Grave Secrets

Ryan pointed to the skull.

“Why the hole in the forehead?”

“Rope.”

“I hate it when that happens to me.”

I gave him the “spare me” face.

“The Specters are out of the picture for your septic tank case. Actually, with the Gutierrez collar, it looks like the whole serial killer theory is sucking wind. But Galiano thought it couldn’t hurt to talk to the little princess.”

“Galiano phoned again?” Cool.

“This morning.”

“Has Gutierrez confessed?”

“Not yet, but Galiano’s convinced he’ll give it up.”

“I’m glad he’s keeping you informed.”

“I’m here, he’s there. I’m doing the interrogation as a professional courtesy.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Yeah.”

“God bless gonads.”

“You’re a scientist, Brennan. You look at bones. I’m a cop. I question people.”

As I started to speak, Ryan’s beeper sounded. He slipped it off his waistband and checked the readout.

“Gotta go. Look, you don’t have to go on the Chantale visit. Galiano thought you’d like to be included.”

“When is this little outing?”

“I should be back from Drummondville by six.”

I shrugged. “Normally that’s when I watch the Shopping Channel.”

“Are you PMS, Brennan?”

“What?”

He feigned a self-defense maneuver with his hands.

“I’ll pick you up around five forty-five.”

“My heart’s thumping.”

“And Brennan.” Ryan jerked a thumb at the table. “Take a cue from our Peruvian friend. Quit while you’re a head.”

I spent the rest of the day with our Peruvian friend. X rays verified that the skull was human, not dog or bird, the species typically used by creators of fakes. I took photographs, wrote my report, then contacted the chair of the Anthropology Department at McGill University. He promised to track down the proper expert.

At two, Robert Gagne stopped by my office to say that the profiles would be ready shortly. I was as shocked at his pace with the cat hair as I’d been with Susanne’s with the cranial cast. Cops waited weeks for DNA results.

Gagne’s response was identical to Susanne’s. The project was out of the ordinary. It intrigued him. He’d run with it.

By three, I was on my way to St-Hubert.

By four-thirty, I was heading home, a replica of the Paraiso skull in a box on the seat beside me. The facial approximation was now up to me.

Traffic was heavy, and I moved ahead in starts and stops, alternately palming the gearshift and drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Gradually the starts succumbed to the stops. On the Victoria Bridge, they gave out altogether, and I sat fixed in place, surrounded by a four-lane automotive showroom.

I’d been there ten minutes when my cell phone sounded. I reached for it, happy for the diversion.

It was Katy.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Where are you?”

“Charlotte. Classes are done for the year.”

“Isn’t this a late wrap-up?”

“I had to finish my methods class project.”

Katy was a fifth-year undergraduate at the University of Virginia. Though bright, witty, attractive, and blonde, my daughter was uncertain what life was offering her, and had yet to settle on a game plan.

What wasn’t life offering her? I agreed with my estranged husband on this one.

“What were you looking at?” I asked, shifting gears to ooze forward seventeen inches.

“The effects of Cheez Whiz on rat memory.”