Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“So it is dangerous to be around lepers?”

“Leprosy is neither fatal nor highly infectious. It’s a chronic condition communicable only to persons with a genetic predisposition, probably about five percent of the population. But that wasn’t known in the nineteenth century.”

“So they banished people?”

“In 1844, the New Brunswick government passed legislation mandating the isolation of anyone showing symptoms of leprosy. A board of health was named and authorized to visit, examine, and remove from their homes people suspected of being infected. Sheldrake was chosen because there were a few ramshackle buildings on the island.”

“Like that place in Hawaii.”

“Molokai. Yes. Only Sheldrake was worse. The sick were abandoned with little food, only crude shelter, and virtually no medical care. The colony existed for five years. Of the thirty-seven patients admitted, fifteen died and were buried on the island.”

“ What happened to the rest?”

“A handful escaped. One was a ten-year-old kid.”

Barnabé Savoie. His story had almost made me cry. Terrified, the child had fled Sheldrake for the only haven he knew. Home. Barnabé was taken from his father at gunpoint, bound with ropes, and hauled back to the island.

“They put kids out there?”

“Many. Babies were born on Sheldrake.”

“ Crétaque! These escapees, they get caught?”

“Most were rounded up and returned to the island. After that, even worse restrictions were imposed. All the sick were confined to one building, boundaries were set around it, and time was limited for fresh air and exercise. An armed guard was hired to enforce the new regulations.”

An image flashed in my head. Children with twisted features and rag-wrapped fingers. Coughing. Weeping for their mothers. I willed it away.

“What about the others, the ones that survived?”

“I’m not sure what happened to them. I’m going to do more research.”

“What’s this got to do with Gaston’s skeleton?”

“The girl had leprosy.”

I heard rattling. Pictured Hippo switching ears, considering the implications of my statement.

“You’re saying the kid died a hundred and sixty years ago?”

“It looks that way.”

“So that’s the end of it.”

“I know an archaeologist on faculty at UNB in Fredericton. Once the remains have been officially cleared for release, I can give her a call.”

Something banged, then a voice called out in the background.

“Hold on.”

The connection muffled as Hippo must have pressed the phone to his chest. When he reengaged, his voice was jazzed.

“You still there?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t believe this.”

27

“SOMEONE POPPED OUR FAVORITE PHOTOGRAPHER.”

“Cormier?”

“Body was spotted early this morning behind a warehouse near the Marché Atwater. Two slugs to the back of the head. Ryan just left the scene. Says Cormier was capped elsewhere, then dumped. Time line points to sometime after midnight.”

“Jesus. Is he there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I heard rattling, then Ryan came on the line.

“Whole new twist,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“In all the uproar over the Anne Girardin exhumation, I forgot to tell you that I heard from Dr. Suskind.”

“Uh-huh.” I could tell Ryan was hardly listening.

“Suskind is the marine biologist at McGill. Her findings on the Lac des Deux Montagnes case are complicated.”

“Summarize.”

“She recovered diatoms from the outer bone surface, but not from the marrow cavity.”

“Meaning?”

“Either the girl was dead when she hit the river, she drowned elsewhere in treated water, she drowned before April, she hyperventilated and died quickly, or Suskind’s recovery technique was flawed.”

“Terrific.”

“Suskind did learn something useful. The diatom assemblages found on the sock best match a control sample collected at the bottom of a boat ramp in a park not far from where the body was snagged off L’Île-Bizard.”

“Say that again.”

I did.

“Could be where the vic went into the water,” Ryan said.

“Or a spot the body hung up for a while. Anything further on the ID?”

“I floated an interagency query about female white-Indian or white-Asian teenaged MP’s. Nothing yet.”

“Any success locating Adelaide Girardin?”

“I’m running some leads. But right now Cormier’s taking center stage. Hit fell to me because he’s a player in the Phoebe Quincy disappearance.”

“Have you told Phoebe’s parents?”

“No. I’m really looking forward to that conversation. Cormier was all we had. But the good news is his murder gives us the thumb drive. All that subpoena crap is now history.”

I started to speak, halted. Ryan picked up on my hesitation.

“What?”

“Your plate’s already full.”

“Tell me.”

“It may be nothing.”

“Let me decide.”

“I mentioned it to Hippo, but thought maybe you’d want a heads-up, too.”

“You plan to get to it sometime today?” Friendly enough.

I described the anonymous phone call at the lab, and the e-mail containing the photo and Death lyrics.

“Fernand Colbert hit a dead end tracing the call. He’s not optimistic about the e-mail.”

“You’re thinking one of the two slugs who hassled you in Tracadie?”

“Who else could it be?”

“You have a way of irking people.”

“I work on it.”

“You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Leave this to me.”

“My hero.”

Humor intended. Neither of us laughed. New topic.

“I’ve resolved the issue of Hippo’s girl,” I said, unconsciously using my nickname for the case.

“Hippo’s girl?”

“The skeleton I ordered confiscated by the coroner in Rimouski. The one that had upset Hippo’s friend Gaston.”

“Yeah?”

“The bones are probably old.”

“Not your lost chum.”

“No. When you have time, I’ll fill you in. Or Hippo can.”

“You two kiss and make up?”

“Hippo’s not one to bear grudges.”

“Unload, move on. Healthy.”

“Yes.”

Again, awkwardness hummed across the line.

“Tell Hippo I’ll help with Cormier’s files tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know what I dig up on these Tracadie thugs.”

He did. Sooner than I would have imagined possible.

Sunday morning, the long-promised rain finally arrived. I awoke to water streaking my bedroom windows, warping the courtyard and the city beyond. Wind tossed the branches of the tree outside, now and then mashed a leaf into the screening with a soft ticking sound.

While Harry slept, I set off for Cormier’s studio.

As I drove across town, my wipers slapped a rubbery beat on the windshield. My thoughts kept time to the rhythm of the blades. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead.

I didn’t yet know the reason for the photographer’s murder. Knew it wasn’t good news.

Sliding to the curb on Rachel, I raised the hood on my sweatshirt and sprinted. The building’s outer door was unlocked. The inner door was propped open with a rolled copy of Le Journal de Montréal . I assumed Hippo was already at work.

Brushing water from my hair, I crossed the dingy lobby. A sign hung on the door of Dr. Brigault’s dental office. Fermé. Closed.

I started climbing toward the second floor. The storm made the stairwell seem darker, more menacing than on my previous visit. The erratic wind filled it with a hollow, ululating whine.

As I continued upward, the narrow passage grew dimmer and dimmer. I stopped, allowed my brain to take this in. What little light was penetrating was doing so from below.