I considered crushing or tossing the phone. Switched it to my left hand instead.
Was Hubert planning to tell me?
He may not know. They finished late. I only found out because I was writing reports in my office when they got back to the lab.
A nonexpert crossing the line.
I took a deep, calming breath.
Exhaled.
Ill be there Monday morning.
That night I saw Charlie again. Sushi. Sayonara.
Charlie knew Id been burned by Ryan. And Pete. As on our previous nondates, he didnt press for more. I liked that.
So why the distance?
I didnt want to repeat last Octobers booty blunder. Or the embarrassing backseat high school romp.
But was that really it? I was free, so was Charlie. We werent kids fighting hormones in Daddys Buick. I thought of the statement that had so irritated Vecamamma. Women have needs.
Right on, Cukura Kundze.
So why the Puritan routine?
Was it Ryan?
Who knew?
What I did know was this. If I was keeping Ryan at arms length, I was keeping Charlie somewhere on the edge of the Milky Way.
Monday morning. January 26. Back in Montreal and, thanks to Birdie, I was running late.
Still pissed over being ambushed by Dramamine, kitty carrier, and airplane the night before, the little drip fired through the open door when I turned to set the alarm. It took ten minutes of lobby searching and furniture moving to find him.
My neighbor Sparky Monteil happened in as I was scooping the escapee from behind the lobby sofa. Seeing the cat, he began ranting about filth and disease and the sucking of breath from babies.
Knowing I would miss the beginning of the Monday-morning meeting, and annoyed with Birdie, I failed to handle the situation with the finesse it required. Barbs were exchanged. Sparky swore hed have me evicted, threatened that one day my pet might simply vanish.
Good thing Sparkys an Anglophone. Perhaps not. I can cuss like a sailor in my mother tongue.
At Wilfrid-Derome, I went straight to my office to shed my outerwear and grab pen and paper for the meeting.
Lisa is an autopsy tech with sun-tipped hair and a biblical rack. Cops attending autopsies always hope she will be the one handling their corpse.
As I unlocked my door, I noticed Lisa across the hall in the histo lab, deep in conversation with my assistant, Joe. Neither was smiling.
Spotting me through the window, both techs fell silent.
I waved.
Joe resumed logging organ samples.
Lisa gave a halfhearted flip of one hand.
Sexual tension?
Whatever.
Flinging my parka toward the desk, I dashed to the conference room.
Same green walls. Same table. Same roster of death due to malice, melancholy, folly, or fate.
Morin did the honors.
A dealer, held and punched by two rivals, dropped to the sidewalk and never got up. Probable homicide by rotation and hyperextension of the head.
A man noosed his neck to a tree and hit the gas in his pickup. Probable suicide by self-decapitation.
A meth addict slept naked on his balcony and froze to death. Probable accident by supreme stupidity.
As Morin talked, Briel made short quick strokes on her case list, frown lines going for a new personal best.
Santangelo alternated between drinking from and thumb-scraping the label off a bottle of spring water.
Ayers sat half turned from the table, focus fixed midpoint between the window and the blackboard.
Morin took the homicide, Santangelo the suicide. Ayers got the tweaker, Briel got a pass.
As paperwork was claimed, I studied my colleagues.
Stiff faces. Taut voices. No meeting of eyes.
First Lisa and Joe. Now this.
What the hell?
Sure, the Santas and elves were down, and February and March loomed long and dark. But I was sensing more than simple post-holiday letdown.
Anxiety over LaManche? Maybe. Budget cuts? Maybe.
Was I an issue? I was furious about the second Oka recovery. Were those around me picking up hostile vibes?
Morin turned in my direction.
I suppose youve heard that additional remains were recovered at Oka.
Briels eyes rolled up.
Yes. Glacial.
The coroner wants to know if an ID or exclusion is now possible.
Ill talk to him. Nothing more. Id decided to take my complaint directly to Hubert.
I couldnt help wondering why Joe had agreed to accompany Briel. He knew Id be furious. Was redigging Oka his way of rebuking me?
When Morin queried new business, Santangelo cleared her throat.
Actually, there is something.
We all settled back.
Ive taken a position with the Bureau du coroner. Santangelos eyes flitted among Morin, Ayers, and me, resting only seconds before moving on. I start February first.
Shocked, we just stared. Santangelo had been with the LSJML for fifteen years.
To my right, Briel paused, then recommenced doodling.
I know this seems sudden. Santangelo palmed label scraps into a pile. Its not. Ive been thinking for a while that I need a change.
Santangelos eyes flicked to me. I held them.
Why not mention this when you called me in Charlotte? Is this the reason for urging my return to Montreal? I asked neither question.
Santangelo looked away.
Wow. Ayers slumped back.
I know the timing sucks. Youre still training new staff. Santangelos
tone was neutral. Evasive? Ill help with the transition as best I can.
Ayers and Morin exchanged a quick glance. In it I could see a month of conversations.
Are you sure? Concern darkened Morins already dark eyes. Perhaps weariness. Santangelos departure meant another protracted hiring process.
Yes. Santangelo dragged an outlier scrap to her pile.
Well miss you, I said.
Well still see each other. Santangelo tried to make it sound light. It didnt really work. Ill be one flight down.
We all filed out. No jokes. No banter.
Coffee, then back to my office. After hanging my parka on the coat tree, I checked phone messages, then returned a few calls.
As I was disconnecting, my gaze fell on a letter that had worked its way out of the mound on my desk. The small white envelope was addressed to me at the LSJML, handwritten and marked personal. Curious, I picked it up and slit the seal.
A single sheet of paper had been scribbled with a one-line message.
Va-ten chez toi maudite Américaine!!
Go home damn American!!
The writer had included no signature. Big surprise.
I checked the envelope. Local postmark. No return address.
Thanks for the thought, chickenshit.
Sailing the note and its envelope back onto the heap, I crossed the hall to my lab.
And stopped dead.
20
BONES OCCUPIED EACH OF MY FOUR WORKSTATIONS. FLAKING AND warping suggested years of decay.
What the f Under my breath.
Bonjour
, Doc.
I whirled.
Joe was washing his hands at the sink.
Bienvenue.
Welcome back, my left buttock.
Whats this? I flicked a hand at the two central tables.
Ossements.
Smiling.
Obviously theyre bones. It came out sharper than I intended. Or not. Who arranged them like this?
The smile collapsed. Dr. Briel.
Under whose authority?
Joe didnt move and didnt say anything. Behind him, water pounded from the spigot, bouncing tiny droplets onto the counter.
Striding to the closest set of remains, I rifled through papers secured to a clipboard.
My case form. My measurement list. My skeletal diagram. A request from Hubert for osteological analysis.
My brain lit up white-hot.
The door whipped from my hand so hard it slammed the counter. Ignoring the elevator, I flew downstairs.
Hubert was whaling up the corridor, mug in one hand, mail in the other. I closed in like a rat on a pork chop.
What the hell is this? Raising and waggling the clipboard.
Huberts eyes flicked past me to check the hall at my back.
Come into my office.
Damn straight.
Air whooshed from a cushion as Hubert planted his substantial derriere.
I remained standing.
Have a seat.
I didnt move.
Have a seat, Dr. Brennan. More forceful.
I sat, eyes lasering into Huberts.
The chief coroner blew across his coffee, slurped, set down the mug. Clearly you are upset.
You sent Briel to Oka. Short and direct, not trusting my tongue.
I didnt exactly send her.
You authorized a pathologist to conduct a disinterment.
You left half the burial behind.
Hardly half.
Dr. Briel offered.
A freebie. Scornful. On the house.
Dr. Briel is an accomplished young woman.
She may kick ass at the cha-cha-cha. But shes not an anthropologist.
She has training and experience.
I shot forward in my chair. Amateur hour!
Hubert drummed the desk in annoyance.
You said it yourself. This is homicide. If the case goes to court, you think Briel will qualify as an expert because she took some bullshit short course in anthropology?
Its only four bones.
Four critical bones.
Then you shouldnt have missed them.
Id have gotten them.
You werent here.
I suggested a return to Oka before I left town. You declined my offer.
Hubert glared at me.
I glared back.
Seconds passed.
Hubert looked away first.
You will analyze the phalanges, of course.
I said nothing.
Is that it? Message clear. Subject closed.
That is definitely not it.
I yanked the Demande dexpertise form from Briels clipboard and sailed it onto the desk.
Hubert glanced at it, up at me.
And?
Replay the tape.
Deep sigh. So patient.
Have you read the police incident report? Or did you storm down here totally unacquainted with the facts?
I read enough to know you asked a pathologist to do anthropology.
Câlice!
Not anthropology. Osteology. Simple sorting and counting. And again, I didnt
ask
. Dr. Briel offered.
If she offered to shave your nuts would you let her do that?
The chief coroner worked hard at looking prim. Didnt quite pull it off.
Theres no need for vulgarity.
True. But when that switch trips in my brain, civility boogies.
Hubert ran a hand down his face. Leaned back, flesh overflowing the armrests of the chair.
Two weeks ago, SQ-Chicoutimi got a call about a man running bareass on a highway. Turns out it was some wingnut living near Lac Saint-Jean. Frontiersman type. Loner. Cops found him sitting in the snow outside his shack, gnawing on a rabbit. After bundling the guy off to psych, they tossed the property, found bones in an old storage locker.
The coroner up theres a gynecologist name of Labrousse. The bones looked old, so Labrousse figured theyd washed up at the lakeshore, or eroded from an abandoned cemetery or Indian burial ground. Figured the happy hermit had collected and stashed them in his trunk.
Bottom line, the remains came to us. Since you were away, Briel offered to take a look. I figured why not?
Heres why not. I tossed the whole clipboard not so gently onto the desk. Briel went a whole
CSI
episode beyondI hooked quotation marks with my fingerstaking a look.
As Hubert skimmed the pages, his brows rose, rippling his forehead.
Eh, misčre.
Age, sex, race, height. Im surprised she didnt include Social Security numbers.
I can see why youre upset.
Insightful on your part.
She means well. Ill speak to her.
So will I.
Hubert picked up his pen and drummed it on the blotter, impatient for me to be gone.
I decided to power through. Why not?
While Im here, Id like to discuss an issue arising from the Jurmain case.
Hubert aimed disinterested eyes at mine.
I reminded him of Rose Jurmain, LAuberge des Neiges, the Chicago trip. Then I described the encounter with Perry Schechter, and related the tale of Edward Allens tipster.
Im convinced the allegation came from this end, from someone with knowledge of my involvement in the case. Someone who was either too incompetent to know that no mistake was made or, worse, who wanted to embarrass me while knowing that no mistake was made.
Ask the old man.
Hes dead.
First surprise, then irritation crossed Huberts face.
Are you accusing a member of my staff?
Im accusing no one. Yet. But I will find the bastard who placed that call. Im convinced it was someone working either at the LSJML or in the coroners office.
