Exhausted, I wheeled the bones to their bay, changed, returned to my office, and rechecked the phone.
No messages.
By the time I clocked out, it was well past ten. Wind whipped around the corner of Wilfrid-Derome, slicing through my clothes like a blade. My breath billowed as I scurried to my car.
Throughout the drive, I could think of nothing but the girls in the morgue.
Had they died of illness? Had they been killed in a manner leaving no mark on their bones? Poisoning? Smothering?
Hypothermia?
At the Viger traffic light, two teenagers emerged from the shadow of the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Tattooed, pierced, and spiked, they raised squeegees with tense nonchalance. Nodding a go-ahead, I dug a dollar from my purse and watched as they scraped dirty water down my windshield.
Had the pizza basement girls been young rebels like these, marching toward nonconformity down prescribed paths? Had they been loners, abused by family tyrants? Runaways struggling to survive on the streets?
I’d found not a single indicator of clothing. Granted, natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool deteriorate quickly. But why no zipper tooth? Eyelet? Bodice fastener? Bra hook? These girls had been stripped before being hidden in anonymous graves.
Had they died together? Over a span of months? Years?
And always, the central question: When? A decade ago? A century?
By the time I reached home, a headache was cranking into high gear, and I was hungry enough to eat Lithuania. Except for granola bars and diet sodas, I’d consumed nothing all day.
After showering, I nuked a frozen Mexican dinner. As I dined with Letterman, I thought about Anne. Anne would understand. Let me vent. Say comforting things. I’d just collected the handset, when it rang in my hand.
“How’s Birdie?” Anne.
“You’re calling about my cat?”
“I don’t think the little guy gets enough attention.”
The little guy was beside me on the couch, staring at the sour cream oozing from my burrito remains.
“I’m sure Bird would agree.”
Setting my dinner on the coffee table, I scooped a dollop of cream and offered a finger. Birdie licked it clean and refocused on the plate.
“How about you?”
I was lost. “How about me what?”
“Are you getting enough attention?”
Though Anne has the instincts of a NAVSAT, she couldn’t have known of my anxiety over Ryan.
“I was just about to call you,” I said.
“I’m not,” she continued, not really listening to my answer.
“What are you talking about?”
“Tom-Ted.”
Anne is married to an attorney named Tom Turnip. When Tom was a second-year associate with his firm, a senior partner had addressed him as Ted for an entire month. He’d been Tom-Ted ever since.
“What about TT?”
“Guess?”
Though I wanted to be sympathetic, I was far too exhausted for puzzles.
“Please just tell me.”
“Good idea. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
7
EIGHT HOURS LATER MY STATE OF MIND WAS MUCH IMPROVED. The headache was gone. The sun was shining. My best friend was coming.
Maybe. Anne has a way of changing her mind.
Speaking of changing minds, Ryan was right. Evidence as to postmortem interval, or PMI, was at the heart of the debate with Claudel.
Crunching cornflakes, I considered the problem.
At this point I knew 38426 and 38427 had come from shallow graves in a dry basement. The skeletons were devoid of flesh but well preserved, with no surface cracking or flaking.
Mental checklist. What other data are useful for pinpointing PMI with dry bones?
Deterioration of associated materials. I had none.
