I’d never seen my friend so down, couldn’t judge the seriousness of her condition. I knew something was terribly wrong, but to what extent could I interfere? Maybe the mood slump would just play itself out.
I fell asleep troubled and dreamed of Anne on a dark, empty beach.
My Thursday morning e-mail contained the Carbon 14 results from Arthur Holliday.
I stared at the subject line, fingers frozen over the keyboard.
I’d been anxious for the report. Why the hesitation?
Easy one. I didn’t really want confirmation of yet more malignant brutality overtaking innocent young women.
I didn’t want to know that lives barely past childhood had again been taken by—what? Some freak with a head full of porn who can find sexual gratification only through physical submission? Some psycho-creep with a video camera who then needs to destroy the evidence? Or mutated macho-scum who view women as disposable items, to be discarded after perverse abuse? They were all out there.
I almost wanted Claudel to be right. I wanted the bones to belong to the past. To daughters laid to rest by grieving families in another era. But I knew better, and I knew I had to face the evidence if I was to help identify the victims.
Deep breath.
I hit the download command, then opened the Acrobat file.
The transmission consisted of five pages: a cover letter, the report of radiocarbon analyses, and three graphs calibrating the individual radiocarbon ages to calendar years.
I looked at the measured and conventional radiocarbon ages, then scrolled through the calibrations curves.
Images flooded my brain.
I printed the report, and headed for the lab.
LaManche was in his office. Since our last meeting either he or his secretary had added a ceramic Christmas tree to the chaos on his desk.
I tapped the door lightly with my knuckles.
LaManche looked up.
“Temperance. Please come in. You have heard the news?”
I gave him a puzzled look.
“The jury found Monsieur Petit guilty on all counts.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“That was fast.”
“When she called, the crown prosecutor said she was certain your testimony was instrumental.” LaManche looked at the papers in my hand. “But that is obviously not why you are here.”
“I have the Carbon 14 results.”
“That, too, was fast.” Surprised.
“This lab is very efficient.” I didn’t mention the additional fee.
LaManche rose and joined me at the small oval table beside his desk. I spread the printout and we both bent over it.
“Two variables matter,” I began. “The radioactivity of a known standard, and the radioactivity of our unknown sample. We’ve already discussed the phenomenon of atmospheric nuclear testing and its effect on Carbon 14 levels, so, to simplify, just assume that the standard value for Carbon 14 in 1950 is one hundred percent. Any value over that represents ‘bomb,’ or modern carbon, and indicates a death date more recent than 1950.”
I pointed to the last figure in a column labeled “Measured Radiocarbon Age.”
“The pMC for LSJML-38428 is 120.5, plus or minus .5.”
“A percent modern carbon significantly higher than one hundred percent.”
“Yes.”
“Meaning this girl died since 1950?”
“Yes.”
“How long after 1950?”
“It’s tricky. By the time atmospheric testing was banned in 1963, pMC values had elevated to one hundred ninety percent. But what goes up must come down. So a pMC value of one hundred twenty percent could indicate a point on the upside of the curve, when levels were increasing, or a point on the downside, when levels were dropping.”
“Meaning?”
“Death could have occurred in the late fifties or in the mid to late eighties.”
LaManche’s face sagged visibly.
