Back to the list.
An hour later I sat back, frustrated.
I hated to admit it, but Claudel was right. There were no matches. If height fit, age didn’t. If age and height were consistent with one of the skeletons, racial background or some other trait excluded the candidate.
None of the MPs from Quebec and only one from California had suffered a Colles’ fracture of the right radius.
Claudel had referenced the girl from California in our earlier conversation. I read through her stats.
In 1985, Leonard Alexander Robinson filed a missing person report with the Tehama County Sheriff’s Department. Robinson’s daughter, Angela, a white female, age fourteen years and nine months, left home on the night of October 21 and was never seen again. Friends said she’d intended to hitchhike to a party.
Angela Robinson, “Angie,” had fallen from a swing at age eight, fracturing her right wrist.
Angie stood five foot two.
Back to the lab to double-check myself.
Angie Robinson was too young to be the girl in the leather shroud.
And too short.
I was discouraged, and my headache could have pounded the golden spike in Ogden. What if Angie had lived for a time after her disappearance? She would have aged. Perhaps grown.
Again, my subconscious seemed to be crooking a finger.
What?
The clock said five-ten. I decided to call it a day.
Returning to my office, I again tried Anne.
Still no answer.
I was replacing the receiver, when someone tapped on my door.
“Hey, Doc.” Charbonneau was in polyester from stem to stern. And cowboy boots.
“Hi.”
“I was on my way out, thought I’d pop up and give you the current lore.”
With what remained of my brain, I tried to decipher that.
“Lore?”
Charbonneau took a pink wad from his mouth, studied it, rolled his eyes up, and tipped his head toward my wastebasket.
I handed him a Post-it.
Charbonneau wrapped the Bazooka and arced it into the bin.
“Ryan told me about your drop-in at Menard’s crib on de Sebastopol. Sounds like the guy’s a real piece of work.”
“Yeah.”
I rubbed circles on my temples with the balls of my fingers.
“Headache?”
I nodded.
“Try eating something real spicy. That works for me.”
“Thanks.”
“Not much news from my end. Menard’s got no jacket in California. One correction on his academic career, though. Squirrel wasn’t tossed. He actually registered for the second year at Chico.”
“And?”
“No show.”
I stopped rubbing. “Menard paid tuition, enrolled in classes, then never showed up?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
Charbonneau shrugged. “Squirrel didn’t RSVP. Just never showed up.”
“Did he terminate his lease? Close out his accounts?”
“I’m working on that.”
“Where was he until he landed in Vermont in January?”
Charbonneau grinned. “I’m working on that, too.”
The condo was dark when I arrived. Birdie was sleeping on the sofa back. He raised his head and blinked when I turned on a lamp.
