“I hadn’t thought of that.”
A moment of silence. Ryan broke it.
“How old do you think these bones are?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure all three girls died at the same time.”
“Dental work?”
“None that I’ve noticed.”
More silence.
“Gut feeling?”
“The burials haven’t been in the basement that long.”
“Meaning?”
“We should be taking them seriously.”
Again, Ryan ignored my churlishness.
“On what do you base your gut feeling?”
I’d been asking myself that question for three days.
“Experience.”
I didn’t mention my recent mysterious informant. Or the brainless indifference with which I’d treated her.
“Well, sunshine—”
“Yes, cupcake.” I cut him off.
Pause.
“You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he’s wrong.” Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kindergartner.
Long pause, filled with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.
“I’m guessing tonight is not good for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I understand how tired and frustrated you are. Go home and take one of your famous bubble baths. Things’ll serve up better in the morning.”
When we’d disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.
There was no denying it. I’d been in Montreal three full days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.
And almost totally unavailable.
I didn’t need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.
And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.
I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.
I’d lived without Ryan. I would do so again.
I’d coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.
But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him just now?
Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.
I glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent wasn’t hitting her redial button.
“Screw bubbles,” I said, rocketing from my chair.
“And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are.”
By nine I’d finished with LSJML-38427, the skeleton from the first depression.
Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Sixty-four to sixty-seven inches tall. No odor, no hair, not a shred of soft tissue. Bones well preserved, but dry and discolored, with some soil infiltration. Postmortem cranial damage, including fragmentation of the right temporal area, right facial bones, and right mandibular ramus. No perimortem skeletal trauma. No dental work. No associated clothing or possessions. 38427 was a carbon copy of 38426.
With one difference. I’d seen this young lady
We of the Judeo-Christian persuasion send our dead packing in their Sunday best. We literally lay them out, legs extended, hands on the belly or straight down at the sides. The tucked sleeping posture is more typical of our precontact native brethren.
So. Did the curled posture support Claudel’s assumption of antiquity?
Not that simple.
A flexed body requires a smaller hole. Less digging. Less time and energy. Pit burial is also popular with those in a hurry.
Like murderers.
