Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

“How do you know that?”

“LaManche was able to draw fluid samples from the bodies in the bedroom. Toxicology found celestial levels of Rohypnol.”

“Rohypnol?”

“I’ll let him tell you about it. It’s called the date rape drug or something because it’s undetectable to the victim and knocks you flat on your ass for hours.”

“I know what Rohypnol is, Ryan. I’m just surprised. It’s not so easy to come by.”

“Yeah. That could be a break. It’s banned in the U.S. and Canada.”

So is crack, I thought.

“Here’s another weird thing. It wasn’t Ward and June Cleaver up in that bedroom. LaManche says the guy was probably in his twenties, the woman closer to fifty.”

I knew that. LaManche had asked my opinion during the autopsy.

“Now what?”

“We’re heading back out there to take the other two buildings apart. We’re still waiting for word from the owner. He’s some kind of hermit buried in the Belgian boonies.”

“Good luck.”

Rohypnol. That kindled something way down in my memory cells, but when I tried to bring it up the spark went out.

I checked to see if the slides for Pelletiér’s malnourished baby case were finished. The histology tech told me they’d be ready tomorrow.

I then spent an hour examining the cremains. They were in a jelly jar with a handwritten label stating the name of the decedent, the name of the crematorium, and the date of cremation. Not typical packaging for North America, but I knew nothing of practices in the Caribbean.

No particle was over a centimeter in size. Typical. Few bone fragments survive the pulverizers used by modern crematoriums. Using a dissecting scope, I was able to identify a few things, including a complete ear ossicle. I also located some small bits of twisted metal that I thought might be parts of a dental prosthesis. I saved them for the dentist.

Typically, an adult male will be reduced by firing and pulverization to about 3,500 cc’s of ash. This jar contained about 360. I wrote a brief report stating that the cremains were those of an adult human, and that they were incomplete. Any hope at personal identification would lie with Bergeron.

At six-thirty I packed up and went home.

6

ÉLISABETH’S SKELETON TROUBLED ME. WHAT I’D SEEN JUST couldn’t be, but even LaManche had spotted it. I was anxious to resolve the question, but the next morning a set of tiny bones by the sink in the histo lab commanded my attention. The slides were also ready, so I spent several hours on Pelletiér’s baby case.

Finding no other requisition on my desk, at ten-thirty I phoned Sister Julienne to find out as much as I could about Élisabeth Nicolet. I asked her the same questions I’d posed to Father Ménard, with similar results. Élisabeth was “ pure laine .” Pure-wool québécoise. But no papers directly establishing her birth or parentage.

“What about outside the convent, Sister? Have you checked other collections?”

“Ah, oui . I’ve researched all the archives in the archdiocese. We have libraries throughout the province, you know. I’ve gotten materials from many convents and monasteries.”

I’d seen some of this material. Most was in the form of letters and personal journals containing references to the family. A few were attempts at historical narrative, but were not what my dean would call “peer reviewed.” Many were purely anecdotal accounts, made up of hearsay on top of hearsay.

I tried a different tack. “Until recently, the church was responsible for all birth certificates in Quebec, correct?” Father Ménard had explained that.

“Yes. Until just a few years ago.”

“But none can be found for Élisabeth?”

“No.” There was a pause. “We’ve had some tragic fires over the years. In 1880 the Sisters of Notre Dame built a beautiful motherhouse on the side of Mount Royal. Sadly, it burned to the ground thirteen years later. Our own motherhouse was destroyed in 1897. Hundreds of priceless documents were lost in those fires.”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

“Sister, can you think of anywhere else I might find information on Élisabeth’s birth? Or on her parents?”

“I . . . well, you could try the secular libraries, I suppose. Or the historical society. Or perhaps one of the universities. The Nicolet and Bélanger families have produced several important figures in French Canadian history. I’m certain they are discussed in historical accounts.”

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll do that.”

“There’s a professor at McGill who’s done research in our archives. My niece knows her. She studies religious movements, but she’s also interested in Quebec history. I can’t remember if she’s an anthropologist, or a historian, or what. She might be able to help.” She hesitated. “Of course, her references would be different from ours.”

I was certain of that, but said nothing.

“Do you remember her name?”

There was a long pause. I could hear others on the line, far away, like voices carrying across a lake. Someone laughed.

“It’s been a long time. I’m sorry. I could ask my niece if you wish.”

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll follow up your lead.”

“Dr. Brennan, when do you think you’ll finish with the bones?”

“Soon. Unless something comes up, I should be able to complete my report on Friday. I’ll write up my assessments of age, sex, and race, and any other observations I’ve made, and comment on how my findings compare to the facts known about Élisabeth. You can include whatever you feel is appropriate with your application to the Vatican.”

“And you will call?”

“Of course. As soon as I’m done.” Actually, I was done, and I had little doubt what my report would say. Why didn’t I just tell them now?

We exchanged good-byes, then I disconnected, waited for the tone, and dialed again. A phone rang across town.

“Mitch Denton.”

“Hi, Mitch. Tempe Brennan. Are you still head honcho at your place?”

Mitch was the anthropology chair who’d hired me to teach part- time when I first came to Montreal. We’d been friends ever since. His specialty was the French Paleolithic.

“Still stuck. Want to do a course for us this summer?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you remember the historic case I told you about? The one I’m doing for the archdiocese?”

“The saint wanna-be?”

“Right.”

“Sure. Beats the hell out of most of the stuff you work on. Did you find her?”

“Yes. But I’ve noticed something a bit odd, and I’d like to learn more about her.”

“Odd?”

“Unexpected. Listen, one of the nuns told me someone at McGill does research involving religion and Quebec history. Does that ring a bell?”

“Dong! That would be our own Daisy Jean.”

“Daisy Jean?”

“Dr. Jeannotte to you. Professor of Religious Studies and students’ best friend.”

“Back up, Mitch.”

“Her name is Daisy Jeannotte. Officially she’s on the Faculty of Religious Studies, but she also teaches some history courses. ‘Religious Movements in Quebec.’ ‘Ancient and Modern Belief Systems.’ That sort of thing.”

“Daisy Jean?” I repeated the question.

“Just an in-house endearment. It’s not for direct address.”

“Why?”

“She can be a bit . . . odd, to use your expression.”

“Odd?”

“Unexpected. She’s from Dixie, you know.”

I ignored that. Mitch was a transplanted Vermonter. He never let up on my Southern homeland.

“Why do you say she’s the students’ best friend?”

“Daisy spends all her free time with students. She takes them on outings, advises them, travels with them, has them to the house for dinner. There’s a constant line of needy souls outside her door seeking solace and counseling.”