Reichs, Kathy: Death Du Jour

It suddenly dawned. Ryan worked homicide.

“So it’s arson?”

“Probably.”

He pulled a white bag from behind his back, withdrew a Styrofoam cup and a machine sandwich, and waggled them in front of me.

I lunged. He backed up.

“You’ll owe me.”

“It’s in the mail.”

Soggy bologna and lukewarm coffee. It was wonderful. We talked while I ate.

“Tell me why you think it’s arson,” I said as I chewed.

“Tell me what you’ve got here.”

O.K. He was a sandwich up.

“One person. Could be young, but it’s not a little kid.”

“No babies?”

“No babies. Your turn.”

“Looks like someone used the old tried and true. The fire burned in trails way down between the floorboards. Where there still are floorboards, that is. That means liquid accelerant, probably gasoline. We found dozens of empty gas cans.”

“That’s it?” I finished the sandwich.

“The fire had more than one point of origin. Once it started it burned like a son of a bitch, because it set off the world’s largest indoor collection of propane tanks. Big boom every time one went. Another tank, another big boom.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

“It started in the kitchen?”

“And the adjoining room. Whatever that was. Hard to tell now.”

I thought it over.

“That explains the head and jaw.”

“What about the head and jaw?”

“They were about five feet away from the rest of the body. If a propane tank fell through with the victim and exploded later, that could have caused the head to relocate after it burned away from the trunk. Same with the jaw.”

I finished the coffee, wishing I had another sandwich.

“Could the tanks have ignited accidentally?”

“Anything’s possible.”

I flicked crumbs from my jacket and thought of LaManche’s doughnuts. Ryan fished in the bag and handed me a napkin.

“O.K. The fire had multiple points of origin and there’s evidence of an accelerant. It’s arson. Why?”

“Got me.” He gestured at the body bag. “Who’s this?”

“Got me.”

Ryan headed upstairs, and I went back to the recovery. The jaw was not quite dry, so I turned my attention to the skull.

The brain contains a large amount of water. When exposed to fire, it boils and expands, setting up hydrostatic pressure inside the head. Given enough heat, the cranial vault may crack or even explode. This person was in pretty good shape. Though the face was gone and the outer bone was charred and flaking, large segments of the skull were intact. I was surprised, given the intensity of this fire.

When I cleaned away the mud and ash and looked closely, I saw why. For a moment I just stared. I rolled the skull over and inspected the frontal bone.

Sweet Jesus.

I climbed the ladder and poked my head into the kitchen. Ryan stood by the counter talking with the photographer.

“You’d better come down,” I said.

They both raised eyebrows and pointed to their chests.

“Both of you.”

Ryan set down the Styrofoam cup he was holding.

“What?”

“This one may not have lived to see the fire.”

4

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON BEFORE THE LAST OF THE BONE WAS packaged and ready for transport. Ryan watched as I carefully extracted and wrapped the skull fragments and placed them in plastic containers. I would analyze the remains at the lab. The rest of the investigation would be his baby.

Dusk was easing in when I emerged from the basement. To say I was cold would be like saying Lady Godiva was underdressed. For the second day in a row I finished the afternoon with no feeling in any digit. I hoped amputation would not be necessary.

LaManche was gone, so I rode to Montreal with Ryan and his partner, Jean Bertrand. I sat in back, shivering and asking for more heat. They sat up front, sweating, now and then removing an article of outerwear.

Their conversation wafted in and out of my consciousness. I was fully drained and just wanted to take a hot bath and crawl into my flannel nightgown. For a month. My mind drifted. I thought about bears. There was an idea. Curl up and sleep until spring.

Images floated in my head. The victim in the basement. A sock dangling over singed and stiffened toes. A nameplate on a tiny casket. A happy-face sticker.

“Brennan.”

“What?”

“Good morning, starshine. Earth says ‘Hello.’”

“What?”

“You’re home.”

I’d been sound asleep.

“Thanks. Talk to you on Monday.”

I stumbled from the car and up the stairs of my building. A light snow was topping the neighborhood like frosting on a sticky bun. Where did so much snow come from?

The grocery situation had not improved, so I ate soda crackers spread with peanut butter and washed them down with clam chowder. I found an old box of Turtles in the pantry, dark chocolate, my favorite. They were stale and hard, but I was not in a position to be choosy.

The bath was all I’d hoped it would be. Afterward, I decided to light a fire. I was finally warm, but felt very tired and very alone. The chocolate had been some comfort, but I needed more.

I missed my daughter. Katy’s school year was divided into quarters, my university was on a semester system, so our spring breaks did not coincide. Even Birdie had stayed south this trip. He hated air travel and voiced that opinion loudly through each flight. Since I’d be in Quebec less than two weeks this time, I’d decided to spare both the cat and the airline.

As I held the match to the starter log I considered fire. Homo erectus first tamed it. For almost a million years we’d been using it to hunt, cook, keep warm, and light our way. That had been my last lecture before break. I thought of my students in North Carolina. While I’d been searching for Élisabeth Nicolet, they’d been taking their midterm exam. The little blue books would arrive here tomorrow by overnight delivery, while the students split for the beaches.

I turned off the lamp and watched the flames lick and twist among the logs. Shadows danced around the room. I could smell pine and hear moisture hiss and pop as it boiled to the surface. That’s why fire has such appeal. It involves so many senses.

I synapsed back to childhood Christmases and summer camps. Such a dicey blessing, fire. It could give solace, rekindle gentle memories. But it could also kill. I did not want to think about St-Jovite anymore tonight.

I watched snow gather on the windowsill. My students would be planning their first beach day by now. While I was fighting frostbite, they were preparing for sunburn. I didn’t want to think about that, either.

I considered Élisabeth Nicolet. She’d been a recluse. “ Femme contemplative ,” the plaque had said. But she hadn’t done any contemplating for over a century. What if we had the wrong casket? Something else I didn’t want to think about. At least for tonight, Élisabeth and I had little in common.

I checked the time. Nine-forty. Her sophomore year Katy was voted one of the “Beauties of Virginia.” Though she maintained a grade point average of 3.8 while working on dual degrees in English and psychology, she’d never been a slouch socially. Not a chance she’d be home on a Friday night. Ever the optimist, I brought the phone to the hearth and dialed Charlottesville.

Katy answered on the third ring.

Expecting her voice mail, I stuttered something unintelligible.

“Mom? Is that you?”

“Yes. Hello. What are you doing home?”

“I’ve got a zit on my nose the size of a hamster. I’m too ugly to go out. What are you doing home?”

“There is no way you are ugly. No comment on the zit.” I settled against a cushion and put my feet up on the hearth. “I’ve spent two days digging up dead people and I’m too tired to go out.”