Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

With one difference. I’d seen this young lady in situ and knew something about burial context. LSJML-38427 had been placed naked in a pit in a fetal curl.

We of the Judeo-Christian persuasion send our dead packing in their Sunday best. We literally lay them out, legs extended, hands on the belly or straight down at the sides. The tucked sleeping posture is more typical of our precontact native brethren.

So. Did the curled posture support Claudel’s assumption of antiquity?

Not that simple.

A flexed body requires a smaller hole. Less digging. Less time and energy. Pit burial is also popular with those in a hurry.

Like murderers.

Exhausted, I wheeled the bones to their bay, changed, returned to my office, and rechecked the phone.

No messages.

By the time I clocked out, it was well past ten. Wind whipped around the corner of Wilfrid-Derome, slicing through my clothes like a blade. My breath billowed as I scurried to my car.

Throughout the drive, I could think of nothing but the girls in the morgue.

Had they died of illness? Had they been killed in a manner leaving no mark on their bones? Poisoning? Smothering?

Hypothermia?

At the Viger traffic light, two teenagers emerged from the shadow of the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Tattooed, pierced, and spiked, they raised squeegees with tense nonchalance. Nodding a go-ahead, I dug a dollar from my purse and watched as they scraped dirty water down my windshield.

Had the pizza basement girls been young rebels like these, marching toward nonconformity down prescribed paths? Had they been loners, abused by family tyrants? Runaways struggling to survive on the streets?

I’d found not a single indicator of clothing. Granted, natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool deteriorate quickly. But why no zipper tooth? Eyelet? Bodice fastener? Bra hook? These girls had been stripped before being hidden in anonymous graves.

Had they died together? Over a span of months? Years?

And always, the central question: When? A decade ago? A century?

By the time I reached home, a headache was cranking into high gear, and I was hungry enough to eat Lithuania. Except for granola bars and diet sodas, I’d consumed nothing all day.

After showering, I nuked a frozen Mexican dinner. As I dined with Letterman, I thought about Anne. Anne would understand. Let me vent. Say comforting things. I’d just collected the handset, when it rang in my hand.

“How’s Birdie?” Anne.

“You’re calling about my cat?”

“I don’t think the little guy gets enough attention.”

The little guy was beside me on the couch, staring at the sour cream oozing from my burrito remains.

“I’m sure Bird would agree.”

Setting my dinner on the coffee table, I scooped a dollop of cream and offered a finger. Birdie licked it clean and refocused on the plate.

“How about you?”

I was lost. “How about me what?”

“Are you getting enough attention?”

Though Anne has the instincts of a NAVSAT, she couldn’t have known of my anxiety over Ryan.

“I was just about to call you,” I said.

“I’m not,” she continued, not really listening to my answer.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tom-Ted.”

Anne is married to an attorney named Tom Turnip. When Tom was a second-year associate with his firm, a senior partner had addressed him as Ted for an entire month. He’d been Tom-Ted ever since.

“What about TT?”

“Guess?”

Though I wanted to be sympathetic, I was far too exhausted for puzzles.

“Please just tell me.”

“Good idea. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

7

EIGHT HOURS LATER MY STATE OF MIND WAS MUCH IMPROVED. The headache was gone. The sun was shining. My best friend was coming.

Maybe. Anne has a way of changing her mind.

Speaking of changing minds, Ryan was right. Evidence as to postmortem interval, or PMI, was at the heart of the debate with Claudel.

Crunching cornflakes, I considered the problem.

At this point I knew 38426 and 38427 had come from shallow graves in a dry basement. The skeletons were devoid of flesh but well preserved, with no surface cracking or flaking.

Mental checklist. What other data are useful for pinpointing PMI with dry bones?

Deterioration of associated materials. I had none.

Analysis of insect inclusions. I had none.

Bird nosed toward my cereal, hoping to score milk. I displaced him to a chair.

Should I move on to 38428, or should I focus on establishing PMI?

Birdie oozed back onto the table. Again, I lifted him down.

If I found evidence that the burials were old, I could relax and notify the archaeologists. On the other hand, if I found evidence that the deaths were recent, as I suspected, the coroner would insist on an investigation, and Claudel would have no choice. He and Charbonneau could start the legwork while I analyzed the third set of remains.

As I poured coffee, Birdie launched a third sortie. I relocated him again, somewhat less gently.

OK. I had no artifacts or bugs. What options did that leave?

I knew that the elemental composition of bone changes over time. The amount of nitrogen decreases, the amount of fluoride increases. But these shifts are too slow to be of use in evaluating the age of modern remains.

I’d read studies that focused on radiography, histology, chemical reaction, and isotope content. I was aware of research that pointed to amino acids as useful in distinguishing recent from ancient bone.

But a myriad of factors influence biochemical and physical processes. Temperature. Ground moisture. Oxygen tension. Microbial activity. Soil pH. No technique is reliably accurate. Once the flesh and bugs move on, PMI becomes the Bermuda Triangle of forensic anthropology.

I could think of only one test that might yield definitive results. But it would take time and cost money, and only a handful of labs performed it. Given the current financial climate, I knew it would be a hard sell to LaManche.

But it was worth a shot.

Placing my bowl on the floor, I gathered my purse and laptop and set off.

In my office, the message light remained obstinately dark.

The morning meeting was routine. A man dead of fumes from a malfunctioning space heater. An alcohol-related traffic death. An autoerotic with a faulty escape knot in his noose. A charred body in a burned-out motor home.

Pelletier caught the fire victim. Though the remains were thought to be those of the trailer’s owner, he asked that I be available in case things got dicey.

As the others filed out, I turned to LaManche.

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“Mais, oui.” LaManche folded back into his seat.

“I’ve examined two of the skeletons from the pizza parlor basement.”

When LaManche raised his brows, the lines in his flesh elongated and deepened. He seemed suddenly older, more worn than I remembered. Was it the cold morning light from the windows behind me? Was LaManche unwell? Had I simply not noticed until this moment?

“The two victims I’ve examined are young and female,” I said. “I’m certain the third is a young woman as well.”

“You use the word ‘victim.’”

“They’re kids and they’re dead.”

LaManche’s melancholy eyes did not flinch at my sharpness.

“But I’ve found no signs of violence,” I admitted.

“Monsieur Claudel feels these remains are probably not recent.”

“The restaurant owner found buttons that could be nineteenth century.”

“Could be?” The brows rose again.

“Claudel took them to the McCord.”

“You are unconvinced?”

“Even if the buttons are genuine, it’s unclear whether they were associated with any of the skeletons. Their presence in the basement could have any number of explanations.”