I tried a magnifying glass. It didnt help much.
I continued flipping through prints.
There were excellent close-ups of the skull, rib cage, pelvis, and all four limbs. In the grave. Beside the grave, lying on plastic.
Sixty-two pictures. Not a single tight shot of the hands or feet.
I sat back, dismayed.
Had I failed to recover key bones? Im always painstakingly careful when working a scene. Some call me anal. But I had to admit to the possibility. It was hot in the tent. Cramped. Lighting was poor.
Then why the full count on the inventory sheet?
Had I lost the phalanges here at the lab? Id been tired on Saturday. Awash in self-pity. Pinky phalanges are tiny little buggers. Had I rinsed them down a drain while cleaning my hands? Carried them off on a hem or cuff? Crushed them under a heel or gurney wheel?
Did it really matter? The bones were clearly not present. The question was, now what?
Hubert would be miffed if Id left the phalanges in the grave. A return to Oka would involve additional expense and effort. The tent. The heater. The van. The personnel.
If Id lost them after recovery, forget miffed. Hubert would be furious.
Bury the camptodactyly? After all, the crooked finger had been a long shot for an ID. The condition wasnt entered in Villejoins chart. Simply tell Hubert my lead had not panned out? That
was
true. Sort of.
A zillion cells in my brain tossed a flag on the field.
Foul
.
Ethics
.
Crap.
Knowing it was futile, I tore the autopsy room apart, rifling drawers, emptying cabinets, running my fingers along baseboards and under counter ledges. Finding only detritus I dont want to describe, I gave up and walked every inch of the corridor, eyes to the tile.
No phalanges.
Hubert would want me to proceed with trauma analysis before reporting to him.
Delay of game
.
Crap.
Moving slowly, I covered the bones. Removed my gloves. Washed my hands, carefully cleaning under the nails. Combed my hair. Recombed it into a ponytail.
Unable to stall any longer, I took the elevator up to ten.
The chief coroner was at his desk, jacketless now. His shirt was a coffee-stained pink that clashed badly with his red and green tie. Christmas trees with tiny banners screaming
Joyeux Noël!
I tapped my knuckles on the door frame.
Hubert looked up. A cascade of chins disconnected.
Ah, excellent.
A pudgy hand flapped me into the office.
Flashback. Perry Schechter. I made a note to inquire about Rose Jurmain. Kill two birds and all.
Bonnes nouvelles?
Hubert asked.
Actually, the news isnt so good.
Hubert slumped back, pushing the pink polyester to its tensile limit. The hand now flapped at a chair.
I sat.
Brushed lint from the knee of my scrubs.
Inhaled deeply.
Are you familiar with camptodactyly? I began.
No. Coroners in Quebec are either doctors or lawyers. Hubert was among the latter.
I described the condition, then recapped my conversation with Sylvain Rayner.
Sounds promising.
Except for one thing.
Hubert waited.
I dont have the right little finger phalanges.
Why not?
Either they werent collected or theyve been misplaced.
I dont understand.
I explained the tally Id done on-site. And my fruitless search downstairs.
Only those three are missing?
And the distal phalange from the right third digit.
An error in recovery, documentation, or processing. An error that could compromise an identification. And youre uncertain which.
Yes. I could feel my face flame.
This is very disappointing.
I said nothing.
This is a homicide.
Yes.
If the woman downstairs is Christelle Villejoin, this case will go very high profile. If a third old woman is dead, this Marilyn Keiser, that profile will go into the startosphere.
Feeling correction would not be appreciated, I held my tongue.
Maybe these phantom phalanges were never there. Maybe the killer hacked off this womans finger.
Why would I record a total of fifty-six?
Carelessness?
Ill check the fifth right metacarpal for cut marks. I didnt believe Id find any. Id have noticed while sorting.
English speakers profane by reference to body functions and parts. Dont need to elaborate. French Canadians rely on liturgical reference.
Ostie:
host.
Câlice:
chalice.
Tabarnac
and
tabarnouche:
tabernacle.
Ostie.
Hubert pooched air through his lips. What about trauma?
Im still working on that.
There was a beat of silence.
Actually, there could be four, I said.
Four what? Hubert looked at me as though Id been sniffing glue.
Elderly women murdered in the Montreal area.
If
Marilyn Keiser has been murdered. And we dont know that, of course
Whos the fourth?
Rose Jurmain.
Who?
Last March a female skeleton was found near Sainte-Marguerite. Turned out to be a woman missing two and a half years.
Hubert shot forward. Rolls large enough to hide squirrels tumbled his torso.
Of course. A finger jabbed the air. Jurmain was a wealthy American. The father had connections. How could I forget? The old man was a pain in my shorts. You and Ryan just transported the bones to Chicago. But that woman wasnt so old.
Fifty-nine. I explained Roses prematurely aged appearance.
Tabarnac.
Huberts face was now the color of his shirt. I decided to delay querying about my problem with Edward Allen.
I could cut bone samples from the skeleton downstairs. Submit them for DNA testing. I knew it was dumb as soon I said it.
Christelle Villejoin had one relative, a sister, now dead. You tell me she never had surgery, so we wont get lucky with hospital-stored gallstones or tissue samples. Its been two and a half years. The house has undoubtedly been cleaned of toothbrushes, combs, tissues, chewing gum. To what would we compare this DNA?
I thought there was family in the Beauce. Have attempts been made to locate those relatives?
Hubert didnt bother to answer. Then I remembered. Ryan said that had been done. But done well? I made a note to ask him to double-check.
Marilyn Keiser has offspring somewhere out west, I said. We could at least establish that the skeleton is or is not hers.
And if its not were still up shit creek.
We could exhume Anne-Isabelle.
Cremated. Hubert packed an encyclopedia of disdain into one little word.
Im happy to go back out to Oka.
Now the hand flapped at me.
The small office filled with tense silence.
What the hell? I was already on Huberts list.
This may not be the time, but Id like to discuss an issue arising from the Jurmain case.
Huberts stare was beyond stony and out the back door. Ignoring it, I began to explain my dilemma concerning Edward Allens informant.
The phone chose precisely that moment to ring.
Hubert answered, listened, the scowl never leaving his face. Then, palming the mouthpiece, he spoke to me.
I want your trauma report as quickly as possible.
A not so subtle kiss-off.
18
THE REST OF THAT DAY WAS DEVOTED TO THE OKA WOMAN.
Four hours with the bones revealed no further indignities to her person. No cut marks. No stab wounds. No bullet holes. No postcranial trauma of any kind.
The skull fracture, however, was a doozy.
When I surfaced at five, it had been dark for an hour. No new Demande dexpertise en anthropologie form lay on my desk. There were no urgent phone messages from cops or prosecutors. No update from Ryan.
Zipped, mufflered, booted, and gloved, I headed out.
The snow mounding curbs and sidewalks had already turned black. Along my route to the metro, aggravated drivers herniated themselves disinterring their cars. Exhaust fumes glowed red against a backdrop of traffic-stalled taillights. Salt crunching underfoot, I congratulated myself on my choice of mass transit.
Without Birdie or Charlie, my condo seemed dark and empty. For company, I popped in a Dorothée Berryman CD. Singing duets with Dorothée as she covered tunes by Mercer, Vaughan, and Fitzgerald, I whipped up a concoction of linguini, pine nuts, tomatoes, and feta. It wasnt bad.
After supper, I logged onto the Net.
Few things have improved my life more in recent years than the reinstatement of US Airways incredibly fabulous direct nonstop service between La Belle Ville and the Queen City.
Good-bye, connection in Philadelphia! Hello, luggage in Charlotte!
Within minutes, Id booked a seat on Thursday mornings flight. As I closed the laptop, my face wore a smile with the wingspan of a 747.
Going home, going home, Im a-going home.
Dorothée did not begrudge me my solo.
Tuesday I was up at seven, in the lab by eight.
The mornings autopsies included a worker crushed in a microbrewery and a bookkeeper whod used timers and wrist leads to electrocute herself. Conscientious even in death, the lady had pinned a note to her sweater warning of potential hazard.
By ten, Id drawn and photographed the Oka womans cranial trauma and composed my report. Then I photocopied my diagram and printed superior, lateral, and interior views of the skull.
After downing a mug of very bad coffee, I hiked downstairs to the Bureau du coroner.
Hubert was in his office. The days shirt was lavender, the tie still red and green. Candy canes and holly had replaced Mondays tree and banner motif.
She was struck once from behind, once after she was down.
Hubert laid aside his pen.
Circling the desk, I placed the prints and diagram on his blotter. On each, Id labeled the fractures alphabetically.
Using my finger, I traced a jagged break running from right to left across the back of the Oka skull.
Letter
A
marks a radiating fracture caused by a blow to the right posterior parietal.
I indicated an indentation beside the sagittal suture at the top of the vault. A starburst of cracks spread from its center.
Letter
B
marks a crush fracture.
Caused by a blow to the crown.
Yes.
A pudgy finger came down on an in-bending paralleling one side of the crush fracture.
Bonjour.
Ill come back to that. The letters
C
mark radiating and concentric fractures associated with
B
. Notice that every
C
terminates at
A
.
Hubert made a noise in his throat.
Once formed, a crack will propagate until its energy is dissipated. In other words, when it hits an opening, its done. So fracture
A
preexisted fracture
B
, and all its progeny, the
C
s.
Hubert got it. The crown was hit after the parietal.
Exactly. The first blow may have been lethal, but the killer was taking no chances. After she fell, he blasted her again to make certain she wasnt getting up.
With what?
I indicated the edge of the depression fracture that had caught Huberts attention.
The shape of the in-bending suggests a cylindrical object that widens into a flat surface with a raised central ridge.
Hubert studied the image. The phone rang. He ignored it.
Finally,
Une pelle?
A shovel?
Thats my take.
Selecting the interior view, I pointed to dark staining adjacent to both fracture sites.
Hemorrhage. Taut. Her heart was still pumping.
I nodded agreement.
Hubert did not raise his eyes to mine.
A helpless old woman is forced to walk naked and barefoot through the woods. To watch her grave dug. Then shes bludgeoned with a shovel.
Yes, I said.
Câlice
.
Despite Huberts pessimism, I returned to the lab, cut a bone plug from the Oka womans femur, and delivered it to the DNA section. Then, with that case in limbo, I was free to focus on sniffing out Jurmains informant.
Since I was currently not topping Huberts hit parade, I decided to start with the case file. Perhaps somewhere in the minutiae of the investigation Id find a clue to the identity of my accuser.
Dossiers are kept five years at the LSJML, then sent to a mountaintop in Mogadishu for permanent storage. Fortunately, Rose had disappeared only three years earlier.
After dropping my report in the secretarial office, I continued down the same side corridor to the library. Félicité Hernandez, a large woman
with a penchant for Gypsy fashion and hair like Chers after the bleach job, greeted me. We exchanged pleasantries, accompanied by much clacking. Félicité likes her accessories large and dangly.
