Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

“I’ve lived a long time in Montreal. I know what went on in that building.”

“What building?”

“The one where those bones were hidden.”

The woman now had my full attention.

“The pizza parlor?”

“Now it is.”

“Yes?”

At that moment a bell shrilled, like those regulating movement in old school buildings.

The line went dead.

6

I JIGGLED THE BUTTON, TRYING TO GET THE SWITCHBOARD OPERATOR’S attention.

Nothing.

Damn!

Slamming the receiver, I raced for the elevator.

Susanne, the LSJML receptionist, lives in a small town halfway between Montreal and the Ontario border. Her daily commute involves a metro, a train, and timing more delicate than a space station linkup. At closing, Susanne is off like a shot. I hoped by some miracle to catch her in flight.

Lighted digits indicated the elevator was on thirteen.

Come on. Come on.

It took a month for the car to descend, another for the trip upstairs. On twelve, I bolted through the opening doors.

Susanne’s desk was deserted.

Praying that the informant had phoned back, and that the call had been rolled by the automatic night service to my voice mail, I rushed to my office.

The red light was flashing.

Yes!

A mechanical voice announced five messages.

My friend Anne in South Carolina.

Allô Police. Again.

The Gazette. Again.

A newcomer from CFCF news.

Ryan.

Mixed emotions. Curiosity that Anne had called. Relief that Ryan had tried to contact me. Frustration that my mysterious tipster had not. Fear that I’d lost the woman forever.

What was her name? Gallant? Ballant? Talent? Why hadn’t I asked that she spell it?

Flopping into my chair, I stared at the phone, willing the little square to light up and tell me a call had come into the system. I drummed the desktop. Pulled the phone cord. Allowed the spirals to curl back into place.

Why wasn’t the woman trying to reconnect? She had the number. Wait. Hadn’t she referred to an earlier call? Did she think I’d blown her off? That I’d hung up on her? Had she given up?

I opened the desk drawer. Rooted for a pen. Closed the drawer.

Hadn’t the caller mentioned something about leaving? Leaving home? The city? The province? For the day? For good?

I was dividing triangles into smaller triangles, berating myself for my carelessness, when my cell phone sounded. I flew to my purse and dug it out.

“Mrs. Gallant?”

“I’ve been called gallant, but never Mrs.”

Ryan.

“I thought you were someone else.”

I knew that was stupid as soon as I said it. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent had phoned through the switchboard. She couldn’t possibly know my private number.

“It shatters me to hear such disappointment in your voice.”

Resuming my seat, I smiled the first smile of the day. “You’re dazzling, Ryan. My disappointment has to do with a case.”

“What case?”

“The pizza basement skeletons.”

As we spoke I kept watch on the message light. One twinkle and I’d leap back into my voice mail.

“Did today bring the pleasure of Claudel’s company?”

“He was here.”

“Alone?”

“The rest of the Waffen SS couldn’t make it.”

“Claudel can be a little rigid.”

“Claudel is a Neanderthal. No. I sell the Paleolithic short. Neanderthals had fully sapient brains.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Claudel’s brain. He just tends to put a lot of weight on past experience and usual patterns. Where was Charbonneau?”

“Two prostitutes were assaulted. One died. The other is hanging on at the Notre-Dame Hospital.”

“I heard about that,” Ryan said.

Of course. A twinge of irritation.

“I believe the ladies’ business manager was invited in for questioning.”

“You would know.”

Ryan either ignored or missed the annoyance in my voice.

“What does Claudel want to do with your bones?”

“Unfortunately, very little.”

“I know what I’d like to do with your bones.”

“That didn’t top your agenda last night,” Doris piped up before I could stop her.

Ryan did not reply.

“All three skeletons are the remains of young girls,” I segued back.

“Recent?”

“Claudel relieved the owner of some buttons he claimed to have found with one set of bones. An expert at the McCord assessed them as nineteenth century.”

“Let me guess. Claudel’s not interested in what he sees as prehistoric?”

“Odd, since his head’s been up his ass since the Neolithic.”

“Having a bad day, sunshine?” The amusement in Ryan’s voice irked me. His failure to explain last night’s hasty departure irked me. My desire for an explanation irked me.

What was Anne’s philosophy? Never explain, never complain.

Right on, Annie.

“This week has not been a picnic,” I said, still staring at my desk phone. The little square remained frustratingly dark.

“Claudel’s a good cop,” Ryan said. “Sometimes he needs more convincing than we intuitively brighter types.”

“His mind is made up.”

“Change it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

A moment of silence. Ryan broke it.

“How old do you think these bones are?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure all three girls died at the same time.”

“Dental work?”

“None that I’ve noticed.”

More silence.

“Gut feeling?”

“The burials haven’t been in the basement that long.”

“Meaning?”

“We should be taking them seriously.”

Again, Ryan ignored my churlishness.

“On what do you base your gut feeling?”

I’d been asking myself that question for three days.

“Experience.”

I didn’t mention my recent mysterious informant. Or the brainless indifference with which I’d treated her.

“Well, sunshine—”

“Yes, cupcake.” I cut him off.

Pause.

“You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he’s wrong.” Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kindergartner.

Long pause, filled with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.

“I’m guessing tonight is not good for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I understand how tired and frustrated you are. Go home and take one of your famous bubble baths. Things’ll serve up better in the morning.”

When we’d disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.

There was no denying it. I’d been in Montreal three full days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.

And almost totally unavailable.

I didn’t need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.

And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.

I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.

I’d lived without Ryan. I would do so again.

I’d coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.

But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him just now?

Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.

I glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent wasn’t hitting her redial button.

“Screw bubbles,” I said, rocketing from my chair.

“And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are.”

By nine I’d finished with LSJML-38427, the skeleton from the first depression.

Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Sixty-four to sixty-seven inches tall. No odor, no hair, not a shred of soft tissue. Bones well preserved, but dry and discolored, with some soil infiltration. Postmortem cranial damage, including fragmentation of the right temporal area, right facial bones, and right mandibular ramus. No perimortem skeletal trauma. No dental work. No associated clothing or possessions. 38427 was a carbon copy of 38426.