bits I could see wood slivers and corroded nails.
Easy one. Coffin burials.
Archaeologists later confirmed my opinion. Until a cholera epidemic forced its closure in the mid-eighteenth century, a cemetery had occupied the land where the cathedral now oversees rush hour on Rene-Levesque. The repair crew had stumbled on a few souls overlooked during the graveyard’s relocation.
“You think the bloody building was constructed over unmarked graves?” I asked. “I found no evidence of coffins.”
French Canadians are virtuosos of the shrug, using subtle nuances of hands, eyes, shoulders, and lips to convey countless meanings. I agree. I disagree. I don’t care. What can I do? Who knows? You are a fool. Do as you like.
LaManche raised one shoulder and both brows. A “maybe, maybe not” shrug.
“Have you discussed radiocarbon dating with Authier?” I asked.
“Dr. Authier is hosting visitors from the Moroccan Institute of Legal Medicine. I left a message asking that he call me.”
“The testing will take time.” I didn’t mask my agitation.
“Temperance.” LaManche was the only person on the planet to address me thus. On his tongue
“I don’t believe these bones are ancient. They don’t have that feel, that look. The context seems wrong. I —”
“Did these girls die last week?” The hound dog face sagged with patience.
“No.”
“Is there great urgency?”
I said nothing.
LaManche gazed at me so long I thought his mind had wandered. Then, “Send off your samples. I will deal with Dr. Authier.”
“Thank you.” I resisted the impulse to hug him.
“In the meantime, perhaps the third skeleton will yield useful information.” With that not so subtle hint, LaManche turned back to his brain.
Elated, I headed downstairs and changed into scrubs.
Lisa stopped me on my way to autopsy room four. The trailer fire victim had no teeth, no dentures, and no printable digits. Identification had become problematical, and Dr. Pelletier wanted my opinion.
I told her I would join Pelletier in half an hour.
Working quickly, I cut a one-inch plug from the midshaft of each femur, raced upstairs, logged onto the Web, and entered the address of the Florida lab that would perform the analyses. Clicking onto the sample data sheet, I filled in the required information, and requested testing by accelerated mass spectrometry.
I paused at the section concerning delivery. Standard service took two to four weeks. With advanced service, results could be available in as little as six days.
At a significantly higher price.
Screw it. If Authier balked, I’d pay.
I checked the second box and hit SEND.
After completing transfer-of-evidence forms, I gave Denis the address, and asked that he package and FedEx the specimens immediately.
Back downstairs.
I had to agree with Pelletier. The owner of the motor home was a sixty-four-year-old white male. The body on the table was wearing the charred remains of a Wonder Bra and handcuffs.
OK. So the guy was kinky.
Nope. X-rays showed a diaphragm center stage in the pelvis.
It was late afternoon when we finally got it sorted.
The fire victim was female, white, and toothless, with healed fractures of the right radius and both nasal bones. She’d been walking the earth thirty-five to fifty years.
Where was Trailer Man? That problem now belonged to the cops.
At three-forty, I washed, changed, and returned topside, grabbing a Diet Coke and two powdered sugar doughnuts on the way to my office.
The phone was flashing like a sale light at Kmart. Bolting from the door, I grabbed the receiver.
Anne. Her flight would arrive at five twenty-five.
Arthur Holliday, the man who would perform the Carbon 14 test. His message asked that I contact him before sending the samples.
Racing to the secretarial office, I checked the mound of outgoing mail. FedEx had yet to collect my package. I dug it out, returned to my office, and dialed the lab in Florida, puzzled as to what the problem could be.
