Bones Are Forever (14 page)

Except for the bad bleach job and the bad attitude, Barbara Herrmann would have grown to be Aurora Devereaux’s twin. Had she lived.

I was at university when I learned of Barbara’s suicide. Dorothy
and I had kept in touch, but caught up in my own self-centered teen world, I’d been oblivious to hints of her sister’s growing depression. Or, wanting life to be rosy, I’d chosen to ignore them. Barbara was happy, always smiling. Nothing was wrong.

Should I have acted? Might visits, letters, phone calls have prevented Barbara’s death? Of course not. Her own family had been unable to do that. Still, my insensitivity haunts me.

Devereaux sat with her tiny hands resting on her upraised knees. From the length of her torso and legs, I put her height at that of your average middle-schooler.

Like Barbara Herrmann, some CdLS individuals have subnormal mental ability. Based on the exchange with Ollie, I doubted that was the case with Devereaux.

“We’re coming in now.” Ollie’s voice had lost some of its tough cop tone. I could tell from his face that he, too, was shocked. Ditto Ryan, though he hid his reaction better.

Devereaux watched in silence as the three of us stepped from the top riser and circumvented the shattered lamp lying on a rectangle of tile inside the door.

The room was maybe twelve-by-twelve. In addition to the daybed, it held a wooden table and two captain’s chairs, a dresser, and shelving filled with a scramble of clothes, purses, toiletries, and magazines. The wall-mounted TV looked like something you’d see in a hospital.

The right side of the room was a kitchenette with an undersize fridge, a sink, and a stove arranged shotgun-style along one wall. Its floor was done in the same tile as the entrance, setting the space off from the carpeted living/sleeping area. The sink and small counter were heaped with dirty dishes and utensils, open cans, and the remains of fast-food meals.

From the kitchenette, a short corridor led to a closet and a bath. Both doors were open, and both overhead lights were on. The rooms looked like bombsites, with garments, linens, makeup, laundry, footwear, and a mix of unidentifiables jumbled on the floors and draped on the fixtures or hung haphazardly from doorknobs, towel and closet bars, and the shower rod.

Ollie plucked a shiny green robe from a chair and tossed it onto the bed. Devereaux ignored it.

“Foxy’s not happy,” Ollie began.

“Bitch never is.”

“Says you had a groovy high going last night.”

Devereaux raised a palm and one bare shoulder.
So?

“Foxy wants you out.”

“Foxy wants a lot of things.”

“Do you have a lease?”

“Sure. I keep it in the safe-deposit box with my estate planning papers.”

“Then you have no legal right to stay.”

Devereaux said nothing.

“Time to go, Aurora.” Ollie sounded almost sympathetic.

Devereaux snatched a small plastic bottle from the bedside table. Raising her chin, she inhaled antihistamine into one nostril, then the other.

While waiting out the noisy process, I took in more detail. The place was devoid of personal items. No photos, fridge magnets, knickknacks, or macramé plant holders.

In addition to the antihistamine, the bedside table held a half-empty bottle of Pepto and a mound of bunched tissues. Recalling another symptom of CdLS—gastroesophageal reflux disease, a condition that can make eating unpleasant—I felt a wave of compassion for the childlike woman in the bed.

As Devereaux blew her nose with a thoroughness I had to admire, I edged toward the hall for a closer look at the closet, being as discreet as possible. My movement wasn’t lost on our hostile hostess.

“Where the hell’s she going?”

“Never mind her,” Ollie said.

“The fuck, never mind. I don’t like strangers sniffing through my undies.”

“Ms. Forex left a duffel in the closet,” I said. “We have permission to search it.”

The neon blues jumped to me. Their lashes were curly and perhaps the longest I’d ever seen.

“Ms. Forex,”
delivered as a full-on sneer, “has the brainpower of a salami sandwich.”

“She was kind to you.”

The heavy brows winged up in surprise. “That what you call it? Kindness? I was her latest pity project.”

“Pity project?”

“Take in the flawed and make their lives bliss.”

“Was Annaliese Ruben flawed?” My compassion was losing out to dislike.

“She wasn’t Miss America.” Devereaux snorted, an ugly antihistamine-wet sound.

“You knew her?”

“I heard about her.”

“Where’s the duffel?” Curt. Ollie was fast losing patience.

“No clue.”

“Give it the old college try, Aurora.”

“You’ve got no warrant, you don’t get shit.”

“I’m trying to appeal to your good side, kiddo.”

“I don’t have a good side.”

“Fair enough. Let’s try another angle. I’ve got a landlady reporting illegal substances on her property. How about we toss the place, starting with this?”

Ollie lifted a shoulder bag from the floor beside the bed. The thing was metallic, with enough fringe to embarrass Dale Evans.

Devereaux arched forward at the waist and shot out an arm. “Give me that!”

Ollie held the purse just out of her reach.

“You bastard.”

Smiling, Ollie swung the bag like a pendulum.

“Bastard!”

Ollie pointed to the robe.

“Turn around!”

Ryan and I did. Ollie did not.

I heard movement, the swish of fabric, then a thumpy jangle as the purse hit the bed.

“Excellent.”

On hearing Ollie’s comment, Ryan and I turned back.

Devereaux was sitting sideways, lower legs over the edge of the mattress, toes not touching the carpet. She was wearing the robe and the same fuck-you pout.

Ollie repeated his question. “Where’s the duffel?”

“Closet shelf.”

“I believe you have some packing to do?”

“I’d rather eat dog shit than spend one more day in this dump!”

Bag pressed to her chest, Devereaux scooched forward and dropped from the bed. Grabbing shorts and a top from the mess on the shelving, she strode to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Ryan, Ollie, and I were right on her heels.

The closet was a miniature walk-in with a long head-high bar on one wall and shorter double bars on the other. Dresses, tops, and skirts hung from hangers, most featuring bright colors and a whole lot of bling.

The floor was ankle-deep in shoes and soiled clothing. The latter filled the small space with a sweaty, syrupy scent.

A single shelf L’ed above both of the high bars, filled to capacity. Rolls of toilet tissue and paper towel. Shoe boxes. A printer. A blender. A fan. Plastic tubs whose contents I couldn’t identify.

I spotted the duffel in the corner where the long stretch right-angled into the short. It was olive-green polyester with black handles and a front zipper pouch. Wading through the muddle of Walmart fire-hazard chic, I pushed a handful of hanging garments aside. A stepladder lay against the baseboard. As I grabbed it, my eye took in something on the wall, half concealed by a large suitcase. My pulse quickened.

Later
.

After backing out of the dresses, I positioned the ladder. Then, with Ryan acting as my spotter, I scampered up the rungs.

Three tugs and the duffel came free. Its weight suggested there was little inside.

I lowered the duffel to Ryan, who handed it to Ollie. We retraced our steps to the living room. Running water behind the bathroom door suggested Devereaux was still engaged in her morning toilette.

Ollie gestured for me to do the honors. I spread the duffel’s handles and yanked the zipper.

The bag held four objects. A pair of cheap plastic sunglasses with one cracked lens. A snow globe with a panda and butterflies inside. A rusty Bic razor. A tire-tread sandal probably dating to the Woodstock era.

“Our job is easy now.”

Ryan and I looked at Ollie.

“No way she’s not coming back for these jewels.”

No one smiled at Ollie’s joke.

“What about the front compartment?” Ryan suggested.

I checked. It was empty.

We were standing there, mute with disappointment, when the bathroom door opened. We all turned.

Devereaux’s hair was combed and sprayed into a blond updo, and her face was a Gauguin palette of color. Green and lavender lids. Rose cheeks. Red lips. Had her situation not been so sad, I might have found it comical. Like
Toddlers & Tiaras
.

Ignoring us, Devereaux crossed the room, dropped to her knees, and yanked a suitcase from under the bed. With angry movements, she began tossing in clothing from the shelves and floor. No folding or layering. A wrinkle-free look was not a priority.

Lowering my voice, I told Ollie and Ryan what I’d seen behind the suitcase in the closet.

“The panel is removable?” Ryan asked.

“I think so.”

“May provide access to the bathroom pipes,” Ryan said.

“You’re thinking another dead baby?” Ollie’s expression was grim.

My gaze slid to Devereaux. She was emptying a dresser drawer, oblivious to our conversation.

I nodded.

Wordlessly, we returned to the closet. Ollie and I watched as Ryan dragged the suitcase from behind the clothes.

The panel was approximately twelve inches square, attached to the wall by nails at the corners.

My eyes did a three-sixty. Landed on a pair of orange stiletto pumps. I grabbed and handed one to Ryan.

Hooking the tip of the heel onto the edge of the panel, Ryan pulled with the body of the shoe. The nails slid free with little resistance.

It was Saint-Hyacinthe all over again. I held my breath as Ryan inserted his fingers, levered downward, and pulled the panel free. The opening gaped black and foreboding.

Ollie produced a penlight. Ryan thumbed it on and aimed the beam into the darkness. As expected, the tiny white oval landed on pipes. They were dark and wrapped with frayed insulation.

I watched the oval probe. It crawled up a vent stack. Over a flange. Left across a horizontal.

Banging down the hall told me Devereaux was checking the kitchen drawers and cabinets.

Banging in my ears told me my pulse had gone apeshit.

The oval doubled back, continued to the right, then started probing downward.

Seconds passed. Eons.

And there it was. Jammed in the hollow of a U-shaped trap.

I felt sick to my stomach.

The towel was blue with a small appliqué on one side. It was tightly rolled, with the thick end pointing our way.

“Call the ME?” Ryan asked.

Ollie shook his head. “Let’s be sure. Don’t want to bring a doc out here for nothing.”

A voice in my head was rejecting the brutal reality of the visual input.
No, God, no!

Ryan set the penlight on the floor and took a series of shots with his iPhone. Checked the results. “Got it.”

As I kicked aside clothing to clear floor space, Ryan reached in and removed the bundle. Both men looked at me. I dropped to my knees and took a steadying breath.

The fabric was degraded and easily torn. The layers were tightly adhered, sealed by fluids that had long ago dried and congealed. My fingers trembled as I tried to gain entry without doing damage.

The world went deadly quiet, all sound obscured by emotions inside me.

Finally the terry cloth yielded. I rolled the bundle sideways.

The bones were small and brown and curled around a fragmented skull.

“Jesus Christ!”

I looked up.

Ollie’s face was the color of oatmeal. I realized he hadn’t seen the other dead infants.

Moving as gently as possible, I rewound the towel.

“That’s four that we know of.” Ryan was using the light to make one last round in the opening.

“This murdering bitch left a trail of dead babies from Quebec to Alberta! And we can’t find her sorry ass?” Fired by loathing, Ollie’s words came out way too loud.

Ryan got to his feet. “We’ll find her.”

I rose and placed a calming hand on Ollie’s arm.

“Call the ME,” I said.

B
Y ONE-THIRTY RYAN AND I WERE SUITED UP AND STANDING
beside a stainless-steel table with Dr. Dirwe Okeke, one of the Alberta ME’s newest hires. Okeke had done his prelims—photos, X-rays, measurements, descriptive observations. I’d done a little dry-brush cleaning and arranged the baby’s bones in anatomical position.

Rather than a pathologist, Okeke looked like he played defensive tackle for Edmonton High, and parents of opposing teams wouldn’t have demanded a birth certificate. He stood six-two, weighed 250. Had I seen him on the street, I’d have put his age at maybe eighteen.

When I’d phoned the ME office, a receptionist had listened to my story, then rolled my call to Okeke. He hadn’t interrupted as I’d introduced myself and explained the dead babies in Quebec and the one at Susan Forex’s house.

As expected, Okeke elected to visit the scene personally. He arrived in an Escalade with a front seat specially outfitted to accommodate whales. Two techs followed in a van.

When she saw Okeke, Devereaux’s attitude did a rapid 180 to meek. I couldn’t blame her. The good doc looked like he was of another species, huge and dark to her small and pale. Without moving or speaking, Okeke seemed to fill her wee bedroom to overflowing.