It was as if the gods were conspiring against me. Or at least one among them had a grievance.
Arriving upstairs, I found Duclos in my lab, idly thumbing through her osteology manual. Today the beyond-yellow hair was pulled into dual ponies, one sprouting from each side of her head. The lipstick was mauve.
I set down my half-eaten sandwich.
“Where is Dr. Briel?”
“Preparing for her interview.” Perhaps in deference to her boss’s upcoming appearance on CTV, Duclos was speaking English. “Is that cool, or what?”
“Two words, Ms. Duclos. Self starter.”
Duclos’s face went utterly blank.
“Is there nothing you could be doing?”
“Oh.” Nervous giggle. “The teeth are in the cabinet. I couldn’t get to them.”
Valid point. Though no one gave a rat’s petootie about Bergeron’s dental collection, he insisted on keeping it under lock and key. Only Joe and I were privileged. Should one of Bergeron’s students need entree in his absence we’d each been granted access to the treasure. Woo-hoo!
I dug in my purse, then went to the closet to liberate the tub.
Duclos looked up at me, awaiting direction.
“Compare deciduous to permanent.” Terse. Duclos was not my responsibility. Having to mentor her was making me cranky.
“Baby molars have bulbous crowns and slender, divergent roots.” She spoke as though reading text.
“Yes.” I dug an example from the tub and handed it to her.
Pointing the crown north and the roots south, she wiggled the molar through the air. “The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout.” The nursery rhyme sounded strange in her accented English.
I finished the last of my sandwich, bunched the cellophane.
“The front teeth have scallopy biting edges, right?”
I shook my head, wondering what seasoning had been used in the ham salad.
“Not always.” I tapped a finger on the Bass book.
“No sweat. I’ll look it up.”
I turned to the youngest Lac Saint-Jean kid.
More frustration. Joe had X-rayed the bones but had failed to take films of the teeth. After twenty minutes of searching, I found him in the break room downstairs, outside the morgue.
I was probably too abrupt. What the hell? It was late, and so far I’d gotten little accomplished.
Joe agreed to shoot apicals. Cooly.
Back to the twelfth floor.
Duclos and I worked side by side in silence. Now and then my stomach rumbled. Once she offered gum. I declined.
Some folks suffer headaches, others allergies, others gastric distress. I occasionally trip paths A and B. Never C. Thus, when hit with digestive symptoms, I’m totally flummoxed.
By late afternoon I needed something.
After trying Ayers, the secretaries, and the receptionist, I finally bummed an antacid from Morin. He insisted on describing the autopsy he’d just completed. It was three ten when I finally got back to the Lac Saint-Jean vics.
Joe had yet to collect the dentition for X-ray.
Feeling guilty about my brusqueness, I arranged the teeth on trays, separated by person. Twelve for the adult female, all in the lower jaw. Twenty-one for the adult male, some in mandibular, some in maxillary fragments. None for the older child. Three for the younger child, all isolated.
There. I’d gone the extra mile. Saved Joe ten minutes.
I was sliding the skeletal X-rays from their sleeve when my cell phone rang. Chicago area code. I clicked on.
“Tempe, it’s Chris Corcoran.”
“Hey.” By now the sandwich was really kicking in. I tried to stifle a belch. It came out sounding like a guinea pig grunt.
“You OK?”
“Mm.”
“You sound odd.”
“I’m fine.” Feeling a twinge, I pressed a hand to my belly.
“Good news. The cops think they’ve caught a break in the Tot case.”
“Oh?” I felt bad about not having asked. I’d meant to for a week.
“An inmate at Stateville is looking to cut a deal for transfer to Pontiac.” Corcoran referred to two of Illinois’s maximum-security correctional facilities.
“What’s so great about Pontiac?” Snappish.
“Ouch. You sure you’re OK?”
“Sorry, I’m a little tired.” I swallowed. “Go on.”
“The guy says his cellmate’s been bragging that he and a buddy rolled a kid and dumped his body in a quarry.”
“When?”
Through the window I saw Briel power-stride up the corridor and into her office. Duclos shot from her seat and bolted out the door.
“The guy doesn’t want to arouse suspicion by asking questions. So far he’s just listening. But he’s agreed to wear a wire.”
“What’s the cellmate in for?”
“Armed robbery.”
My desk phone rang.
“Gotta go, Chris. Keep me in the loop.”
I disconnected one line and picked up the other.
“Brennan.”
“You nailed it. The kid who mowed the lawn and shoveled the walks for the Villejoin sisters says they always paid cash. Says the vics kept money in the pantry.”
“A lot?” Feeling a sudden rush of heat, I pressed a hand to one cheek.
“He didn’t know.”
“How old is this kid?” I shifted the hand. My forehead felt clammy.
“Fifteen.”
“That would make him what, twelve when the Villejoins were killed? Probably too young.”
“And the kid’s about the size of a meerkat. A small one. He wouldn’t have had the strength.”
“Or the wheels to get him to an ATM on the east side of Montreal or out to Oka,” I agreed. “Any moving or painting crews in the neighborhood that week?”
“Dead end on that, but I’m checking with the day labor centers. The kid’s father said they do get the occasional person hustling work door-to-door. I’m taking O’Keefe’s picture to Pointe-Calumet now. Want to tag along?”
My stomach made a sound impossible to describe.
“You feeling OK?” I asked Ryan.
