206 BONES (31 page)

 

“I can hardly
feud
with a nameless accuser.”

 

“Something is impacting your work.”

 

“Bullshit.” Not clever, but it jumped from my lips.

 

“Must I lay it out?”

 

“Indulge me.” The morning’s buoyancy was gone, replaced by anger.

 

“Quentin Jacqučme has called my office repeatedly since the discovery
of the Lac Saint-Jean skeletons. Jacqučme is retired SQ. His late wife was Achille Gouvrard’s sister. Three weeks of calls, Dr. Brennan. And nothing to tell the man.”

 

I focused on my breathing, trying to stay calm.

 

“On Friday, Dr. Briel asked permission to examine the remains. Since you were absent, I allowed her to do so.”

 

“Well-done.” I kept my eyes hard on Hubert’s. “Now you have news for Jacqučme. A nonexpert has been called in.”

 

“
Au contraire
. I will tell him I am prepared to close the file.”

 

Using one sausage finger, Hubert slid a paper my way.

 

The report was brief—ages, genders. The description of the younger child included a discussion of tetracycline staining in the baby molars.

 

Reading the final paragraphs, I translated to English in my head. To be sure.

 

 

The tetracycline staining of the deciduous second right maxillary and mandibular molars is sufficiently unique, in combination with skeletal and dental development, to allow positive identification of the younger individual as Valentin Gouvrard, age eight.

 

Given consistency in the demographic profile, including adult sexes and individual ages at death, the bone condition, and the pattern of perimortem trauma, it is my opinion that the bones recovered from the vicinity of Lac Saint-Jean on January 12 of this year are those of the Gouvrard family, vanished and presumed dead August 14, 1967.

 

 

—Marie-Andréa Briel, M.D.

 

 

I looked up, stunned into silence.

 

“How could you have missed something so important, Dr. Brennan?”

 

I didn’t trust myself with words.

 

“The staining is obvious. Briel saw it. When she showed me, I saw it. Tetracycline is discussed in the child’s medical record.”

 

Still, I said nothing.

 

“First the Oka phalanges. Now this.” Hubert ran a hand over one jowl. “
Eh, misčre
. I think you need a break.”

 

“Are you placing me on leave?”

 

“I am placing you on notice.” The leviathan belly rose, fell, as the coroner sighed deeply. “No more screwups.”

 

“Are we finished?”

 

Hubert looked as though he wanted to say something else. Didn’t.

 

I rose and headed for the door, anger radiating from me like heat from a teapot.

 

Downstairs, I went directly to the younger child. Uncapping the plastic vial, I slid the three small teeth onto the tabletop.

 

And stared in astonishment.

 

Both baby molars had dark brown bands wrapping their crowns.

 

Hubert was right. The defect was glaring, even with a cursory glance.

 

The upper-second molar also had a pinpoint of dullness on its proximal cusp. A restoration? Had I spotted that?

 

I checked my comments.

 

There was no mention of a filling. I made a note to check the dental X-rays.

 

Now the heat was in my chest.

 

How could I have missed the staining? A possible filling?

 

Was the coroner right? Was I distracted? Becoming careless?

 

Distracted by what? Ryan? My eagerness to escape on holiday with Katy? Obsession over finding Edward Allen’s informant? Over putting Rose Jurmain to rest in my mind?

 

My cheeks still burned, now from shame.

 

I was still staring at the teeth when my mobile sounded. I almost ignored it. Instead, I slipped the phone from my belt.

 

“Do da dance! Sing da song!” Ryan. “Woohoo! We got our man.”

 

“Adamski.”

 

“No. Harry Houdini.”

 

“That’s great, Ryan.” Flat.

 

“Try to curb your jubilation.”

 

“I’m thrilled.”

 

“Are you getting sick again?”

 

“I just went another round with Hubert.” I rolled one of the molars around on my palm. “Where’d you nail Adamski? Or Lucky Labatt, or Keith, or whatever the dirtbag now calls himself.”

 

“Genius was watching
Rockford
reruns at a cousin’s flat in Moncton. Piece of work name of Denton Caffrey. Adamski’s hometown, Adamski’s real surname. Gee, who’d have thought to check Caffrey’s place? The King of Beers is dumber than a bowl of noodles.”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“Claudel flew to Moncton this morning. We’ll work Adamski as soon as his ass hits Montreal.”

 

“Think you can crack him?”

 

“I have to.” Ryan’s vehemence was palpable even at a distance. “Adamski’s dirty, I can feel it in my gut. But everything we’ve got so far is circumstantial. His marriage to Marilyn Keiser. His known alias, Keith, in the Villejoins’ ledger. Florian Grellier fingering him for running his mouth about Christelle’s body. His working at L’Auberge des Neiges when Jurmain turned up dead.”

 

“Enough circumstantial evidence can make a case.”

 

“Impressions. The statement of a convicted felon. Adamski’s criminal record.” Ryan snorted. “Juries want physical evidence. So far we’ve got zip.”

 

“You’ll get it.”

 

“We’re rechecking Keiser’s cabin for latents, canvassing neighbors, stores in the vicinity to see if anyone remembers Adamski buying kerosene. Doing door-to-door in Pointe-Calumet, refloating his picture. Villejoin’s cold a year and a half, Jurmain over three. It’s tough.”

 

“Then get a confession.”

 

“That’s the plan, ma’am. Claudel’s going to schmooze Adamski on the plane. When we work him, he’ll play good cop. I’ll hit him with the two-by-four.”

 

“Poor casting.”

 

“Hey. The Emmy’s as good as mine.”

 

After clicking off, I sat staring at the baby tooth.

 

How had I overlooked the discoloration?

 

Returning all three teeth to the vial, I crossed to the window and gazed down.

 

I missed it.

 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

 

I watched a barge slip silently upriver, not really computing what I was seeing.

 

Briel found it.

 

Molecules of an idea began coagulating. Lost. Lac Saint-Jean. Fleuve Saint-Laurent.

 

Twelve floors down, the water looked gray and forbidding. Deep. Unyielding.

 

The idea took shape.

 

Adamski’s body was never found.

 

The Gouvrards were never found.

 

Did others lie forgotten in cold, wet graves?

 

Crossing to the computer, I called up Wikipedia.

 

I learned that Lac Saint-Jean is a crater impact lake in the Laurentian Highlands, two hundred kilometers north of the Saint Lawrence River, into which it drains via the Saguenay River. Lac Saint-Jean covers approximately a thousand square kilometers, and drops to sixty-three meters at its deepest point.

 

Quick calculation. Roughly four hundred square miles by two hundred feet deep. That’s a whole lot of water.

 

I researched a number.

 

Dialed.

 

Worked my way through a dazzling hierarchy of voice mail choices.

 

When a nice lady finally answered, I made my inquiry. She asked me to hold.

 

I held.

 

In a while the nice lady came back on the line.

 

They had one source that might be of help.

 

Far from optimistic, I headed out.

 

 

Montreal has many libraries, both English and French. The Bibliothčque et Archives nationales du Québec, or the Grande Bibliothčque, is the newest, having opened in April of 2005. Located on Boulevard de Maisonneuve, near the Université du Québec ŕ Montréal campus, the massive glass and steel structure houses Quebec’s largest collection of recent, rare, and old editions, multimedia documents, reference materials, maps and prints. Auditorium. Exhibition hall. Café. Boutique.
Bien sűr!
It’s all there
pour vous
at the BAnQ.

 

Following the nice telephone lady’s instructions, I climbed to the first floor, walked to the north wing, and passed through doors marked
Collection nationale
. Bellying up to a counter, I asked for assistance.

 

Hands on bony hips, a not quite so nice lady listened to my request, frown deepening with my every word. When I’d finished, she told me I’d need to obtain a library membership. When I returned, card in hand, she indicated a set of microfilm readers and told me to wait.

 

Ten minutes later, she reappeared carrying a tray filled with small gray and yellow boxes. With an expression of gothic gloom, she asked if I knew how to spool.

 

I assured her I’d practically majored in spooling.

 

Telling me there was additional microfilm going back to 1897, she took her leave.

 

I checked labels. The dates ran from 1948 to 1964, the year the
Progrčs du Saguenay
ended publication.

 

Deciding to start with the newspaper’s most recent editions, I spooled up the first reel. The film scratched softly as I cranked backward through time: 1964. 1963. 1962.

 

The black-and-white images floated in and out of focus. At first I went slowly, checking every page. As my skill grew, I was able to zip through the irrelevant, focusing solely on news and obits.

 

After an hour I felt a twinge behind one eye. After two a kettle drum was banging fortissimo.

 

I looked at the tray. Only a billion little boxes to go.

 

Was my idea crazy?

 

Maybe. But I had to look. Had to satisfy myself I’d done everything possible.

 

Threading a new film leader, I began winding through the first half of 1958.

 

Just past midway, I found what I was after.

 

 

 

 

 

 

34

 

 

Recherche pour les Victimes Noyées Suspendue—
Search for Drowning Victims Suspended

 

 

As with Briel’s report, I translated as I read.

 

 

July 21, 1958. Following a week of intense effort, the search has ended for four victims still missing and presumed dead following a boating disaster on Lac Saint-Jean. A memorial marker will be erected in honor of three of the dead, Louise-Rosette, Melanie, and Claire Clemenceau, in the cemetery at Sainte-Monique during a brief ceremony Thursday at 1 p.m. The public is invited.

 

 

A boating accident. Missing bodies. Lac Saint-Jean.

 

Excitement jangled every nerve in my body.

 

A full marching band had now taken the field in my frontal lobe, so I’d fallen into a rhythm of fast-forwarding and periodically pausing to skim. Obviously the hit-and-run approach had been inadequate. I’d missed the initial coverage.

 

Like the phalanges. And the tetracycline staining.

 

I rubbed my eyes. Rolled my shoulders.

 

Drowning. That would mean spring or summer.

 

Rewinding to April, I began anew.

 

July 14. The incident was reported in heartrending detail.

 

 

Tragédie de Pique-nique—Picnic Tragedy

 

 

The headline topped an article taking up most of page 4 below the fold.

 

On July 13, 1958, a congregation from the small town of Sainte-Monique had held its annual picnic at Parc de la Pointe-Taillon. As was customary, activities had included pontoon rides out onto Lac Saint-Jean.

 

An afternoon thunderstorm had barreled in with such speed and ferocity, the boaters hadn’t had a chance to react. The pontoon had capsized far from shore. Two men had survived. Four adults and five children had not. A man, a woman, and two little girls remained unaccounted for.

 

Heart hammering, I looked at the names and ages.

 

 

Richard Blackwater, 37

 

Louise-Rosette Clemenceau, 45

 

Melanie Clemenceau, 13

 

Claire Clemenceau, 7

 

 

I jotted the names and ages of those not recovered, and the date and location of the incident. Then, ignoring my throbbing head, I picked my way through the rest of 1958, reading every word, no matter the size of the print.

 

On the Tuesday following the incident, the first three victims had been buried, also in the Sainte-Monique cemetery.

 

Another article ran on July 16. The piece was brief, stating that the last two drowning victims had been laid to rest.

 

I pushed on.

 

After search efforts ended on July 21, there was no further mention of the tragedy. Or of the missing victims.

 

I sat back, staring at my notes.

 

It all fit. The PMI. The profile. The adult male’s cheekbones and incisors. I was willing to bet the farm Blackwater was an aboriginal name.

 

Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” boomed from my purse. After an eon of fumbling, I found and disarmed my cell.

 

When I looked up, the not so nice library lady was closing in, face pinched into a murderous scowl. Mouthing “Sorry,” I gathered my things. Unimpressed, the dragon waited, then bird-dogged me to the door.

 

Outside, darkness was settling over the city. Car windows were steamed, turning passengers and drivers into murky silhouettes. A damp
wind skulked up de Maisonneuve, teasing trash and carrying with it the scent of oil and salt from the river.

 

Before pulling on my gloves, I checked my list of missed calls.

 

The number was Ryan’s.

 

He answered right away. Adamski was at Wilfrid-Derome. He and Claudel would begin with him shortly.

 

Why SQ turf? Though Marilyn Keiser was reported missing in Montreal, and her case fell to the city cops, the possible link to the Villejoin sisters, perhaps Rose Jurmain, meant the Sűreté du Québec owned a piece of the action. At Ryan’s suggestion, Claudel had agreed to conduct the interrogation at SQ rather than SPVM headquarters. Courtesy. Separate forces. Neither detective outranked the other. Besides, Adamski thought he was a person of interest because of Florian Grellier’s link to Christelle Villejoin.