Monday Mourning

22

“GO ON.”

“First, let’s talk teeth. Two of your individuals overlap in their dental Sr values.”

“Which two?”

Paper rustling.

“Let’s see…38426 and 38427. For them I’d expect a childhood diet with an average Sr value of plus ninety to plus one hundred five. But 38428 is statistically distinct. The Sr isotope composition of that individual’s dental sample suggests a childhood diet with an average Sr value of plus fifty to plus sixty.”

“Meaning 38428 was not born in the same region as the other two?”

“Correct.”

“Can you tell where she’s from?”

“That’s where it gets interesting. Last year we had a case of jumbled remains from a barrel found in some hophead’s basement in Detroit. Police knew the victims were business associates of the drug dealer who owned the house, but wanted the bones sorted into individuals. None had dental work, all were black, in their mid-twenties, and about the same size. One of the three was born in north-central California, one was from Kansas, and the other was local Michigan talent.

“We didn’t have control groups from the three areas in question, so we had to infer the isotope composition of the dietary Sr from the bedrock geology in each region, then work back to the various bones in the barrel. You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“Someone who spent their childhood in north-central California should have Sr values in the range of plus thirty to plus sixty.” Rustle. “That’s exactly where 38428 falls.”

For a moment I was taken aback.

“Meaning my girl’s from California?”

“Meaning she could be. If you have no other ideas, it’s as good a starting point as any. Of course, she could be from another region with similar bedrock geology.”

“And my other unknowns?”

“A couple of years back we had a case involving commingled remains recovered from a common grave in Vietnam. The army had IDs for the two soldiers, but wanted the bones separated into individuals. One soldier had grown up in northeastern Vermont. The other was from Utah.”

Art gave me no chance to interrupt.

“A study of the Sr isotope composition of the groundwater near St. Johnsbury in Vermont suggested values in the range of plus eighty-four to plus ninety-four. The teeth from one of the soldiers produced Sr values smack-dab in that range.”

“The Vermonter.”

“Yes. The teeth of 38426 and 38427 produced identical values.”

“Meaning these girls were from Vermont?”

“Not so fast. The same rock formations extend across the border into Quebec. What I’m suggesting is that the Sr values of your other two girls are consistent with what I’d expect from people born in the region where the remains were found.”

“The Montreal area.”

“Yes. Now let’s talk bones. For 38426 and 38427, the Sr values in their teeth are similar to the Sr values in their bones.”

“Suggesting they didn’t stray too far from home.”

“Right. But 38428 is a different story.”

I waited.

“Her skeletal Sr values are higher than her dental Sr values. What’s more, her skeletal Sr values are very similar to the skeletal Sr values for 38426 and 38427.”

“The Quebec stay-at-homes.”

“Yes.”

I took several moments to digest that.

“You’re suggesting 38428 was raised in one place, but spent the last few years of her life in another.”

“Looks that way.”

“That she may have grown up in north-central California.”

“Or in an isotopically similar region.”

“But later she may have moved to Quebec or Vermont.”

“Or to an isotopically similar region.”

I couldn’t wait to phone Charbonneau.

“This is terrific, Art.”

“We aim to please. Let me know when you get these ladies ID’d.”

I was so excited I misdialed and had to punch the numbers a second time.

Charbonneau was out. So was Claudel.

Were they ever in?

I left a verbal message with the receptionist, then a numeric one on Charbonneau’s pager.

Back to my lab.

Anticipating what I might find, I carried the Dr. Energy girl’s skull and jaw to the scope.

There they were. Five tiny grooves, two above and three posterior to the auditory canal on the right temporal bone. Magnified, the cuts looked like those on 38427.

I could see nothing on the jaw or on any of the other cranial bones.

Sweet Jesus. What had been done to these girls?

Anne phoned at one-fifteen, her voice sounding listless and flat. After apologizing for being lousy company all week, she told me she was thinking of leaving. Said she didn’t want to impose on my hospitality any longer.

I assured her that she was not imposing. I also assured her that I was enjoying her company tremendously. Given her current mood, the latter was a stretch, but I encouraged her to think in terms of staying until she decided on a better place to go.

Charbonneau phoned at one-forty.

“Cibole! It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

Not all of Charbonneau’s expressions were Texan in origin.

“You ran the CPIC search?”

“I did.”

I heard cellophane.

“Since we don’t know if the two without dental sealant died before or after the one with the sealant, I ran those cases two ways. First I searched disappearances reported in the nineties.”

“Makes sense, given the Carbon 14.”

“Some came close, but no cigars.”

Charbonneau sounded like he was eating something involving caramel or taffy.

“Then I left the date of disappearance open. Got what I expected, given no dentals, no details, and no dates.”

“Lots of hits?”

“List from here to East Bumfuck.”

“What about 38428?”

“Pulled up everything back to 1980. Broken wrist cut the numbers down. Again, a few came close, but no matches. Sure would help to know where the kid lived.”

“How about north-central California?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“I’m serious.”

All crinkling and chewing stopped.

“You’re kiddin’.”

Simplifying the biochemistry and geophysics, I told Charbonneau what I’d learned from Art Holliday.

“Luc’s gonna shit his Fruit of the Looms.”

“You’ve got to send her descriptors south of the border.”

“NCIC. Done. I’ll also roll them by the Vermont and California State Police.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“Can’t hurt anything.”

“Except your partner’s shorts.”

Charbonneau laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“There’s something else.”

“Make my day.”

I described the nicks and grooves.

“And you think the marks were made by a scalpel?”

“Or an extremely sharp, fine-edged blade.”

“You’re talking all three skeletons?”

“Yes. Though the marks on the shrouded burial differ from those on the other two.”

“Differ how?”

“They’re cruder. And there’s more chipping along the edges.”

“Meaning they were made by a different tool?”

“Maybe. Or maybe they were made after the bone had dried out. Or maybe they’re not the result of cutting at all. Maybe they’re postmortem artifacts mimicking cut marks.”

“Scratches caused by dragging or rolling or something?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“There seems to be a pattern.” I stopped, picturing the skulls and jaws in my mind. “The marks circle the right ear opening.”

“On which skeleton?”

“On all three.”

“And nothing anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Holy crap. You think someone was slicing off ears?”

The thought had occurred to me.

“I don’t know.”

After telling LaManche what I’d learned from Art Holliday, I spent the rest of the afternoon with my pizza basement girls. That’s how I’d come to think of them. My girls. My lost girls.

I reexamined every bone, bone fragment, and tooth. I studied the dental and skeletal X-rays. I rescreened the soil. I pored over the buttons.

When at last I sat back, the windows were dark and the halls were quiet. The clock said five-twenty.

I’d learned not one damn additional thing.

I closed my eyes.

I felt sadness over my failure to give names to these girls. Anger over my failure to satisfy Claudel. Frustration over my failure to understand the buttons. Guilt over my failure to spot the cut marks before Bergeron pointed them out.

How could I have missed those marks? Yes, I’d been interrupted many times. Yes, I’d been working on different aspects of the case. Yes, the marks were almost invisible. Yes, at least one skull was fragmented. But how could something that important have escaped my attention?

Failure, failure everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Failure with Anne.

Failure with Ryan.

“Ryan,” I snorted.

“Yes?”

My eyes flew open.

Ryan was standing in the doorway, coat finger-hooked over one shoulder. He was regarding me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.

Ryan raised his free hand, palm out.

“I know. What are you doing here? Right?”

I started to speak. Ryan cut me off.

“I work downstairs.” Ryan grinned. “I’m a cop.”

I sat forward and tucked my hair behind my ears.

“Do you have news on Louise Parent?”

“No.”

“Have you found Rose Fisher?”

The grin evaporated. “No. It doesn’t look good.”

“You think she’s dead?”

“She’s sixty-four. She’s been missing almost a week.”

“What kind of mutant murders elderly women?”

Ryan took my question as rhetorical. “Is the extra surveillance still on your place?”

“Yes.” If you came to visit you’d know. “Are you suggesting I’m elderly?”

“I want you to keep your eyes open, Tempe.”

“They’re rarely closed these days, Andy.”

Ryan ignored that.

“I’m going to swing by Fisher’s house. Thought you might like to ride along.”

I did.

I waved a hand in the direction of the skeletons. “I’m pretty busy.”

“They’re not going anywhere.” Another boyish grin.

Again the debate. Confrontation? Avoidance?

I decided on vague. Give Ryan the opening. Let him tackle or dodge.

“Do you ever ask yourself questions, Ryan?”

“Sure. What ever happened to Alice Cooper?”

“Important questions?”

“What was Alice Cooper?”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.” Ryan’s voice was calm and quiet. “Do you want to ride along?”

The hell with relationships. The hell with Ryan. Cauterize the pain. Do your job.

Stripping off my lab coat, I jammed my keys into my purse and jerked my coat from its hook.

“Let’s go.”

Ryan and I crawled through rush-hour traffic, the atmosphere in the car as relaxed as a coiled snake. Conversation was nonexistent.

Familiar images galloped through my brain. Ryan at the beach. Ryan and me in Guatemala. Ryan in my bed.

Ryan and his prom queen.

At one point Ryan’s hand brushed my knee. A missile rocketed straight to my libido.

Closing my eyes, I made a conscious effort to take control. Deep breathing.

By the time we arrived in Candiac, my neck muscles were taut as guitar strings.

Blinds were drawn across every window in Rose Fisher’s house. Soft yellow light oozed through one set.

“Hm.” Ryan slid to the curb and killed the engine.

“What?”

“I don’t remember leaving a light on.”

“Is the place still sealed?”

“No point. Crime scene finished processing days ago. Took the tape down.” Ryan opened the driver’s side door. “Stay here.”

I gave Ryan a few seconds, then followed him up the front walk and onto the porch. The wreath still wished everyone Joyeuse Fêtes!

Ryan rang the bell.

Inside, chimes sounded faintly.

Wind flapped my scarf.

Ryan rang again.

Seconds ticked by. Another gust. One tear cut loose. I pulled my hat lower.

Ryan was sorting through keys when a light went on in the living room. Locks rattled, then the knob turned. The door opened a crack, and a face peered out.

It was the last face I expected to see.