Claudel nodded.
“They were buried with the skeleton?”
“The gentleman is a little vague on provenance. But yes, they are buttons. And it’s obvious they are old.”
“How can you be certain they’re old?”
“I can’t. Dr. Antoinette Legault at the McCord could.”
The McCord Museum of Canadian History houses over a million artifacts, with more than sixteen thousand of those belonging to the clothing and apparel collection.
“Legault is a button expert?”
Claudel ignored my question. “The buttons were manufactured in the nineteenth century.”
Before I could reply, Claudel’s cell phone warbled. Without excusing himself, he rose and stepped into the hall.
My eyes went back to the buttons. Did they mean the skeletons had been in the ground a century or more?
In less than a minute, Claudel was back.
“Something important has come up.”
I was being dismissed.
I have a temper. I admit that. Sometimes I lose it. Claudel’s condescension was prodding me toward one of those times. I had rushed through a preliminary evaluation to accommodate his schedule on the assumption that this investigation was of immediate priority, and now he was brushing me aside after a cursory inquiry.
“Meaning this case is
Claudel lowered his chin and looked at me, a picture of infinitely strained patience.
“I am a police officer, not a historian.”
“And I am a scientist, not a conjecturer.”
“These artifacts”—he flapped a hand at the buttons—“belong to another century.”
“Three dead girls now belong to this one.” I rose abruptly.
Claudel’s body stiffened. His eyes crimped.
“A prostitute has just arrived at l’hopital Notre-Dame with a fractured skull and a knife in her gut. Her colleague is less fortunate. She is dead. My partner and I are going to arrest a certain pimp to improve other ladies’ odds of surviving.”
Claudel jabbed a finger in my direction.
“That, madame, is important.”
With that he strode out the door.
I stood a moment, face burning with anger. I despise the fact that Claudel has the power to turn me pyrotechnic, sometimes illogically so. But there it was. He’d done it again.
Dropping into my chair, I swiveled, put my feet on the sill, and leaned my head sideways against the wall. Twelve floors down, the city stretched toward the river. Miniature cars and trucks flowed across the Jacques- Cartier Bridge, motoring toward Ile Ste-Helene, the south shore suburbs, New York State.
I closed my eyes and did some Yogic breathing, Slowly, my anger dissipated. When I opened them, I felt— what?
Flattened.
Confused.
Death investigations are complex enough. Why was it always doubly difficult with Claudel? Why couldn’t he and I enjoy the easy exchange that characterized my professional interactions with other homicide investigators? With Ryan?
Ryan.
Doris tapped on my shoulder for a few frames of
Some things were clear. Claudel’s mind was made up. He didn’t like rats. He didn’t like the pizza parlor. He didn’t think these bones were worth his attention. Whatever investigative support I needed I would have to find through other sources.
“OK, you supercilious, knee-jerk skeptic. Scoff at my analysis without trying to understand it. We’ll do this without you.”
Grabbing my clipboard, I headed back downstairs.
Three hours later I’d finished a skeletal inventory on LSJML-38426. The remains were complete save for the hyoid, a tiny U-shaped bone suspended in the soft tissue of the throat, and several of the smaller hand and foot bones.
Long bones continue to increase in length as long as their epiphyses, the small caps at each end, remain separate from the bone itself. Growth stops when a bone’s epiphyses unite with its shaft. Luckily for the anthropologist, each set of epiphyses marches to its own clock.
By observing the state of development of the arm, leg, and collarbones, I was able to narrow my age estimate. I’d requested dental X-rays so I could observe molar root development, but already I had no doubt. The
