Reichs, Kathy: Death Du Jour

“Have they considered that they might be destroying evidence?” I asked.

The fireman looked at me as if I’d suggested the house had been hit by a comet.

“It’s just floorboards and shit that fell down from this level.”

“That ‘shit’ may help establish sequence,” I said, my voice as chilly as the icicles on the counter behind us. “Or body position.”

His face went rigid.

“There could still be hot spots down there, lady. You don’t want one flaring up in your face, do you?”

I had to admit I didn’t.

“And that guy’s past caring.”

Inside my hard hat I could feel a throbbing along the side of my pretty skull.

“If the victim is as burned as you suggest, your colleagues could be obliterating major body parts.”

His jaw muscle bunched as he looked past me for support. LaManche said nothing.

“The chief’s probably not gonna let you in there, anyway,” he said.

“I need to get in now to stabilize what’s there. Especially the teeth.” I thought of baby boys. I hoped for teeth. Lots of them. All adult. “If there are any left.”

The fireman gave me a head to toe, sizing up my five-foot-five, one-hundred-twenty-pound frame. Though the thermal outfitting disguised my shape and the hard hat hid my long hair, he saw enough to convince himself I belonged elsewhere.

“She’s not really going down there?” He looked to LaManche for an ally.

“Dr. Brennan will be doing the recovery.”

“ Estidecolistabernac! ”

This time I didn’t need translation. Fireman Macho thought the job required testicles.

“Hot spots are no problem,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “In fact, I usually prefer to work right in the flames. I find it warmer.”

With that he gripped the side rails, swung onto the ladder, and slid down, never touching the rungs with his feet.

Great. He also does tricks. I could imagine what he was scripting for the chief.

“These are volunteers,” said LaManche, almost smiling. He looked like Mr. Ed in a hard hat. “I must finish upstairs, but I will rejoin you shortly.”

I watched him weave a path to the door, his large, hooded frame hunched in concentration. Seconds later the chief emerged on the ladder. It was the same man who’d directed us to the upstairs bodies.

“You’re Dr. Brennan?” he asked in English.

I nodded once, ready for a fight.

“Luc Grenier. I head up the St-Jovite volunteer squad.” He unsnapped his chin strap and let it dangle. He was older than his misogynous teammate.

“We’re going to need another ten, fifteen minutes to secure the lower level. This was the last section we put down, so there could still be hot spots.” The strap jumped as he talked. “This was a pisser, and we don’t want a flare-up.” He pointed behind me. “See how that pipe’s deformed?”

I turned to look.

“That’s copper. To melt copper you’ve got to get up over eleven hundred degrees centigrade.” He shook his head, and the strap swung back and forth. “This was a real pisser.”

“Do you know how it started?” I asked.

He pointed to a propane tank near my feet. “So far we’ve counted twelve of those suckers. Either someone knew exactly what he was doing, or he really fucked up the family barbecue.” His face reddened slightly. “Sorry.”

“Arson?”

Chief Grenier shrugged both shoulders and raised his eyebrows. “Not my call.” He snapped his chin strap and gripped the sides of the ladder. “All we’re doing is moving debris to be sure the fire’s completely cold. This kitchen was full of junk. That’s what provided the fuel to burn right through the floor. We’ll take extra care around the bones. I’ll give a whistle when it’s safe.”

“Don’t spray any water on the remains,” I said.

He gave a hand salute and disappeared down the ladder.

It took thirty minutes before I was allowed into the basement. During that time I went to the crime scene truck to collect my equipment and arrange for a photographer. I located Pierre Gilbert and asked to have a screen and spotlight set up below.

The basement was one large open space, dark and damp and colder than Yellowknife in January. At the far end loomed a furnace, its pipes rising, black and gnarled, like the limbs of a giant dead oak. It reminded me of another cellar I’d visited not long ago. That one had hidden a serial killer.

The walls were cinder block. Most of the large debris had been cleared and heaped against them, exposing a dirt floor. In places the fire had turned it reddish brown. In others it was black and rock-hard, like ceramic tile fired in an oven. Everything was covered by a thin membrane of frost.

Chief Grenier took me to a spot on the right edge of the floor collapse. He said that no victims had been found elsewhere. I hoped he was right. The thought of sifting the entire basement almost made me weep. Wishing me good luck, he left to rejoin his men.

Little of the kitchen sun made it this far back, so I took a high-powered flashlight from my kit and shone it around me. One look caused adrenaline to report for duty. This was not what I’d expected.

The remains were strewn over an area at least ten feet in length. They were largely skeletonized, and showed varying degrees of heat exposure.

In one cluster I could see a head surrounded by fragments of differing shapes and sizes. Some were black and shiny, like the skull. Others were chalky white and looked ready to crumble. Which is exactly what they would do if not handled properly. Calcined bone is featherlight and extremely fragile. Yes. This would be a difficult recovery.

Five feet south of the skull an assortment of vertebrae, ribs, and long bones lay in rough anatomical position. Also white and fully calcined. I noted the orientation of the vertebrae and the position of the arm bones. The remains were lying faceup, one arm crossing the chest, the other flung above the head.

Below the upper arms and chest lay a heart-shaped black mass with two fractured long bones projecting distally. The pelvis. Beyond this, I could see the charred and fragmented bones of the legs and feet.

I felt relief, but some confusion. This was a single, fully grown victim. Or was it? Infant bones are tiny and extremely fragile. They could easily be hidden below. I prayed I’d find none when I sifted through the ash and sediment.

I made notes, took Polaroids, then began to sweep away soil and ash using a soft-bristle paintbrush. Slowly, I exposed more and more bone, carefully inspecting the displaced debris, collecting it for later screening.

LaManche returned as I was clearing the last of the muck that lay in direct contact with the bones. He watched silently as I took four stakes, a ball of string, and three retractable measuring tapes from my kit.

I hammered a stake into the ground just above the cranial cluster, and hooked the ends of two tapes onto a nail I’d driven into the top. I ran one tape ten feet south and pounded in a second stake.

LaManche held that tape at the second stake while I went back to the first and ran the other tape perpendicular, ten feet toward the east. Using the third tape, I measured off a hypotenuse of fourteen feet one and three-quarter inches from LaManche’s stake to the northeast corner. Where the second and third tapes met, I hammered in a third stake. Thanks to Pythagoras, I now had a perfect right triangle with two ten-foot sides.

I unhooked the second tape from the first stake, hooked it to the northeast stake, and ran it ten feet south. LaManche brought his tape ten feet east. Where these tapes met I hammered in the fourth stake.

I ran a string around the four stakes, enclosing the remains in a ten-by-ten-foot square with ninety-degree corners. I would triangulate from the stakes when taking measurements. If needed, I could divide the square into quadrants, or break it into grid units for more precise observations.