“But, Sister, it’s possible—”
“No. I know my niece. She has all of her teeth. She isn’t happy with them, but she has them.” Again the nervous laugh. “And no tattoos, thank the Lord.”
“I’m glad to hear that. This young woman is probably not Anna, but perhaps it would be best to have your niece’s dental records sent over, just to be sure.”
“I am sure.”
“Yes. Well, perhaps to assure Detective Claudel. It can’t hurt.”
“I suppose. And I will pray for that poor girl’s family.”
She gave me the name of Anna’s dentist and I called Claudel back.
“She’s sure Anna didn’t have a tattoo.”
“Hi, Auntie nun! Guess what? I had my ass tattooed last week!”
“I agree. Not likely.”
He snorted.
“But she’s absolutely certain Anna has all of her teeth. She remembers her niece complaining about toothaches.”
“Who has extractions?”
My thought precisely.
“It’s usually not people with happy teeth.”
“Yes.”
“And this aunt also believes Anna never went off without telling her mother, right?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Anna Goyette has a better act than David Copperfield. She disappeared seven times in the last eighteen months. At least that’s how many reports the mother filed.”
“Oh.” The hollowness spread from my breastbone to the pit of my stomach.
I asked Claudel to keep me informed, and hung up. I doubted he would.
I was showered, dressed, and in my office by nine-thirty. I finished my report on Elisabeth Nicolet, describing and explaining my observations, just as I would with any forensic case. I wished I could have included information from the Belanger journals, but there just hadn’t been time to go through them.
After printing the report, I spent three hours photographing. I was tense and clumsy, and had trouble positioning the bones. At two I grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria, and ate it as I proofed my findings on Mathias and Malachy. But my mind was focused on the phone and wouldn’t concentrate on the work at hand.
I was at the copy machine with the Belanger journals when I looked up to see Claudel.
“It is not your young lady.”
I stared into his eyes. “Really?”
He nodded.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Her name was Carole Comptois. When the dentals excluded Goyette we ran the prints and got a hit. There were a couple of arrests for soliciting.”
“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
“How did she die?”
“LaManche is finishing the post now.”
“Any suspects?”
“Many.” He stared at my face a moment, said nothing, and left.
I continued photocopying, a robot with emotions swirling inside. The relief I’d felt at learning it wasn’t Anna had immediately turned to guilt. There was still a girl on a table downstairs. A family to be told.
Lift the cover. Turn the page. Lower the cover. Push the button.
Eighteen.
I had no desire to see the autopsy.
* * *
At four-thirty I finished with the journals and returned to my office. I dropped the babies’ reports in the secretarial office then left a note on LaManche’s desk explaining about the photocopies. When I reentered the corridor LaManche and Bergeron stood talking outside the dentist’s office. Both men looked tired and grim. As I approached they took in my face, but didn’t inquire.
“Bad one?” I asked.
LaManche nodded.
