Monday Mourning (18 page)

“Who’s Alban Fisher?” I asked.

“Fisher’s husband. Tax accountant. Died in ninety-four. Rose never bothered to change the name on the phone.”

“Can Bastillo think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her mother or aunt?”

“The two had an ongoing beef with some neighbor about parking an SUV too close to their driveway. Bastillo insists we should check this guy out.”

“Bastillo seem credible?” I asked.

“I doubt she’ll be recruited by the Berkeley Roundtable, but she comes off sincere enough.” Ryan did a head nod toward LaManche. “Doc says homicide, I’ll start digging on the lady’s background.”

LaManche and Ryan became disembodied voices as I continued down the row of photos.

A corridor. A bedroom. A bathroom. A second bedroom, slightly smaller than the first. Maple dresser, nightstand, four-poster.

Dead body.

Louise Parent was a child-sized bulge under pale pink bedding. She lay facing the door, right arm thrown upward, head angled oddly on a rumpled pillow. Her eyes were black and empty crescents. Gray hair trailed limply across her face.

A pink floral quilt lay neatly drawn back across the foot of the bed. A second pillow sat atop the folded quilt. This one had no pillow slip.

“Bastillo moved the body?” I asked of no one in particular.

“Says she found her aunt unconscious and tried to rouse her.”

“Did she touch the pillow?”

“She doesn’t remember.”

Beneath the bed, I could see two neatly aligned slippers. On the nightstand, a folded pair of eyeglasses, a mug, and a vial of prescription pills.

“That is the Ambien that was sent to us?” LaManche asked.

“Yes. Labeled for thirty, filled last Wednesday. Eight missing.”

“Do you know the contents of the mug?”

“Water. Bastillo filled it when she couldn’t rouse her aunt. Says she got rattled. Didn’t know what to do.”

“Had she found it empty?”

“She thinks so. Remember, this Bastillo isn’t the sharpest knife in the set.”

“Did you find medications other than those that came in with the body?” LaManche asked.

“Vioxx for arthritis. You’ve got that. Otherwise, just the standard medicine cabinet collection. Calcium. Aspirin. Preparation H. Half-used tube of Neosporin. Over-the-counter allergy meds.”

“Anything unusual about the mug being in the bedroom?” I asked.

“According to Bastillo, her mother’s snoring registers a seven on the Richter. Parent was a light sleeper so when she hit the sack her habit was to knock back a couple of Ambien with herbal tea. If the mug held anything, and she isn’t sure that it did, Bastillo says she would have figured it was tea and tossed it.”

“Probably a good idea to get that mug,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Ryan nodded solemnly.

My cheeks flamed. Of course they’d collected the mug.

“We can do amylase testing for Parent’s saliva on the pillowcase, but that won’t be particularly useful,” said LaManche.

“Old ladies drool,” I said.

“They’re known for doing it,” Ryan agreed.

“Did you find any indication when Rose Fisher last slept at home?” LaManche asked.

“Bed was made. Nightdress was on a hook on the bathroom door.” Ryan pointed a finger at me. “No mug on the nightstand.”

No snappy answer catapulted to mind.

“Bastillo said her mother often retired later than her aunt,” Ryan added.

For a full minute we all studied the photos. Then Ryan spoke to LaManche.

“What’s the word, Doc? We got a homicide?”

LaManche straightened, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Continue your investigation, Detective. This is definitely suspicious. I will inform you when I have toxicology results.”

When LaManche had gone Ryan and I spent a few more moments scanning the photos. A leaden feeling was settling in the pit of my stomach.

I broke the silence.

“She was murdered.”

“LaManche isn’t totally convinced.” Ryan’s voice was resonant with sensibleness.

“Parent made calls claiming to have information about three dead girls. Four days later she’s found dead in her bed with feathers in her mouth.”

“Old ladies die.”

“So where’s her sister?”

“That’s a mystery.”

“What did Parent want to tell me about the bones?”

“That’s another mystery.”

Ryan winked.

My stomach tried a flip, landed on its backside.

I took a breath.

“What’s up with us, Andy?”

Ryan regarded me with eyes as blue as a Bahamian bay.

A debating team took their seats in my head. Pro: Confront him with Charbonneau’s prom queen sighting. Con: Keep it to myself.

Prize to the Con side. Wiser to hold back.

Wisdom also did a pratfall.

“Charbonneau mentioned an odd thing this morning.”

“If you’re talking about Saturday’s shooting, it was no big deal.”

“He saw you at the courthouse last August.”

“I’m a hardworking boy.” Boyish grin.

“The week you left Charlotte.”

The Bahamian bay showed nary a ripple.

“For a family crisis in Nova Scotia.”

Calm waters.

“You weren’t alone.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What
do
I think?”

Ryan’s smile wavered, recovered. His fingertips brushed my cheek. Then he scooped the photos from the counter and handed me the envelope. For a long time his eyes held mine. Then, “I love you, you know.”

I looked at my shoes, emotions cannonballing in my chest.

I closed my eyes.

The anteroom door clicked, clicked again.

When I opened my eyes, Ryan was gone.

Nothing much happened for the next three days.

Then I caught my first break.

And my second.

And my third.

F
OR BACK-TO-BACK DAYS NO PROVINCIAL DEAD REQUIRED A LOOK-SEE
by the anthropologist. There were no boxcar decomps. No attic mummies. Not a single Popsicle body part.

Tuesday I tried calling a few more Ménards and Truongs, then caught up on case reports, e-mail, and correspondence. Anne slept until two, then listlessly watched soaps and reruns. She initiated very little conversation even though I’d taken the afternoon off from the lab to be with her. At dinner she drank three quarters of a bottle of Lindemans, professed great fatigue, then dragged off to bed at ten. How tired can one get being up only eight hours and doing nothing? I wondered.

Each December, artisans from across the province gather to sell their wares at the Salon des métiers d’art du Québec. On Wednesday I roused Anne at noon and suggested an arts and crafts Christmas-shopping blitz.

She declined.

I insisted.

Only a few million people were at place Bonaventure. I bought a ceramic bowl for Katy, a carved oak pipe stand for Pete, a lama wool scarf for Harry. Birdie and Boyd, Pete’s canine housemate in Charlotte, got spiffy suede collars. Apricot for the cat. Forest green for the chow.

A display featuring hand-painted silk jerked Ryan to mind. Necktie? No sale.

Anne dragged lethargically from booth to booth, showing the level of interest of a control group lab rat. I bought her fudge, tried on funny hats. Tried on the dog collar. She would attempt to show interest, then lapse into nonresponsiveness, almost as though I were not there. Nothing amused her. She made not a single purchase.

Anne’s depression had plunged to depths
greater
than the Marianas Trench.

All day, I gave her hugs and said soothing things. Otherwise, I had no idea what to do. She was not talkative, which for her is an unnatural state.

At dinner, Anne barely picked at her sushi, focused instead on more alcohol poisoning. Once home, she again pleaded weariness and withdrew to her room.

I’d never seen my friend so down, couldn’t judge the seriousness of her condition. I knew something was terribly wrong, but to what extent could I interfere? Maybe the mood slump would just play itself out.

I fell asleep troubled and dreamed of Anne on a dark, empty beach.

My Thursday morning e-mail contained the Carbon 14 results from Arthur Holliday.

I stared at the subject line, fingers frozen over the keyboard.

I’d been anxious for the report. Why the hesitation?

Easy one. I didn’t really want confirmation of yet more malignant brutality overtaking innocent young women.

I didn’t want to know that lives barely past childhood had again been taken by — what? Some freak with a head full of porn who can find sexual gratification only through physical submission? Some psycho-creep with a video camera who then needs to destroy the evidence? Or mutated macho-scum who view women as disposable items, to be discarded after perverse abuse? They were all out there.

I almost wanted Claudel to be right. I wanted the bones to belong to the past. To daughters laid to rest by grieving families in another era. But I knew better, and I knew I had to face the evidence if I was to help identify the victims.

Deep breath.

I hit the download command, then opened the Acrobat file.

The transmission consisted of five pages: a cover letter, the report of radiocarbon analyses, and three graphs calibrating the individual radiocarbon ages to calendar years.

I looked at the measured and conventional radiocarbon ages, then scrolled through the calibrations curves.

Images flooded my brain.

I printed the report, and headed for the lab.

LaManche was in his office. Since our last meeting either he or his secretary had added a ceramic Christmas tree to the chaos on his desk.

I tapped the door lightly with my knuckles.

LaManche looked up.

“Temperance. Please come in. You have heard the news?”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“The jury found Monsieur Pétit guilty on all counts.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“That was fast.”

“When she called, the crown prosecutor said she was certain your testimony was instrumental.” LaManche looked at the papers in my hand. “But that is obviously not why you are here.”

“I have the Carbon 14 results.”

“That, too, was fast.” Surprised.

“This lab is very efficient.” I didn’t mention the additional fee.

LaManche rose and joined me at the small oval table beside his desk. I spread the printout and we both bent over it.

“Two variables matter,” I began. “The radioactivity of a known standard, and the radioactivity of our unknown sample. We’ve already discussed the phenomenon of atmospheric nuclear testing and its effect on Carbon 14 levels, so, to simplify, just assume that the standard value for Carbon 14 in 1950 is one hundred percent. Any value over that represents ‘bomb,’ or modern carbon, and indicates a death date more recent than 1950.”

I pointed to the last figure in a column labeled “Measured Radiocarbon Age.”

“The pMC for LSJML-38428 is 120.5, plus or minus .5.”

“A percent modern carbon significantly higher than one hundred percent.”

“Yes.”

“Meaning this girl died since 1950?”

“Yes.”

“How long after 1950?”

“It’s tricky. By the time atmospheric testing was banned in 1963, pMC values had elevated to one hundred ninety percent. But what goes up must come down. So a pMC value of one hundred twenty percent could indicate a point on the upside of the curve, when levels were increasing, or a point on the downside, when levels were dropping.”

“Meaning?”

“Death could have occurred in the late fifties or in the mid to late eighties.”

LaManche’s face sagged visibly.

“It gets worse. The present pMC value is around one hundred seven percent.” I pointed to the figures for LSJML-38426 and LSJML-38427.

“Mon Dieu.”

“These girls died as long ago as the early fifties, or as recently as the early nineties.”

“You will inform Monsieur Claudel of these results?”

“Oh yes,” I said. With feeling.

LaManche steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lower lip.

“If these girls disappeared during the past twenty years, it is possible they will be in the system. Descriptors must be sent to CPIC.”

LaManche referred to the Canadian Police Information Centre, the equivalent of NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in the United States.

CPIC and NCIC, maintained by the RCMP and the FBI respectively, are computerized indexes of information, including criminal record histories, details on fugitives and stolen properties, and data on missing persons. The databases are available to law enforcement and to other criminal justice agencies twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

As we rose, LaManche laid a hand on my shoulder.

“We must apply ourselves, Temperance. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh yes,” I repeated with equal feeling.

Thirty seconds later I was in my office talking to Claudel. He was making only minor contribution to the dialogue.

“Not so quickly.”

“Three-eight-four-two-six,” I repeated at the pace a sloth might have employed if speaking French. “Female.” Pause. “White.” Pause. “Age sixteen to eighteen.” Pause. “Height fifty-eight to sixty-two inches.”

“Dentals?” You could have used Claudel’s voice to scythe wheat.

“No restorations. But of course I have postmortem X-rays.”

“These are the bones from the crate?”

“Yes.”

“Next.”

“Three-eight-four-two-seven. Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Height sixty-four to sixty-seven inches. No dental work.”

“The bones recovered from the first depression?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Three-eight-four-two-eight. Female, white, age eighteen to twenty-two, sixty-five to sixty-eight inches in height. Healed Colles’ fracture of the distal right radius.”

“Meaning?”

“She fractured her right wrist several years before death. Colles’ fractures often occur when the hands are thrown out to break a fall.”

“The bones from the second depression?”

“Yes.”

“There are no distinguishing features on any of these individuals?”