Ryan crossed to me. I handed him a pale gold card.
Hersh:
You view happiness as an impossible dream. I have seen it in your eyes. Pleasure and joy have moved to a place beyond the scope of your imagination.
You are angry? Ashamed? Afraid? Don’t be. We are pushing forward, slowly, like swimmers moving through an angry sea. The waves will recede. We will triumph.
Love,
M
I pointed to initials embossed on the card. “M. F.”
“The acronym has other meanings.”
“Rarely on stationery. AndM. F. isn’t a common initial combination.”
Ryan thought a moment.
“Morgan Freeman. Marshall Field. Millard Fillmore. Morgan Fairchild.”
“I’m impressed.” I worked it. “Masahisa Fukase.”
Blank stare.
“Fukase’s a Japanese photographer. Does amazing images of crows.”
“Some of Fairchild’s images were pretty amazing.”
Eye roll. “I have a gut feeling Miriam wrote this. But when? There’s no date. And why?”
“To cheer Kaplan in prison?”
I pointed to the note’s last line. “Wewill triumph?”
“To encourage Kaplan to pump two slugs into hubby?”
Suddenly the room felt cold and dark.
“Time to call Israel,” Ryan said.
Back at Wilfrid Derome, Ryan peeled off to the crimes contre la personne squad room, and I returned to my lab. Selecting the right femur from Morissonneau’s skeleton, I descended to autopsy room four, and placed the bone on the table.
After connecting the Stryker saw, I masked, and cut two one-inch plugs from the femur’s midshaft. Then I returned to my lab and phoned Jake. Once again, I was rousing him at the midnight hour.
I told Jake what Bergeron had said about the odd molar.
“How did someone else’s tooth get into the jaw of that skeleton?”
“It happens. My guess is the molar somehow became incorporated with the skeleton during recovery of the bones in the cave. The roots fit the socket reasonably well, so someone, maybe a volunteer digger, slipped it into the jaw.”
“And Haas later glued it.”
“Maybe. Maybe someone at the Musee de l’Homme. It’s probably just an error.”
“Did you cut samples for DNA testing?”
I reiterated my skepticism about the value of DNA in a case in which no comparative samples existed.
“I want the tests done.”
“Okay. It’s your grant money.”
“And carbon fourteen.”
“Priority or standard delivery on the radiocarbon?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Days versus weeks. And several hundred dollars.”
“Priority.”
I gave Jake the names of the labs I intended to use. He agreed and provided a billing account number.
“Jake, if carbon-fourteen testing indicates this skeleton is as old as you say it is, you know I’ll have to contact the Israeli authorities.”
“Call me first.”
“I’ll call. But I’d like to kn-”
“Thanks, Tempe.” Quick intake of breath. I sensed Jake was about to tell me something. Then, “This could be explosive.”
I started to question that, decided not to press. I wanted to get the samples ready for morning pickup.
After disconnecting, I logged onto the Net, called up the websites, and downloaded two case-submission forms for the DNA testing, and one for the radiometric testing.
The odd molar had come from a different individual than the bones and teeth of the rest of the skeleton. I wanted it treated as a single case for DNA testing. I assigned the odd molar one sample number.
I assigned a second, single sample number to one of the plugs I’d cut from the skeleton’s femur and one of the molars Bergeron had extracted from its jaw.
I registered the second of the skeleton’s molars and the second bone plug for radiocarbon dating.
When I’d completed the paperwork, I asked Denis to FedEx the bone and tooth samples to the respective labs.
That was it. There was nothing else I could do.
Days passed.
Frost crept across my windows. Snow capped the slats of my side-yard fence.
My casework entered a typical late winter lull. No hikers or campers. Fewer kids in the parks. Snow on the land, ice on the river. Scavengers hunkered in, waiting out winter.
Come spring, the bodies would blossom like monarchs swarming north. For now, it was quiet.
Tuesday morning, I purchased Yadin’s popular work on Masada. Beautiful photographs, chapters and chapters on the palaces, bathhouses, synagogues, and scrolls. But Jake was right. Yadin devoted barely a page to the cave skeletons, and included only one lonely photo. Hard to believe the book triggered such a controversy when it was published in ’66.
Tuesday afternoon, Ryan learned that Hershel Kaplan had entered Israel on February 27. Kaplan’s present whereabouts were unknown. The Israel National Police were looking for him.
Ryan phoned Wednesday afternoon to ask if I’d like to accompany him on a follow-up with Courtney Purviance, then grab some dinner.
“Follow-up on what?”
“No biggie, just a detail on one of Ferris’s associates. Guy named Klingman says he stopped by to see Ferris that Friday, couldn’t scare anyone up. Just dottingi ’s and crossingt ’s.”
What the hell. I had nothing better to do.
Ryan picked me up around four. Purviance lived in a typical Montreal walk-up in Saint-Leonard. Gray stone. Blue trim. Iron staircase shooting straight up the front.
The lobby was small, the tile floor filmed by salty snowmelt. Beside the interior door were four mail slots, each with a handwritten nameplate and buzzer. Purviance lived in unit 2-B.
Ryan thumbed the button. A female voice answered. Ryan gave his name. The woman responded with a question.
While Ryan cleared security, I scanned the names of the other tenants.
Purviance told Ryan to wait.
He turned. I must have been smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
“Look at these names.” I pointed to 1-A. “How does that translate in French?”
“‘The pine.’”
I tapped 1-B. “That’s ‘olive’ in Italian.” 2-A. “That’s ‘oak’ in Latvian. We’ve got an international arborist convention, right here in Saint-Leonard.”
Ryan smiled and shook his head.
“I don’t know how your brain works, Brennan.”
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
The door buzzed. We climbed to the second floor.
When Ryan knocked, Purviance again asked that he identify himself. He did. A million locks rattled. The door
