attribute not seemingly in great supply among scientists.
Still, what practical value was there in what he had to tell them? In over twenty years of police work Joly had called for the assistance of a forensic anthropologist three times, and not once could he say that it had made the difference between resolving a case and not resolving it. No, when it came down to it everything turned on the application of the well-established methodology of criminal investigation, diligently pursued. Without that, there was nothing, no matter how many forensic scientists you had on your side, gabbling about sternocleidomastoidal insertions, or sarcosaprophagous insects, or carboxyhemoglobin levels.
By the fifth afternoon, he was restless and bored, and he had begun to think up excuses for calling his office. When the message came for him to do just that, he responded with a sigh of relief and left the lecture hall with such alacrity that he stumbled over the legs of the Hawaiian FBI man dozing so comfortably in the aisle seat.
'Pardon, monsieur,” Joly said.
'No problem,” said the FBI man amiably without opening his eyes.
* * * *
WHEN he had hung up after talking to Denis, Joly called the public prosecutor, Monsieur Picard, to inform him of the case, as was his duty. This he did, as usual with some resentment. Pleasant and harmless he might be, but Monsieur Picard was not a policeman and didn't think like one, and to be subordinate to him was a raw, never- ending frustration. That was the one thing Joly admired about the American justice system with its impossible decentralization of police powers into thousands of squabbling jurisdictions. At least they were not under the thumb of the damned judiciary.
Picard, never content simply to let the professionals do their work, would figure out some way of interfering, even in a case like this.
As indeed he did. “Listen, Joly,” he said after he had heard the details, “isn't that American skeleton expert at your conference?'
Joly was hardly concerned that the gritting of his teeth might be heard at the other end of the line. “Yes, sir,” he said, as near as it can be done without opening the mouth.
'Well, I have a wonderful idea. Why don't you talk with him and see if...'
* * * *
GIDEON remained at the lectern for a few minutes after his third presentation of the week, answering the questions of a few people who had clustered around him. This was over swiftly, however; the attendees were anxious to take full advantage of the coffee break to fortify themselves for the upcoming session on “Recent Advances in Ionization Analysis by Means of the Gas Chromatograph-Mass Spectrometer.'
When they left, he began crating the two skulls and assorted bones the University of Rennes had lent him. (He had wanted to use his own demonstration materials from the anthropology lab in Port Angeles, but the postal authorities there had made uneasy noises about shipping dismembered human remains across international borders, and in the end it had seemed simpler to borrow them in France.) He was feeling cheerful as he packed the bones in polystyrene chips. For one thing the lectures were going well; for another it was very pleasant to be at a conference strictly as a presenter and not an attendee. It meant he could skip sessions when he felt like it. (He always could, of course, but this way he didn't feel guilty.) And inasmuch as ionization analysis exerted less than a hypnotic pull on him and the weather was brightening, he thought he might get a taxi into the Old Town and walk the famous ramparts.
John Lau came up sipping one cup of coffee and holding out a second. “Here. It's good.'
'Ah, thanks, John.” He sipped gratefully. “Sorry if I spoiled your nap.'
John laughed, the sudden, baby-like burble of pleasure that always made Gideon smile in return. “Sorry, Doc. I didn't think you noticed.'
'Only when you snored.'
'Ah, hey, come on. Anyway, it wasn't your lecture. It was that second beer with lunch.'
'It was that
The big FBI agent considered solemnly. “That too,” he said.
'How are you going to make it through an hour and a half of ionization analysis?” Gideon asked unsympathetically. John was an attendee; he wasn't supposed to spend his afternoons walking around St. Malo.
John blew out his breath. “Oh, Christ. I—” He turned and moved a step to the side, with what Gideon had come to recognize as a policeman's instinctive discomfort at sensing someone behind him.
'Pardon me,” the man said in a cultivated, nasal voice with only a slight French accent. “I didn't mean to interrupt.'
'That's all right.” Gideon recognized him; a tall, bald, self-contained man, rather stiff, who could have doubled for Valery Giscard d'Estaing, except for his gleaming, steel-rimmed spectacles. He had been soberly attentive through Gideon's lectures so far, and had asked several polite, intelligent questions, but always with a discreetly veiled, unobtrusively superior skepticism; a man not inclined to accept anybody's judgment but his own. He was exactly the sort of man whose posture, or way of speaking, or perhaps whose mere presence, brought out Gideon's not-too-deeply-buried insecurities. All he had to do was gaze down his long nose and raise an eyebrow preparatory to making a remark, and Gideon felt like a ten-year-old in grownup's clothes caught out playing pretend- scientist.
'I am Inspector Joly of the OPJ—the Office of Judicial Police,” he said, gazing down his long nose.
John held out his hand. “John Lau, FBI, Seattle.'
Joly made a formal, straight-backed ghost of a bow to each of them and ceremoniously shook hands.
'Something has come up that may be of interest to you, Dr. Oliver . . .'
'ANY particular reason for assuming it's human?” Gideon asked as Joly pulled the blue Renault out of the parking lot of the new St. Malo Conference and Exposition Center and turned south on the Boulevard des Talards. They skirted the industrial docks of the Bouvet Basin, where huge cranes glided like colossal spiders among the
