Bones to Ashes

If it was Gramps.

The skull consisted of charred fragments collected in a brown paper bag. The torso was an amorphous black mass with upper arms and legs raised due to contraction of the flexor muscles. The lower limbs were shriveled stumps. The hands and feet were missing.

No fingers, no prints. No teeth, no dentals. And the false choppers looked like a blob of Bazooka.

But one thing simplified my task. In 1988, the presumed vic had treated himself to a brand-new hip. Antemortem X-rays now covered the light boxes previously occupied by Genevieve Doucet.

Gramps’s prosthesis glowed white in his upper right femur. Postmortem X-rays showed a similar neon mushroom positioned identically within the burned right leg.

Making an incision along the outer pelvic edge, I peeled back charred muscle and tendon, manipulated the device from the hip socket, then buzzed through the proximal third of the bone with an autopsy saw.

Further cleaning revealed the serial number. Crossing to the counter, I checked the antemortem orthopedic records.

Bonjour, Gramps!

I photographed, bagged, and tagged the specimen, then returned to the body for a full skeletal exam. Although the implant made the ID a slam dunk, anthropological data would provide useful backup.

Cranial fragments showed large brow ridges and mastoid processes, and an occipital muscle attachment the size of my sneaker.

Male. I made notes and moved on to the pelvis.

Short, chunky pubic bone. V-shaped subpubic angle. Narrow sciatic notch.

Male. I was recording my observations when the outer door clicked open then shut.

I glanced up.

A tall, sandy-haired man stood in the anteroom. He wore a tweed jacket, tan slacks, and a shirt the exact startling blue of his eyes. Burberry. I knew. I’d given it to him.

Time to discuss lieutenant-detective Andrew Ryan, Section des crimes contre la personne, Surete du Quebec.

Ryan works homicide for the provincial police. I work corpses for the provincial coroner. No-brainer how we met. For years I tried maintaining professional distance, but Ryan played by different rules. Libertine rules. Knowing his reputation, I didn’t sign on.

Then my marriage imploded, and Ryan high-geared the legendary charm. What the hell? I gave dating a whirl. Things went well for a while. Very well.

Then fate played the family obligation card. A newfound daughter barreled into Ryan’s life. My estranged husband, Pete, was shot by the village idiot in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. Duty didn’t call. It pounded on the door in full battle gear.

To add further complication, Pete’s brush with death resurrected feelings I’d thought long dead. They didn’t look dead to Ryan. He withdrew.

Was the lieutenant-detective still leading-man material? Definitely. But the casting couch had grown a bit crowded. Ryan and I hadn’t spoken since parting the previous month.

“Hey,” I said. Southern for “hi” or bonjour.

“Car fire?” Ryan pointed at Gramps.

“Smoking in bed.”

“A sign of our increasingly complacent society.”

I gave Ryan a questioning look.

“No one bothers with labels.”

The look held.

“Big bold font on every pack. ‘Cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health.’”

My eyes rolled skyward.

“How are you?” Ryan’s tone went softer. Or did I imagine it?

“I’m good. You?”

“All good.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The dialogue of middle-schoolers, not former lovers. Were we? I wondered. Former?

“When did you arrive?”

“Yesterday.”

“Good flight?”

“Landed on time.”

“Better than early and sudden.”