Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

Nor did I envy the day facing me.

I was not looking forward to a mummified head. I was not looking forward to a putrefied torso. I dreaded mediating the reunion between Chantale and her mother. It was one of those mornings I wished I’d taken a job with the telephone company.

Paid vacations. Great benefits. No corpses.

I was perspiring by the time I entered the lobby. The morning mix of smog, exhaust, and the cocktail emanating from the brewery had not helped my cranial vessels. My skull felt as though the contents had exceeded capacity and were pushing for a way out.

There’d been no coffee at the condo. As I displayed my buildingID to the scanner, passed through security gates, pushed for an elevator, swiped my lab card, and exited on the twelfth floor, that single word formed on my lips.

Coffee!

One more swipe, glass doors swished open, and I entered the medico-legal wing.

Offices lined the right side of the corridor, labs lay to the left. Microbiologie. Histologie. Pathologie. Anthropologie/Odontologie. Windows ran from ceiling to mid-wall, designed to maximize visibility without compromising security. Through the glass I could see that every lab was empty.

I checked my watch. Seven thirty-five. Since most support, technical, and professional personnel began their day at eight, I would have almost thirty minutes to myself.

With the exception of Pierre LaManche. For the decade I’d worked at the LSJML, the director of the medico-legal section had arrived at seven and stayed long after his staff clocked out. The old man was as dependable as a Timex watch.

He was also an enigma. LaManche took three weeks off each July, one week during the Christmas holidays. During these breaks, he called in to work from home each day. He did not travel, camp, garden, fish, or golf. He had no hobbies, to anyone’s knowledge. Though queried, LaManche politely refused to discuss his vacations. Friends and colleagues had quit asking.

My office is last in the row of six, directly across from the anthropology lab. This door requires a key.

A mountain of paper covered my desk. Ignoring it, I deposited my computer and case, grabbed my mug, and set off for the staff lounge.

As expected, LaManche’s was the only other door open. I poked my head in on the way back.

LaManche looked up, half-moon glasses on the end of his nose. Long nose. Long ears. Long face, with long, vertical creases. Mr. Ed in reading specs.

“Temperance.” Only LaManche used my full name. In his proper, formal French, the last syllable rhymed with sconce. “Comment ça va?”

I assured him I was well.

“Please, come in.” He flapped a huge, freckled hand at two chairs opposite his desk. “Sit down.”

“Thanks.” I balanced my coffee on the armrest.

“How was Guatemala?”

How do you summarize Chupan Ya?

“Difficult.”

“On many levels.”

“Yes.”

“The Guatemalan police were eager to have you.”

“Not everyone shared that enthusiasm.”

“Oh?”

“How much do you want to know?”

He removed the half-moons, tossed them onto the desktop, and leaned back.

I told him about the Paraíso investigation, and about Díaz’s efforts to block my participation.

“Yet this man did not interfere with your participation in the Claudia de la Alda case?”

“Never saw him.”

“Are there any suspects in that murder?”

I shook my head.

“The ambassador’s daughter and her friend are here, so only one young woman remains missing?”

“Patricia Eduardo.”

“And the septic tank victim.”

“Yes. Though that could be Patricia.”

Embarrassment must have shown on my face.

“You had no power to stop this Díaz.”

“I could have done a more thorough exam while I had the chance.”

We were silent for a moment.

“But I do have a couple of ideas.”

I told him about the cat hair sample.

“What do you hope to accomplish?”

“A profile might prove useful if a suspect is found.”

“Yes.” Noncommital.

“Dog hair nailed Wayne Williams for the Atlanta child murders.”

“Don’t be defensive, Temperance. I am agreeing with you.”

I swirled my coffee.

“It’s probably a dead end.”

“But if Monsieur Gagné is willing to profile the hair, why not?” I told him my plans for the CT scans.

“That sounds more promising.”

I hoped so.

“Did you find the two requests I left on your desk?”

LaManche referred to the Demande d’Expertise en Anthropologie, the form I receive as entrée into every case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it specifies the type of exam required, lists the personnel involved, and provides a brief overview of facts.

“The skull may not be human. In any case, it does not appear to be a recent death. The torso is another story. Please begin with that.”

“Any possibles?”

“Robert Clément is a small-time drug dealer in western Quebec who recently branched out on his own.”

“Without paying kickback to the Angels.”

LaManche nodded. “Can’t allow that.”

“Bad for business.”

“Clément came to Montreal in early May and vanished shortly thereafter. He was reported missing ten days ago.”

I raised my eyebrows. Bikers normally shunned the attention of law enforcement.

“An anonymous female caller.”

“I’ll get to it right away.”

Back in my office, I phoned Susanne Jean. She was not in, so I left a message.

Next I took the Paraíso sample to the DNA section. Gagné listened to my request, absently clicking a ballpoint pen.

“Intriguing question.”

“Yes.”

“Never done a cat.”

“Could be a place to make your name.”

“King of the Feline Double Helix.”

“Open niche.”

“Could call it Project Felix Helix.” The name of the cartoon cat sounded strange in French.

Gagné reached for Minos’s plastic container. “Shall I hold back a subsample?”

“Run everything. The Guatemalan lab has more.”

“Mind if I play around a bit, test a few techniques?”

“Knock yourself out.”

We signed evidence transfer forms, and I hurried back to my office.

Before facing the head and torso, I spent several minutes sifting through the mound on my blotter. I located LaManche’s request sheets, fished out the pink telephone slips, and shoved the rest aside. I was hoping for some sort of message from Ryan. Bienvenue. Welcome back. Glad you’re here. There’d been nothing at home.

Detectives. Students. Journalists. One prosecutor had phoned four times.

Zip from Ryan.

Great. Ryan had his sources. I had no doubt Sherlock knew I was back.

The headache swirled behind my right eye.

Giving up on the desk, I grabbed the Demande d’Expertise forms, slipped into a lab coat, and headed for the door. I was halfway there when my phone rang.

It was Dominique Specter.

“Il fait chaud.”

“It’s very hot,” I agreed, scanning one of LaManche’s forms.

“They say we may set a record today.”

“Yes,” I said absently. The skull had been found in a trunk. LaManche noted badly chipped teeth, and a cord laced through the tongue.

“It always seems so much hotter in the city. I do hope you have air-conditioning.”

“Yes, “ I answered, my mind on something more macabre than the weather.

“You are busy?”

“I’ve been away almost three weeks.”

“Of course. I do apologize for intruding on your time.” She paused, indicating appropriate contrition. “We can see Chantale at one o’clock.”

“Where is she?”