Monday Mourning Part 1

Monday mourning.

Kathy Reichs.

Acknowledgments.

Thanks to Darden Hood, Director, Beta a.n.a.lytic Inc., for advice on radiocarbon dating. W. Alan Gorman and James K. W. Lee, Department of Geological Sciences, Queens University, Kingston, Ontario, and Brian Beard, Department of Geology, University of Wisconsin, shared their knowledge of bedrock geology and strontium isotope a.n.a.lysis.

Michael Finnegan, Department of Anthropology, Kansas State University, provided details on aging bone with UV light. Robert B. J. Dorion, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, supplied information on property research in Montreal. Sergeant Pierre Marineau, Special Constable, Securite Publique, guided me on a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, answered questions pertaining to pathology and autopsies. Michael Abel shared his knowledge of all things Jewish. Jim Junot double-checked countless details.

Paul Reichs offered advice on the qualification of an expert witness. As usual, his comments on the ma.n.u.script were greatly appreciated.

My friend Mich.e.l.le Phillips graciously allowed the use of the "Monday, Monday" lyrics.

Much grat.i.tude to James Woodward, Chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, for his continued support. Merci Merci to Andre Lauzon, Chef de service, and to all of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale. to Andre Lauzon, Chef de service, and to all of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale.

My editor, Susanne Kirk, and my agent, Jennifer Walsh, were, as always, patient, understanding, and totally supportive.

For Deborah Miner My baby sister.

My Harry.

Thanks for always being there.

Oh Monday mornin' you gave me no warnin' of what was to be...-JOHN P PHILLIPS, The Mamas and the Papas

1.

Monday, Monday...Can't trust that day...

AS THE TUNE PLAYED INSIDE MY HEAD, GUNFIRE EXPLODED IN the cramped underground s.p.a.ce around me. the cramped underground s.p.a.ce around me.

My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splattered against rock just three feet from me.

The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward, leaving a smear of blood and hair.

I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved hand.

Still squatting, I swiveled.

"a.s.sez!" Enough! Enough!

Sergeant-detective Luc Claudel's brows plunged into a V. He lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter.

"Rats. They are the devil's sp.a.w.n." Claudel's French was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upriver roots.

"Throw rocks," I snapped.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was big enough to throw them back."

Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a December Monday in Montreal had taken a toll. My knees protested as I rose to a standing position.

"Where is Charbonneau?" I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the other.

"Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea soup."

"The owner discovered this?" I flapped a hand at the ground behind me.

"Non. Le plombier."

"What was a plumber doing in the cellar?"

"Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipes."

Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I wondered why anyone would take the risk.

"The bones were lying on the surface?"

"Says he tripped on something sticking out of the ground. There." Claudel c.o.c.ked his chin at a shallow pit where the south wall met the dirt floor. "Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. Together they checked out the local library's anatomy collection to see if the bone was human. Picked a book with nice color pictures since they probably can't read."

I was about to ask a follow-up question when something clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner.

Instead of Charbonneau, we saw a scarecrow man in a knee-length sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty blue Nikes. Pigtails wormed from the lower edge of a red bandanna wrapped his head.

The man was crouched in the doorway, pointing a throwaway Kodak in my direction.

Claudel's V narrowed and his parrot nose went a deeper red. "Tabernac!" "Tabernac!"

Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled sideways.

Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the wooden railing. "Until SIJ returns, throw rocks."

SIJ-Section d'Ident.i.te Judiciaire. The Quebec equivalent of Crime Scene Recovery.

I watched Claudel's perfectly fitted b.u.t.tocks disappear through the small rectangular opening. Though tempted, I pegged not a single rock.

Upstairs, muted voices, the clump of boots. Downstairs, just the hum of the generator for the portable lights.

Breath suspended, I listened to the shadows around me.

No squeaking. No scratching. No scurrying feet.

Quick scan.

No beady eyes. No naked, scaly tails.

The little b.u.g.g.e.rs were probably regrouping for another offensive.

Though I disagreed with Claudel's approach to the problem, I was with him on one thing: I could do without the rodents.

Satisfied that I was alone for the moment, I refocused on the moldy crate at my feet. Dr. Energy's Power Tonic. Dead tired? Dr. Energy's makes your bones want to get up and dance. Dr. Energy's Power Tonic. Dead tired? Dr. Energy's makes your bones want to get up and dance.

Not these bones, Doc.

I gazed at the crate's grisly contents.

Though most of the skeleton remained caked, dirt had been brushed from some bones. Their outer surfaces looked chestnut under the harsh illumination of the portable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A pelvis.

A human skull.

d.a.m.n.

Though I'd said it a half dozen times, reiteration couldn't hurt. I'd come from Charlotte to Montreal a day early to prepare for court on Tuesday. A man had been accused of killing and dismembering his wife. I'd be testifying on the saw mark a.n.a.lysis I'd done on her skeleton. It was complicated material and I'd wanted to review my case file. Instead, I was freezing my a.s.s digging up the bas.e.m.e.nt of a pizza parlor.

Pierre LaManche had visited my office early this morning. I'd recognized the look, correctly guessed what was coming as soon as I saw him.

Bones had been found in the cellar of a pizza-by-the-slice joint, my boss had told me. The owner had called the police. The police had called the coroner. The coroner had called the medicolegal lab.

LaManche wanted me to check it out.

"Today?"

"S'il vous plait."

"I'm on the stand tomorrow."

"The Pet.i.t trial?"

I nodded.

"The remains are probably those of animals," LaManche said in his precise, Parisian French. "It should not take you long."

"Where?" I reached for a tablet.

LaManche read the address from a paper in his hand. Rue Ste-Catherine, a few blocks east of Centre-ville.

c.u.m turf.

Claudel.

The thought of working with Claudel had triggered the morning's first "d.a.m.n."

There are some small-town departments around the island city of Montreal, but the two main players in law enforcement are the SQ and the c.u.m. La Surete du Quebec is the provincial force. The SQ rules in the boonies, and in towns lacking munic.i.p.al departments. The Police de la Communaute Urbaine de Montreal, or c.u.m, are the city cops. The island belongs to the c.u.m.

Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau are detectives with the Major Crimes Division of the c.u.m. As forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec, I've worked with both over the years. With Charbonneau, the experience is always a pleasure. With his partner, the experience is always an experience. Though a good cop, Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensitivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persistent skepticism as to the value of forensic anthropology.

Snappy dresser, though.

Dr. Energy's crate had already been loaded with loose bones when I'd arrived in the bas.e.m.e.nt two hours earlier. Though Claudel had yet to provide many details, I a.s.sumed the bone collecting had been done by the owner, perhaps with the a.s.sistance of the hapless plumber. My job had been to determine if the remains were human.

They were.

That finding had generated the morning's second "d.a.m.n."

My next task had been to determine whether anyone else lay in repose beneath the surface of the cellar. I'd started with three exploratory techniques.

Side lighting the floor with a flashlight beam had shown depressions in the dirt. Probing had located resistance below each depression, suggesting the presence of subsurface objects. Test trenching had produced human bones.

Bad news for a leisurely review of the Pet.i.t file.

When I'd rendered my opinion, Claudel and Charbonneau had contributed to "d.a.m.n"s three through five. A few quebecois expletives had been added for emphasis.

SIJ had been called. The crime scene unit routine had begun. Lights had been set up. Pictures had been taken. While Claudel and Charbonneau questioned the owner and his a.s.sistant, a ground penetrating radar unit had been dragged around the cellar. The GPR showed subsurface disturbances beginning four inches down in each depression. Otherwise, the bas.e.m.e.nt was clean.

Claudel and his semiautomatic manned rat patrol while the SIJ techs took a break and I laid out two simple four-square grids. I was attaching the last string to the last stake when Claudel enjoyed his Rambo moment with the rats.

Now what? Wait for the SIJ techs to return?

Right.

Using SIJ equipment, I shot prints and video. Then I rubbed circulation into my hands, replaced my gloves, folded into a squat, and began troweling soil from square 1-A.

As I dug, I felt the usual crime scene rush. The quickened senses. The intense curiosity. What if it's nothing? What if it's something?

The anxiety.

What if I smash a critically important section to h.e.l.l?

I thought of other excavations. Other deaths. A wannabe saint in a burned-out church. A decapitated teen at a biker crib. Bullet-riddled dopers in a streamside grave.

I don't know how long I'd been digging when the SIJ team returned, the taller of the two carrying a Styrofoam cup. I searched my memory for his name.

Root. Racine. Racine. Tall and thin like a root. The mnemonic worked. Tall and thin like a root. The mnemonic worked.

Rene Racine. New guy. We'd processed a handful of scenes. His shorter counterpart was Pierre Gilbert. I'd known him a decade.