychiatrist had concluded that Théodore was mentally incompetent. Since no cause of death could be established for Dorothée or Geneviève, charges were not being laid.

I outlined the cold cases Hippo and Ryan were working, and described my involvement in them. The MP’s, Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, and Anne Girardin. The DOA’s from the Rivière des Mille Îles, Dorval, and Lac des Deux Montagnes. The phone rang as I was explaining the possible link to Phoebe Jane Quincy.

LaManche raised two palms in apology. What can one do?

Back in my lab, I directed Denis to send the DNA samples by Federal Express. Then I phoned the lab and begged for expedition. The man said he’d do what he could.

I was grabbing my purse when I remembered one of LaManche’s questions.

“ Où se situe l’Île-aux-Becs-Scies?”

Where was it, indeed? I’d been unable to find the island anywhere in the New Brunswick atlas.

And what did the name mean? Island of what? Perhaps the maps I’d consulted used an English translation.

I pulled out my Harrap’s French-English dictionary.

I knew scie translated “saw.” I’d encountered the word countless times on requests for analysis of dismembered corpses. I wasn’t so sure about bec .

Lots of choices. Beak. Bill. Snout. Mouth. Nose (of tool). Nozzle (of tube). Lip (of jug). Spout (of coffeepot). Peak (of bicycle saddle). Mouthpiece (of clarinet).

Who can explain the French mind?

I checked for alternate meanings of scie.

Nope. Saw was pretty much it. Radial, wood, circular, hack, power, jig, turning, chain, scroll. Distinctions were handled with modifiers.

Island of Beaks Saws. Island of Snouts Saws. Island of Peaks of Bicycle Saddles Saws.

I gave up. Better to ask Hippo.

Cormier’s apartment was located a block from his studio, in a white-brick box lacking a single redeeming architectural detail. Air conditioners jutted from all four floors, whirring and dripping. Gold script above the glass entrance provided the building’s name: Château de Fougères.

Good concept, but nary a fern in sight.

Ryan’s Jeep was parked at the curb. Up the block I spotted a dark blue Taurus. The plate told me the vehicle was SQ.

The Chateau’s outer vestibule had collected the usual unwanted fliers and brochures. Stepping around them, I pressed the button beside Cormier’s name. Ryan buzzed me in.

The lobby was furnished with a brown plastic sofa and green plastic ferns. OK. I’d jumped to judgment on the flora.

I rode the elevator to the third floor. Doors stretched to my right and left along a gray-tiled corridor. I checked the number Ryan had given me: 307. The unit was unlocked.

The kitchen was to my right. Ahead was a parquet-floored living room. To my left a short hall gave onto a bedroom and bath. Mercifully, the place was small.

And clean. Every surface gleamed. The air smelled mildly of disinfectant.

Though heat and humidity fought for dominion outside, inside the temperature barely topped sixty-five. Cormier kept his AC cranked.

Terrific. After yesterday’s sweatshop, I’d worn a sleeveless top and shorts. I could feel squadrons of goose bumps gathering for action.

Ryan was in the bedroom talking to the same CSU techs who’d GPR’ed the dog in the barn. Chenevier was dusting for prints. Pasteur was rifling drawers. Ryan was searching the closet. Their faces looked tense.

We exchanged bonjour’ s.

“No Hippo?” I asked.

“He’s at the studio.” Ryan was checking the pockets of a very dingy trench coat. “I’ll roll that way when I finish here.”

“Finding anything?”

Ryan shrugged. Not really.

“The guy has some sweet electronics.” Chenevier chin-cocked the bedroom’s west wall. “Check it out.”

I returned to the living room.

The west end of the room was overfurnished with a discount-store chair-sofa-coffee-end-table grouping. The plasma TV was the size of a billboard.

A glass and steel workstation ran the length of the east wall and shot some distance up the north. On it sat a cable modem, a keyboard, a flatbed scanner, and a twenty-inch LCD monitor. A CPU tower occupied the corner on the floor.

I watched lights flicker on the modem, thinking. Something didn’t track. Cormier had high-speed Internet at home, but ran his business out of envelopes and manila folders?

The wireless mouse glowed red. I jiggled it and the monitor flashed to life. Blue background. Black cursor blinking in a rectangular white box.

“Does the search warrant cover the computer?” I called out.

“Yeah.” Ryan left the bedroom and joined me. “I spent a couple of hours trolling when I first arrived.”

“Cormier doesn’t use password protection?”

“Genius uses his last name.”

I moved aside. Ryan sat and hit a few keys. Notes sounded, and the screen changed to the familiar Windows desktop. The wallpaper was a cityscape, taken at night from an overlook on Mont Royal. The picture was good. I wondered if Cormier had snapped the shot.

I recognized most of the icons. Word. HP Director. WinZip. Adobe Photoshop. Others were unfamiliar.

Ryan right-clicked the green Start button on the bottom tool bar, then clicked on Explore, followed by My Documents . A list of files and dates filled the screen. Correspondence. Expenses. Mail Order. My Albums. My Archives. My eBooks. My Music. My Pictures. My Videos. Upcoming Events.

“I checked every folder, every file. Tracked what Internet history I could. I’m no expert, but it looks like a whole lot of harmless crap.”

“Maybe Cormier’s clean.”

“Maybe.” Ryan didn’t sound convinced.

“Maybe the guy’s just what he appears to be.”

“Which is?”

“A low-end photographer with a high-end PC.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe Cormier’s such a Luddite he got talked into buying way more than he needs.”

Ryan ducked his chin.

“It does happen,” I said.

“Cave canem.”

“Beware of the dog? You mean caveat emptor . Let the buyer beware. Both are Latin proverbs, not quotes.”

The way-too-goddamn-blue eyes held mine.

Something sparked in my chest. Ryan’s lips tightened.

We both looked away.

“I called Division des crimes technologiques.” Ryan changed the subject. “Guy should be here any time.”