nothing at home.
Detectives. Students. Journalists. One prosecutor had phoned four times.
Zip from Ryan.
Great. Ryan had his sources. I had no doubt Sherlock knew I was back.
The headache swirled behind my right eye.
Giving up on the desk, I grabbed the
It was Dominique Specter.
“It’s very hot,” I agreed, scanning one of LaManche’s forms.
“They say we may set a record today.”
“Yes,” I said absently. The skull had been found in a trunk. LaManche noted badly chipped teeth, and a cord laced through the tongue.
“It always seems so much hotter in the city. I do hope you have air-conditioning.”
“Yes, “ I answered, my mind on something more macabre than the weather.
“You are busy?”
“I’ve been away almost three weeks.”
“Of course. I do apologize for intruding on your time.” She paused, indicating appropriate contrition. “We can see Chantale at one o’clock.”
“Where is she?”
“At a police station on Guy near boulevard Rene Levesque.”
Op South. It was just blocks from my condo.
“Shall we pick you up?”
“I’ll meet you there.”
I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. It was Susanne Jean. She would be with Volvo engineers all morning, had a lunch meeting at Bombardier, but could see me in the afternoon. We agreed to meet at three.
Crossing to the lab, I prepared folders for each case, and quickly scanned the torso request. Adult male. Arms, legs, and head missing. Advanced state of decomposition. Discovered in a culvert at Lac des Deux- Montagnes. Coroner: Leo Henry. Pathologist: Pierre LaManche. Investigating officer: Lieutenant-detective Andrew Ryan, Surete du Quebec.
Well, well.
The remains were downstairs, so I took the secure elevator, swiped my card, and punched the lowest of the three buttons: LSJML. Coroner. Morgue.
In the basement, I entered another restricted area. On the left, doors opened into autopsy rooms, three containing single tables, the largest containing two.
Through the small window in the door of the central suite, I spotted a woman in surgical scrubs. She had long, curly hair, secured with a barrette at the back of her head. Pretty and thirty-something, with a quick smile and 36Ds, Lisa was a perennial favorite with the homicide detectives.
She was a perennial favorite with me for preferring to speak English.
Hearing the door, she turned and did that.
“Good morning. I thought you were in Guatemala.”
“I’ll be going back down.”
“R and R?”
“Not exactly. I’d like to look at LaManche’s torso.”
She pulled a face.
“He’s sixty-four, Dr. Brennan.”
“Everyone’s a comedian.”
“Morgue number?”
I read it aloud from the request form.
“Room four?”
“Please.” She disappeared through double doors. Beyond lay one of five morgue bays, each divided into fourteen refrigerated compartments secured by stainless steel doors. Small white cards announced the presence of occupants. Red stickers warned of HIV-positive status. The morgue number would tell Lisa behind which door the torso lay.
I proceeded to suite four, a room specially outfitted for extra ventilation. The room for floaters and bloaters. The room for crispers. The room in which I usually worked.
I’d barely gloved and masked when Lisa rolled a gurney through swinging doors identical to those in the
