“You going to do DNA?”
“I’ll retain samples, but if no organic components remain, sequencing will be impossible. There’s soil deep in crevices and in the medullary cavities, suggesting burial at some point. Frankly, I suspect the coroner up in Rimouski may be right. The remains may have washed out of an old cemetery or been looted from an archaeological site.”
“How about carbon fourteen or some fancy gizmo?”
“Except for a few specialized applications, C14 dating isn’t useful on materials less than hundreds of years old. Besides, if I report that this girl’s been dead half a century, the powers that be won’t pony up for DNA, radiocarbon, or any other type of test.”
“Think you’ll be able to sort it?”
“I’m going to try.”
“How ’bout I talk with the mope that had her. Get his story.”
“That would be good.”
Replacing the receiver, I returned to Lisa.
“Why does that one look different?” She pointed to the second right metacarpal.
Lisa was right. Though dirt-encrusted, one finger bone seemed to be a misfit.
Brushing free what soil I could without causing damage, I placed the odd metacarpal under my fabulous new scope, increased magnification, and adjusted focus until the distal end filled the screen.
My brows rose in surprise.
8
T HE BONE’S OUTER SURFACE WAS A MOONSCAPE OF CRATERS.
“What is that?” Lisa asked.
“I’m not sure.” My mind was already rifling through possibilities. Contact with acid or some other caustic chemical? Microorganism? Localized infection? Systemic disease process?
“Was she sick?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s postmortem. There’s still too much impacted dirt to be sure.” Taking the metacarpal from the scope, I moved toward the skeleton. “We’ll have to clean and examine every bone.”
Lisa looked at her watch. Politely.
“What a dope I am. Already I’ve kept you too late.” It was five-twenty. Most lab workers left at four-thirty. “Go.”
“Shall I lock up?”
“Thanks, but I’ll stay a bit longer.”
That “bit” turned into two and a half hours. I might have worked through the night had my mobile not sounded.
Setting aside a calcaneus, I lowered my mask, pulled the phone from my pocket, and checked the screen. Unknown number.
I clicked on. “Brennan.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m great, thank you. And yourself?”
“I’ve been calling your condo since six.” Was Ryan actually sounding annoyed?
“I’m not at home.”
“There’s a news flash.”
“Guess I slipped out of my ankle monitor.”
A moment of silence. Then, “You didn’t mention you had plans.”
“I do have a life, Ryan.” Right. Teasing dirt from bones at 8 P.M.
I heard the sound of a match, then a deep inhalation of breath. After quitting for two years, Ryan was back on cigarettes. A sign of stress.
“You can be a pain in the ass, Brennan.” No rancor.
“I work on it.” My standard reply.
“You coming down with a cold?”
“My nose is irritated from breathing through a mask.” I ran my dental pick through the cone of dry soil that had collected on the tabletop in front of me.
“You’re in your lab?”
“Hippo Gallant’s skeleton arrived from Rimouski. It’s female, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. There’s something odd about her bones.”
