Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

The designers of Montreal’s main courthouse didn’t bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smaller, glass-fronted box beneath. The upper stories shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.

I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies. Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.

Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the Café Vienne. Already wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.

Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in small interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.

I took a seat outside 4.01 and pulled the Pétit file from my briefcase. Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom. With her long blonde hair and oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.

“You’ll be my first witness.” Cloutier’s face was tense.

“I’m ready,” I said.

“Your testimony is going to be critical.”

Cloutier’s fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip. She’d wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizza basement caper had nixed that. Our late-night phone conversation hadn’t provided the degree of preparation she’d wanted. I tried to reassure her.

“I can’t tie the marks on the bones to Pétit’s specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool.”

Cloutier nodded. “Consistent with.”

“Consistent with,” I agreed.

“Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Pétit claimed he never laid eyes on that saw. An analyst from your lab is going to testify that she removed the handle and found minute traces of blood in one of the screw grooves.” I knew all of this from the previous night’s discussion. Cloutier was verbalizing the case against Pétit as much for her sake as for mine.

“A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Pétit’s. That ties him to the saw.”

“And I tie the saw to the victim,” I said.

Cloutier nodded. “This judge is a real pisser about qualifying experts.”

“Aren’t they all?”

Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. “The bailiff will call you in about five minutes.”

It was closer to twenty.

The courtroom was standard, nondescript modern. Gray-textured walls. Gray-textured carpet. Gray-textured fabric on long bolted benches. The only color was at center stage, inside the gates separating the spectators from the official players. Attorneys’ chairs upholstered in red, yellow, and brown. The blue, red, and white of the Quebec and Canadian flags.

A dozen people occupied the public benches. Eyes followed as I walked up the center aisle and took the stand. The judge was ahead and to my left, the jury straight ahead, facing me. Monsieur Pétit was to my right.

I have testified many times. I have faced men and women accused of monstrous crimes. Murder. Rape. Torture. Dismemberment. I am always underwhelmed by the accused.

This time was no exception. Rejean Pétit looked ordinary. Timid, even. The man could have been my uncle Frank.

The clerk swore me in. Cloutier rose and began questioning me from the prosecutor’s table.

“Please state your full name.”

“Temperance Deasee Brennan.”

We spoke into microphones suspended from the ceiling, our voices the only sound in the room.

“What is your profession?”

“I am a forensic anthropologist.”

“How long have you practiced that profession?”

“Approximately twenty years.”

“Where do you practice that profession?”

“I am a full professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I am forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec through the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, in Montreal, and for the state of North Carolina through the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, headquartered in Chapel Hill.”

“You are an American citizen?”

“Yes. I have a Canadian work permit. I split my time between Montreal and Charlotte.”

“Why is it that an American serves as forensic anthropologist for a Canadian province?”

“There is no Canadian citizen who is both board-certified in this field and fluent in French.”

“We’ll return to the question of board certification. Please describe your educational qualifications.”

“I hold a Bachelor of Arts degree in Anthropology from the American University in Washington, D.C. I hold MA and PhD degrees in Biological Anthropology from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois.”

Next followed an endless series of questions on my graduate studies, my thesis and doctoral topics, my research, my grants, my publications. Where? When? With whom? What journals? I thought she was going to ask the color of my panties the day I defended my dissertation.

“Have you authored any books, Dr. Brennan?”

I listed them.

“Do you belong to any professional associations?”

I listed them.

“Have you held office in any of those associations?”

I listed them.

“Are you certified by any regulatory body?”

“I am certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology.”

“Please tell the court what that means.”

I described the process of application, the examination, the ethics review, and explained the importance of certifying boards in assessing the competence of those offering themselves as experts.

“In addition to the medicolegal labs in Quebec and North Carolina, is there any other context in which you practice your profession?”

“I have worked for the United Nations, for the United States Military Central Identification Laboratory in Honolulu, Hawaii, as an instructor at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and as an instructor at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Training Academy in Ottawa, Ontario. I am a member of a United States National Disaster Mortuary Response Team. On occasion I consult for private clients.”

The jury sat motionless, either fascinated or comatose. Pétit’s lawyer was taking no notes.

“Please tell us, Dr. Brennan. What does a forensic anthropologist do?”

I spoke directly to the jury.

“Forensic anthropologists are specialists in the human skeleton. We are brought into cases, usually, though not always, by pathologists. Our expertise is sought when a normal autopsy, focusing on organs and soft tissue, either is not possible or is severely limited and the bones must be examined for answers to crucial questions.”

“What types of questions?”

“The questions usually focus on identity, manner of death, and postmortem mutilation or other damage.”

“How do you help with questions of identity?”

“By examining skeletal remains I am able to provide a biological profile, including the age, sex, race, and height of the deceased. In certain cases I am able to compare anatomical landmarks observed on an unknown individual with similar landmarks visible on the ante-mortem X-rays of a known individual.”

“Aren’t most identifications accomplished using fingerprints, dental records, or DNA?”

“Yes. But to utilize dental or medical information it is first necessary to narrow the number of possibles to the smallest ascertainable sample. With the anthropological profile, an investigating officer can review missing persons reports, come up with names, and obtain individual records for comparison with the data associated with the discovered remains. We often provide the first level of analysis of a completely unknown set of remains.”