Monday Mourning Part 2

Pa.s.sing, I glanced at the McDonald's franchise across St-Laurent from the Palais de Justice. The owners had made a stab at colonial. They'd lost the arches and thrown up blue awnings. It didn't really work, but they had tried.

The designers of Montreal's main courthouse didn't bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smaller, gla.s.s-fronted box beneath. The upper stories shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.

I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies. Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.

Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the Cafe Vienne. Already wired, I considered but pa.s.sed up a fourth cup.

Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in small interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.

I took a seat outside 4.01 and pulled the Pet.i.t file from my briefcase. Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom. With her long blonde hair and oversized gla.s.ses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.

"You'll be my first witness." Cloutier's face was tense.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Your testimony is going to be critical."

Cloutier's fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip. She'd wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizza bas.e.m.e.nt caper had nixed that. Our late-night phone conversation hadn't provided the degree of preparation she'd wanted. I tried to rea.s.sure her.

"I can't tie the marks on the bones to Pet.i.t's specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool."

Cloutier nodded. "Consistent with."

"Consistent with," I agreed.

"Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Pet.i.t claimed he never laid eyes on that saw. An a.n.a.lyst from your lab is going to testify that she removed the handle and found minute traces of blood in one of the screw grooves." I knew all of this from the previous night's discussion. Cloutier was verbalizing the case against Pet.i.t as much for her sake as for mine.

"A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Pet.i.t's. That ties him to the saw."

"And I tie the saw to the victim," I said.

Cloutier nodded. "This judge is a real p.i.s.ser about qualifying experts."

"Aren't they all?"

Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. "The bailiff will call you in about five minutes."

It was closer to twenty.

The courtroom was standard, nondescript modern. Gray-textured walls. Gray-textured carpet. Gray-textured fabric on long bolted benches. The only color was at center stage, inside the gates separating the spectators from the official players. Attorneys' chairs upholstered in red, yellow, and brown. The blue, red, and white of the Quebec and Canadian flags.

A dozen people occupied the public benches. Eyes followed as I walked up the center aisle and took the stand. The judge was ahead and to my left, the jury straight ahead, facing me. Monsieur Pet.i.t was to my right.

I have testified many times. I have faced men and women accused of monstrous crimes. Murder. Rape. Torture. Dismemberment. I am always underwhelmed by the accused.

This time was no exception. Rejean Pet.i.t looked ordinary. Timid, even. The man could have been my uncle Frank.

The clerk swore me in. Cloutier rose and began questioning me from the prosecutor's table.

"Please state your full name."

"Temperance Deasee Brennan."

We spoke into microphones suspended from the ceiling, our voices the only sound in the room.

"What is your profession?"

"I am a forensic anthropologist."

"How long have you practiced that profession?"

"Approximately twenty years."

"Where do you practice that profession?"

"I am a full professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I am forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec through the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, in Montreal, and for the state of North Carolina through the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, headquartered in Chapel Hill."

"You are an American citizen?"

"Yes. I have a Canadian work permit. I split my time between Montreal and Charlotte."

"Why is it that an American serves as forensic anthropologist for a Canadian province?"

"There is no Canadian citizen who is both board-certified in this field and fluent in French."

"We'll return to the question of board certification. Please describe your educational qualifications."

"I hold a Bachelor of Arts degree in Anthropology from the American University in Washington, D.C. I hold MA and PhD degrees in Biological Anthropology from Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois."

Next followed an endless series of questions on my graduate studies, my thesis and doctoral topics, my research, my grants, my publications. Where? When? With whom? What journals? I thought she was going to ask the color of my panties the day I defended my dissertation.

"Have you auth.o.r.ed any books, Dr. Brennan?"

I listed them.

"Do you belong to any professional a.s.sociations?"

I listed them.

"Have you held office in any of those a.s.sociations?"

I listed them.

"Are you certified by any regulatory body?"

"I am certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology."

"Please tell the court what that means."

I described the process of application, the examination, the ethics review, and explained the importance of certifying boards in a.s.sessing the competence of those offering themselves as experts.

"In addition to the medicolegal labs in Quebec and North Carolina, is there any other context in which you practice your profession?"

"I have worked for the United Nations, for the United States Military Central Identification Laboratory in Honolulu, Hawaii, as an instructor at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, and as an instructor at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Training Academy in Ottawa, Ontario. I am a member of a United States National Disaster Mortuary Response Team. On occasion I consult for private clients."

The jury sat motionless, either fascinated or comatose. Pet.i.t's lawyer was taking no notes.

"Please tell us, Dr. Brennan. What does a forensic anthropologist do?"

I spoke directly to the jury.

"Forensic anthropologists are specialists in the human skeleton. We are brought into cases, usually, though not always, by pathologists. Our expertise is sought when a normal autopsy, focusing on organs and soft tissue, either is not possible or is severely limited and the bones must be examined for answers to crucial questions."

"What types of questions?"

"The questions usually focus on ident.i.ty, manner of death, and postmortem mutilation or other damage."

"How do you help with questions of ident.i.ty?"

"By examining skeletal remains I am able to provide a biological profile, including the age, s.e.x, race, and height of the deceased. In certain cases I am able to compare anatomical landmarks observed on an unknown individual with similar landmarks visible on the ante-mortem X-rays of a known individual."

"Aren't most identifications accomplished using fingerprints, dental records, or DNA?"

"Yes. But to utilize dental or medical information it is first necessary to narrow the number of possibles to the smallest ascertainable sample. With the anthropological profile, an investigating officer can review missing persons reports, come up with names, and obtain individual records for comparison with the data a.s.sociated with the discovered remains. We often provide the first level of a.n.a.lysis of a completely unknown set of remains."

"How do you help with questions concerning manner of death?"

"By a.n.a.lyzing fracture patterns, forensic anthropologists are able to reconstruct events that caused particular traumas."

"What types of trauma do you typically examine, Dr. Brennan?"

"Gunshot. Sharp instrument. Blunt instrument. Strangulation. But again, let me emphasize that this expertise would be requested only in situations in which the body was compromised to the point that those questions cannot be answered through soft tissue and organ examination solely."

"What do you mean by compromised?"

"A body that is decomposed, burned, mummified, skeletal-"

"Dismembered?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

The jury had definitely perked up. Three stared wide-eyed. A woman in the back row held a hand to her mouth.

"Have you previously been qualified by the courts of Quebec Province and elsewhere to serve as an expert witness in criminal trials?"

"Yes. Many times."

Cloutier turned to the judge.

"Your Honor, we tender Dr. Temperance Brennan as an expert in the field of forensic anthropology."

The defense raised no objection.

We were off.

By mid-afternoon Cloutier had finished with me. As opposing counsel rose, I felt my stomach tighten.

Here comes rough water, I thought. Mischaracterization, incredulity, and general nastiness.

Pet.i.t's attorney was organized and civil.

And finished by five.

As things turned out, his cross-examination was nothing compared with the nastiness I would encounter in dealing with the pizza bas.e.m.e.nt bones.

3.

IT WAS DARK WHEN I I EMERGED FROM THE COURTHOUSE EMERGED FROM THE COURTHOUSE. WHITE lights twinkled in the trees along rue Notre-Dame. A caleche clopped by, horse sporting red-ta.s.seled ear covers and a sprig of pine. Flakes floated around faux gas lanterns. lights twinkled in the trees along rue Notre-Dame. A caleche clopped by, horse sporting red-ta.s.seled ear covers and a sprig of pine. Flakes floated around faux gas lanterns.

Bonne fete! Christmas in Quebec. Christmas in Quebec.

Traffic was again b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper. I nosed in and began creeping north on St-Laurent, still high on an apres apres witness stand rush. witness stand rush.

My fingers drummed the wheel. My thoughts ricocheted from topic to topic. My testimony. The pizza bas.e.m.e.nt skeletons. My daughter. The evening ahead.

What might I have told the jury that I hadn't? Could my explanations have been clearer? Had they understood? Would they convict the guilty b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

What would I discover at the lab tomorrow? Would the skeletons prove to be what I knew they were? Would Claudel be his usual obnoxious self?

What was making Katy unhappy? When we'd last spoken she'd hinted that all was not rosy in Charlottesville. Would my daughter complete her final year of university, or would she announce at Christmas that she was dropping out of the University of Virginia without obtaining her degree?

What would I learn at dinner tonight? Was my recently acknowledged love about to implode? Was Was it love? it love?

At de la Gauchetiere I pa.s.sed under the dragon gate and entered Chinatown. The shops were closing, and the last few pedestrians were hurrying home, faces wrapped, backs hunched against the cold.

On Sundays, Chinatown takes on a bazaar atmosphere. Restaurants serve dim sum; in clement weather grocers set up outdoor stalls filled with exotic produce, potted eggs, dried fish, herbs Chi-noise. Chi-noise. On festival days there are dragon dances, martial arts demonstrations, fireworks. Weekdays, however, are strictly business. On festival days there are dragon dances, martial arts demonstrations, fireworks. Weekdays, however, are strictly business.

My thoughts veered back to my daughter. Katy loves the place. When she visits Montreal, a trip to Chinatown is nonnegotiable.

Before turning left onto Rene-Levesque, I glanced across the intersection up St-Laurent. Like rue Notre-Dame, the Main was decked in its Christmas finest.

St. Lawrence. The Main. A century ago a major commercial artery, and stopping-off point for immigrant groups. Irish. Portuguese. Italians. Jews. No matter their country of origin or ethnic affiliation, most newcomers put in time on the streets and avenues around St-Laurent.