Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“How do you know their conversation wasn’t strictly professional?”

“Female intuition.”

The delicate eyebrows rose. “That’s it?”

“The Men Are Pigs Theory.”

“ That’s not sexist?”

“Of course it is. But I have little else to go on.”

“Ease back, Tempe. You’re being hypersensitive.”

Deep down, I suspected that.

“Besides, from what you’ve said, they have nothing to compare.”

“According to The Theory, they make it up.”

She laughed her full, throaty laugh.

“Girlfriend, you are losing it.”

“I know. How’s the skull coming?”

Susanne had converted the CT scans, and would have the model ready by four on Monday.

As we parted, she pointed a long dark finger between my eyes.

“Sister. You need a good romp in the feathers.”

“I’ve got no romping buddy.”

“Sounds like you’ve got one too many.”

“Hm.”

“How ’bout a BOB?”

“O.K., I’ll bite. What’s a BOB?”

“Battery Operated Boyfriend.”

Susanne often presented an interesting take on life.

On Sunday, I received a call from Mateo Reyes. The FAFG leader reported good progress with the Chupan Ya victims. Only nine skeletons remained unidentified. I told him the Specter situation was under control, and that I would be returning as soon as I wrapped up my Montreal cases.

Mateo passed on an appeal from Ollie Nordstern. The reporter had been phoning daily, urgently wanted to speak with me. I was noncommittal.

Mateo had good news about Molly Carraway. The archaeologist had been released from the hospital and was returning with her father to Minnesota. A full recovery was expected.

Mateo also had sad news. Señora Ch’i’p had died in her sleep on Friday night. The Chupan Ya granny was sixty-one.

“You know what I think?” Mateo’s voice was unusually tight.

“What’s that?”

“I think that old lady forced herself to keep breathing just long enough to see proper burial for her babies.”

I agreed.

Disconnecting, I felt a warm trickle slide down each cheek.

“Vaya con Dios, Señora Ch’i’p.”

I backhanded a tear.

“We’ll take it from here.”

The torso bones were still soaking when I got to the lab on Monday. The morning meeting was surprisingly brief, the post-weekend lineup featuring only three cases: a stabbing in Laval; a tractor accident near St-Athanase; a suicide in Verdun.

I’d just placed the mummified head on my worktable when I heard a tap on the window. Ryan smiled at me from the corridor.

I pointed at the head and waved him away.

He tapped again. I ignored him.

He tapped a third time, harder. When I looked up, his badge was pressed to the glass.

Rolling my eyes, I got up and let him in.

“Feeling better?”

“I feel fine.”

Ryan’s gaze fell to the table.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to him?”

The thing was bizarre, measuring approximately six inches in diameter, with long dark hair and shriveled brown skin. The features looked like a bat imitating a human face. Pins projected from the lips, and frayed cording peeked from a hole in the tongue.

I positioned a magnifying glass so Ryan could see, moved it over the nose, cheeks, and jaws.

“What do you notice?”

“Tiny cuts.”

“The skin was peeled back for removal of the muscles. The cheeks are probably stuffed with some sort of fabric.”

I rotated the head.

“The base was damaged to extract the brain.”

“So what the hell is it?”

“A Peruvian trophy skull.”

Ryan looked at me like I’d just told him it was an alien star child.

“Most were made along the south coast between the first and sixth centuries A.D.”

“A shrunken head?”

“Yes, Ryan. A shrunken head.”

“How did it get from Peru to Canada?”

“Collectors love these things.”

“Are they legal?”

“They’ve been illegal in the States since ninety-seven. I’m not sure about Canada.”

“Have you ever seen one before?”

“I’ve looked at several fakes. Never a real one.”

“This is genuine?”

“It looks authentic to me. And the dental chipping suggests the little guy’s been kicking around awhile.”

I laid the trophy skull on the table.

“Authentication will be up to an archaeologist. What is it you want?”

Ryan continued to study the head.

“Your thoughts on the torso.”

He reached out and touched the hair, poked the cheek.

“Any septuagenarians missing upriver?”

“Oh, yeah?”

He looked up, wiped his hand on his jeans.

“I’ve only done a preliminary, but this guy’s got a lot of miles on him.”

“Probably not Clément?”

“Probably not.”

I picked up my calipers, but Ryan made no move to leave.

“Is there something else?”

“Galiano asked me to have a little heart-to-heart with naughty Chantale. Save him a trip. He suggested you might like to tag along.”

Tag along? A flicker of red.

Ryan pointed to the skull.

“Why the hole in the forehead?”

“Rope.”

“I hate it when that happens to me.”

I gave him the “spare me” face.

“The Specters are out of the picture for your septic tank case. Actually, with the Gutiérrez collar, it looks like the whole serial killer theory is sucking wind. But Galiano thought it couldn’t hurt to talk to the little princess.”

“Galiano phoned again?” Cool.

“This morning.”

“Has Gutiérrez confessed?”

“Not yet, but Galiano’s convinced he’ll give it up.”

“I’m glad he’s keeping you informed.”

“I’m here, he’s there. I’m doing the interrogation as a professional courtesy.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Yeah.”

“God bless gonads.”

“You’re a scientist, Brennan. You look at bones. I’m a cop. I question people.”

As I started to speak, Ryan’s beeper sounded. He slipped it off his waistband and checked the readout.

“Gotta go. Look, you don’t have to go on the Chantale visit. Galiano thought you’d like to be included.”

“When is this little outing?”

“I should be back from Drummondville by six.”

I shrugged. “Normally that’s when I watch the Shopping Channel.”

“Are you PMS, Brennan?”

“What?”

He feigned a self-defense maneuver with his hands.

“I’ll pick you up around five forty-five.”

“My heart’s thumping.”

“And Brennan.” Ryan jerked a thumb at the table. “Take a cue from our Peruvian friend. Quit while you’re a head.”

I spent the rest of the day with our Peruvian friend. X rays verified that the skull was human, not dog or bird, the species typically used by creators of fakes. I took photographs, wrote my report, then contacted the chair of the Anthropology Department at McGill University. He promised to track down the proper expert.

At two, Robert Gagné stopped by my office to say that the profiles would be ready shortly. I was as shocked at his pace with the cat hair as I’d been with Susanne’s with the cranial cast. Cops waited weeks for DNA results.

Gagné’s response was identical to Susanne’s. The project was out of the ordinary. It intrigued him. He’d run with it.

By three, I was on my way to St-Hubert.

By four-thirty, I was heading home, a replica of the Paraíso skull in a box on the seat beside me. The facial approximation was now up to me.

Traffic was heavy, and I moved ahead in starts and stops, alternately palming the gearshift and drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Gradually the starts succumbed to the stops. On the Victoria Bridge, they gave out altogether, and I sat fixed in place, surrounded by a four-lane automotive showroom.