Usually Joe says
Dejected, I let my eyes drift to the window. Twelve stories down, traffic flowed as streams of tiny red dots. Reflected in the glass was a slender woman, blurred features impossible to read. The tense shoulders suggested frustration.
Time to go.
After securing my calipers in a drawer and locking the lab door, I crossed to my office.
With the LSJML’s new phone system, calls go directly to individual extensions. Unanswered ones roll straight to voice mail. Occasionally, contact to the main line is reported on paper.
I was zipping my parka when I noticed an old-fashioned pink slip amid the clutter on my desk.
I picked up and scanned the message.
Yes!
I snatched up the receiver.
22
CALLER HAS CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION.
Perry Schechter’s name was accompanied by a ten-digit sequence starting with 312.
Chicago.
Had Jurmain’s lawyer discovered the identity of the bastard who set me up?
I dialed.
Four rings, then a way too smooth voice asked that I leave my name, number, and reason for phoning.
I did as directed, then slammed the receiver.
Could anything else go wrong today?
I checked the handwritten date and time. Schechter had contacted the lab at nine fifteen that morning.
The clock said six forty.
I decided to split and call again from home.
Sure. That’ll work.
It didn’t.
I tried once upon arrival, twice after sharing take-out pad thai with Birdie.
Vecamamma rang as I was collecting the dinner debris. She was considering cataract surgery, wanted my opinion. I told her to go for it.
I asked about Cukura Kundze. Vecamamma said that Laszlo’s remains had been released by the coroner, and that his parents had organized a memorial service and interment. She’d attended, of course. Though sad, both Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot appeared relieved that the boy was finally square with the Lord, at least from a funerary perspective. She described the coffin, the flowers, the music, the supper, Cukura Kundze’s inappropriately magenta dress, and, of course, the minister’s homily.
Familiar with policy concerning retention of samples in open homicide cases, I wondered how much of Lassie had actually gone into the ground. Didn’t say it.
I asked about the investigation. Vecamamma knew nothing.
After disconnecting, I speculated for the hundredth time on what had happened to Lassie. Why had the kid been murdered? Where? By whom? I hoped his case wouldn’t end up like thousands of others, in a forgotten box on the shelf of a police property room.
At eleven I went to bed.
The cat joined me sometime in the night.
I slept until eight the next morning. Driving to the lab, I had a session with myself. Hostility bad. Serenity good. Smell the roses. Better for health, longevity. Blah. Blah. Blah.
First thing, I called Schechter.
The same recorded voice smarmed the same directive. After dictating a second message, I recradled the receiver. Gently.
Staff meeting was the arctic affair it had been on Monday. No smiles. No jokes. No one wanting to be there.
Briel was absent. I learned she’d begun teaching a course at the med school in Laval.
As we dispersed, I pulled Ayers aside to ask why everyone seemed so down. Mumbling about fatigue and overwork, she hurried off to cut a Y in Marilyn Keiser’s chest.
Back at my desk, I called the coroner’s office. A new secretary picked up. I began my request. Stopped. Asked the woman’s name. Adele.
I identified myself. Adele and I exchanged pleasantries. The new me.
“Has the Gouvrard file come in?”
“
I heard a clunk. Computer keys. A rush of air as the receiver was raised to an ear.
“
“What?” Sharp.
Silence.
I took a breath. “Sorry, Adele, but I’m confused. Why was the file sent to Dr. Briel?”
“According to the record she’s handling the case.”
“That is an error.” So very polite. “Please replace Dr. Briel’s name with mine.”
Adele said nothing.
“If you have questions, please speak with Monsieur Hubert.”
Two requests. Two “please’s.”
Adele hesitated, then, “Shall I collect the dossier and deliver it to you?”
“Thank you for offering. That’s not necessary.”
I was disconnecting when Joe stuck his head into my office.
“Anything for me?”
I started to ask for X-rays of the maybe-Gouvrard family. Remembered. Smiled.
Joe waited, face set in neutral.
Southern women are famous for knowing the right things to say. For conjuring words and phrases that put others at ease. It’s a skill I admire but do not possess. That’s being generous. When it comes to small talk, I suck.
At a loss for common conversational ground, I glommed onto a comment from yesterday’s cookie enticement.
“Tell me something.” A good Dixie girl opener. “You said you’ll spend the weekend exploring. I find that intriguing.” I didn’t. My mind was on the Lac Saint-Jean bones. “Exploring what?”
