game. I was strongly for Duke. Bird was pulling for the Clemson Tigers. Probably a feline thing.
Sunday morning it took less than thirty minutes online to locate and order the Donovan Joyce book. The Jesus Scroll. Ads blurbed it as the most disturbing work ever written about Christianity. Good press. Too bad the thing was out of print.
Every few hours I called Jake. His mobile was off. At one, I quit leaving messages and tried his hotel. He’d checked out.
Ryan’s surveillance ended with three arrests and the confiscation of a truckload of cigarettes. He showed up at six, eyes deeply shadowed, hair wet from the shower. I had a Perrier, Ryan had a Moosehead, then we walked to Katsura on rue de la Montagne.
My patch of centre-ville was quiet. Few students milled outside Concordia University. Few fun-seekers partied on rue Crescent.
There’s something ’bout a Sunday.
Or maybe it was the temperature. Overnight, Saturday’s sleet had given way to clear skies and arctic cold.
Over sushi, I gave Ryan the rundown on Morissonneau’s skeleton, ending with my conclusion that the bones were those of a white male aged forty to sixty at the time of his death.
“So my age estimate rules out the Cave 2001 septuagenarian, the Bible’s thirty-three-year-old Jesus, and Donovan Joyce’s eighty-year-old Jesus.”
“But you’re certain Kessler’s photo shows the isolated skeleton in Cave 2001, and that that skeleton is the one Lerner stole from the Musee de l’Homme and gave to Ferris, who gave it to Morissonneau?”
“Jake’s certain. He’s talked to someone who worked as a volunteer excavator in Cave 2001. But I can’t find a single unique identifier to unequivocally tie Morissonneau’s skeleton to the one in Kessler’s photo. And there’s something going on with one of the teeth.”
I told Ryan about the odd molar.
“So you suspect it’s not the same skeleton?”
“Or it is the same skeleton, but the molar was inserted after the photo was taken.”
“Someone found the guy’s missing tooth during recovery and stuck it back in the socket?”
“Possibly.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“The cusps look less ground down to me.”
“Meaning the tooth could be from another person, someone younger.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know. Maybe just a mix-up. Yadin used volunteers. Maybe one of them inserted the molar, thinking it belonged.”
“You’re going to see Bergeron?”
“Monday.”
Ryan filled me in on his lead in the Ferris case.
“When I ran the name Kessler, not a lot popped out.”
“Dearth of Jewish felons?”
“Meyer Lansky,” Ryan said.
“I stand corrected,” I said.
“Bugsy Siegel,” Ryan added.
“Twice.”
“David Berkowitz.”
“Thrice.”
“Elegant,” Ryan said.
“Shakespearean,” I agreed.
“When I tinkered around, whatdid pop out was a guy named Hershel Kaplan.”
I was stumped. What follows thrice. Frice? Quatrice?
“Kaplan’s a small-time hustler. Did a couple of bumps for white-collar stuff. Credit card fraud. Check forgery. Also goes by the names Hershel Cantor and Harry Kester.”
“Let me guess. Kessler was also one of Kaplan’s aliases.”
“Hirsch Kessler.” Ryan dug a photocopy from his back pocket. “That your boy?”
I studied the photo. Glasses. Dark hair. This guy was clean-shaven.
“Maybe.” They all look alike? I felt like a moron.
I closed my eyes and conjured Kessler.
I opened my eyes and stared at the mug shot.
Subconscious ring-a-ding. What?
The craning neck. The drooping lids. A word when Kessler ambushed me outside the family room. Turtle. I’d forgotten. The same word had again flashed into my mind.
“Kessler had a beard. But I think it’s the same man.” I handed the paper back. “Sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
“It’s a start.”
“Where’s Kessler now? Kaplan?”
“I’m looking into that.”
Back home, Ryan talked with Charlie while I showered. I was standing naked by my dresser when he entered the bedroom.
“Freeze.”
I turned, a lace baby doll nightie in one hand, a satin charmeuse slip in the other.
“I’m going to have to know what you’re doing, ma’am.”
“You a cop?”
“That’s why I ask the tough questions.”
I raised the lingerie and a questioning brow.
“Put down the nighties and step away from the dresser.”
I did.
It was a typical Monday morning madhouse at the lab. Four dead in a house fire. One shooting. One hanging. Two stabbings. A crib death.
Only one case for me.
Objects had been found in the basement sink of an apartment high-rise in Cote Saint-Luc. Police suspected they were the skull bones of an infant or toddler.
After the morning meeting, I asked LaManche to follow me to my lab. I showed him Morissonneau’s skeleton, filled him in on its history and possible provenance, and explained how it had come into my possession.
As expected, LaManche assigned the remains an LSJML number, and told me to treat them as a coroner case. Final resolution would be my call. Should I declare the bones ancient, I was free to release them to the appropriate archaeologists.
When LaManche had gone, I asked my lab technician, Denis, to X-ray the skeleton’s dentition. Then I got down to the baby.
I had to admit the specimens looked like two very young and incomplete parietal bones. The concave surfaces showed the vascular patterning produced by close association with the brain’s outer surface.
Cleaning resolved the issue.
The “bones” were fragments of coconut shell. The venous patterning was the result of water action on caked mud.
When I’d delivered my report to the secretary’s office, Denis handed me a small brown envelope. I dumped the contents onto my light box.
One look strengthened my suspicion that the first maxillary molar had been reinserted into the skeleton’s jaw. And not too skillfully. On X-ray, I could see that the tooth’s angle was slightly wrong, and that the roots didn’t conform properly to their sockets.
And something else.
