DEJA DEAD

saying Gandhi looked hungry.

?I have the dental records,? he said in way of greeting. He flourished the envelope like a presenter at the Academy Awards.

?I picked them up myself.?

He read a name scrawled on the outside. ?Dr. Nguyen. He?s got an office over in Rosemont. I would have been here earlier but the guy?s got a real cretin of a secretary.?

?Coffee?? I asked. Though I?d never met Dr. Nguyen?s secretary I felt empathy for her. I knew she hadn?t had a good morning.

He opened his mouth to accept or decline. I don?t know which. At that moment Marc Bergeron rounded the corner. Seemingly unaware of our presence, he strode past the row of shiny black office doors, stopping one short of mine. Crooking a knee, he placed his briefcase on the upraised thigh. I thought of the crane maneuver in the Karate Kid. Thus poised, he clicked the case open, rummaged among its contents, and withdrew a set of keys.

?Marc??

It startled him. He slammed the case shut and swung it down, all in one movement.

?Bien fait,? I said, suppressing a smile.

?Merci.? He looked at Claudel and me, the briefcase in his left hand, the keys in his right.

Marc Bergeron was, by any standard, peculiar-looking. In his late fifties or early sixties, his long, bony frame was slightly stooped, bent forward at midchest as if perpetually ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. His hair started midway back on his scalp and exploded in a corona of white frizz. It brought him to well over six foot three. His wire-rimmed glasses were always greasy and speckled with dust, and he often squinted, as though reading the fine print on a rebate coupon. He looked more like a Tim Burton creation than a forensic dentist.

?Monsieur Claudel has the dental records for Gagnon,? I said, indicating the detective. Claudel raised the envelope, as if in proof.

Nothing clicked behind the smudged lenses. Bergeron regarded me blankly. He looked like a tall, confused dandelion, with his long, thin stem and puff of white hair. I realized he knew nothing about the case.

Bergeron was among the professionals employed part time by the LML, each a forensic specialist consulted for specific expertise. Neuropathology. Radiology. Microbiology. Odontology. He normally came to the lab once a week. The rest of the time he saw patients in private practice. He hadn?t been here last week.

I summarized. ?Last Thursday workers found some bones on the grounds of Le Grand S #233;minaire. Pierre LaManche thought it was another historic cemetery situation and sent me over. It wasn?t.?

He set down the briefcase and listened intently.

?I found parts of a dismembered body that had been bagged and dumped, probably within the last couple of months. It?s a female, white, probably in her early twenties.?

Claudel?s envelope tapping had become more rapid. It stopped momentarily as he looked pointedly at his watch. He cleared his throat.

Bergeron looked at him, then back at me. I continued.

?Monsieur Claudel and I narrowed the possibles to one we think is pretty good. The profile fits and the timing is reasonable. He drove the records in himself. A Dr. Nguyen over in Rosemont. Know him??

Bergeron shook his head and extended a long, skinny hand. ?Bon,? he said. ?Give them to me. I?ll have a look at them. Has Denis done X rays yet??

?Daniel did them,? I said. ?They should be on your desk.?

He unlocked the door to his office. Claudel followed. Through the open door I could see a small brown envelope lying on his desk. Ber-geron picked it up and checked the case number. From where I stood I could see Claudel charting the room, like a monarch, deciding on a place to light.

?You may call me in an hour, Monsieur Claudel,? Bergeron said.

The detective stopped in mid-chart. He started to speak, then pressed his lips into a thin, tight line, readjusted his cuffs, and left. For the second time in minutes I suppressed a smile. Bergeron would never tolerate an investigator peering over his shoulder as he worked. Claudel had just learned that.

Bergeron?s gaunt face reappeared. ?Coming in?? he asked.

?Sure,? I said. ?Coffee?? I still hadn?t had any since getting to work. We often got it for each other, taking turns making the trek to the kitchenette in the other wing.

?Great.? He dug out his mug and handed it to me. ?I?ll get set up here.?

I got my own mug and started down the corridor. I was pleased at his invitation. We often worked the same cases, the decomposed, burned, mummified, or skeletonized, the dead who could not be identified by normal means. I thought we worked well together. It seemed he agreed.

When I returned, two sets of small black squares lay on the light box. Each X ray showed a segment of jaw, the dentition bright against a stark black background. I remembered the teeth as I?d first seen them in the woods, their flawlessness in sharp contrast to the grisly context. They looked different now. Sanitized. Neatly lined up in rows, ready for inspection. The familiar shapes of crowns, roots, and pulp chambers were illuminated in differing intensities of gray and white.

Bergeron began by arranging the antemortem radiographs to the right and the postmortem to the left. His long, bony fingers located a small bump on each X ray, and, one by one, he oriented them, placing the dot face up. When he?d finished, each antemortem radiograph lay in identical alignment to its postmortem counterpart.

He compared the two sets for discrepancies. Everything matched. Neither series showed missing teeth. All roots were complete to their tips. The outlines and curvatures on the left mirrored perfectly those on the right. But most noticeable were the stark white globs representing dental restorations. The constellation of shapes on the antemortem films was mimicked in detail on the films Daniel had taken.

After studying the X rays for what seemed an interminable time, Bergeron selected a square from the right, placed it over the corresponding postmortem X ray, and positioned it for my inspection. The irregular patterns on the molars superimposed exactly. He swiveled to face me.

?C?est positif,? he said, leaning back and placing an elbow on the table. ? Unofficially, of course, until I finish with the written records.? He reached for his coffee. He would do an exhaustive comparison of the written records in addition to a more detailed X-ray comparison, but he had no doubt. This was Isabelle Gagnon.

I was glad I wouldn?t be the one to face the parents. The husband. The lover. The son. I?d been present at such meetings. I knew the look. The eyes, pleading. Tell me this is a mistake. A bad dream. Make it end. Say it isn?t so. Then, comprehension. In a millisecond, the world changed forever.

?Thanks for looking at this right away, Marc,? I said. ?And thanks for the preliminary.?

?I wish they could all be this easy.? He took a sip of coffee, grimaced and shook his head.

?Do you want me to deal with Claudel?? I tried to keep the distaste out of my voice. Apparently I didn?t succeed. He smiled knowingly.

?I have no doubt you can handle Monsieur Claudel.?

?Right,? I said. ?That?s what he needs. A handler.?

I could hear him laughing as I returned to my office.

My grandmother always told me there is good in everyone. ?Just look fer it . . .? she?d say, the brogue smooth as satin, ?. . . and ye?ll find it. Everyone has a virtue.? Gran, you never met Claudel.

Claudel?s virtue was promptness. He was back in fifty minutes.

He stopped in Bergeron?s office, and I could hear their voices through the wall. My name was repeated several times as Bergeron forwarded him to me. Claudel?s cadence signaled irritation. He wanted a real opinion, but now he?d have to settle for me again. He appeared seconds later, his face hard.

Neither of us offered greeting. He waited at the door.

?It?s positive,? I said. ?Gagnon.?

He frowned, but I could see excitement collecting in his eyes. He had a victim. Now he could begin the investigation. I wondered if he felt anything for the dead woman or if it was all an exercise for him. Find the bad guy. Outwit the perp. I?d heard the banter, the comments, the jokes made over a victim?s battered body. For