Monday Mourning Part 28

LaManche rose and joined me at the small oval table beside his desk. I spread the printout and we both bent over it.

"Two variables matter," I began. "The radioactivity of a known standard, and the radioactivity of our unknown sample. We've already discussed the phenomenon of atmospheric nuclear testing and its effect on Carbon 14 levels, so, to simplify, just a.s.sume that the standard value for Carbon 14 in 1950 is one hundred percent. Any value over that represents 'bomb,' or modern carbon, and indicates a death date more recent than 1950."

I pointed to the last figure in a column labeled "Measured Radiocarbon Age."

"The pMC for LSJML-38428 is 120.5, plus or minus .5."

"A percent modern carbon significantly higher than one hundred percent."

"Yes."

"Meaning this girl died since 1950?"

"Yes."

"How long after 1950?"

"It's tricky. By the time atmospheric testing was banned in 1963, pMC values had elevated to one hundred ninety percent. But what goes up must come down. So a pMC value of one hundred twenty percent could indicate a point on the upside of the curve, when levels were increasing, or a point on the downside, when levels were dropping."

"Meaning?"

"Death could have occurred in the late fifties or in the mid to late eighties."

LaManche's face sagged visibly.

"It gets worse. The present pMC value is around one hundred seven percent." I pointed to the figures for LSJML-38426 and LSJML-38427.

"Mon Dieu."

"These girls died as long ago as the early fifties, or as recently as the early nineties."

"You will inform Monsieur Claudel of these results?"

"Oh yes," I said. With feeling.

LaManche steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lower lip.

"If these girls disappeared during the past twenty years, it is possible they will be in the system. Descriptors must be sent to CPIC."

LaManche referred to the Canadian Police Information Centre, the equivalent of NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in the United States.

CPIC and NCIC, maintained by the RCMP and the FBI respectively, are computerized indexes of information, including criminal record histories, details on fugitives and stolen properties, and data on missing persons. The databases are available to law enforcement and to other criminal justice agencies twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

As we rose, LaManche laid a hand on my shoulder.

"We must apply ourselves, Temperance. We have to get to the bottom of this."

"Oh yes," I repeated with equal feeling.

Thirty seconds later I was in my office talking to Claudel. He was making only minor contribution to the dialogue.

"Not so quickly."

"Three-eight-four-two-six," I repeated at the pace a sloth might have employed if speaking French. "Female." Pause. "White." Pause. "Age sixteen to eighteen." Pause. "Height fifty-eight to sixty-two inches."

"Dentals?" You could have used Claudel's voice to scythe wheat.

"No restorations. But of course I have postmortem X-rays."

"These are the bones from the crate?"

"Yes."

"Next."

"Three-eight-four-two-seven. Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Height sixty-four to sixty-seven inches. No dental work."

"The bones recovered from the first depression?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"Three-eight-four-two-eight. Female, white, age eighteen to twenty-two, sixty-five to sixty-eight inches in height. Healed Colles' fracture of the distal right radius."

"Meaning?"

"She fractured her right wrist several years before death. Colles' fractures often occur when the hands are thrown out to break a fall."

"The bones from the second depression?"

"Yes."

"There are no distinguishing features on any of these individuals?"

"One was quite short. One broke her arm."

"If these people died in the fifties this is a waste of time."

"Their families might disagree."

"Any relatives will be scattered. Or dead."

"These girls were stripped naked and buried in a bas.e.m.e.nt."

"If these girls were a.s.sociated with Cataneo, they were probably hookers."

Deep breath. The man is a troll.

"Yes, they may have been prost.i.tutes, guilty of the sins of ignorance and need. They may have been runaways, guilty of the sins of poor judgment and bad luck. They may have been random innocents, yanked from their lives and guilty of nothing. Whoever they were, Monsieur Claudel, they deserve more than a forgotten grave in a moldy cellar. We could not help these girls when they died, but perhaps we can prevent others from joining them in the future."

Now the pause was of Claudel's making.

"You've said the skeletons show no signs of violence."

I ignored this. "As we both discovered"-pause to let Claudel know that I knew of his visit-"that building presently belongs to Richard Cyr. As I I discovered, the previous owner was Nick Cataneo, and Cataneo's period of ownership comes d.a.m.n close to one of the Carbon 14 ranges." discovered, the previous owner was Nick Cataneo, and Cataneo's period of ownership comes d.a.m.n close to one of the Carbon 14 ranges."

The silence that followed was long and hostile.

"You do realize the number of hits this may produce?"

I did.

"I'll reexamine the bones to see if there's anything else I might possibly help you with."

"That would be appropriate."

Dial tone.

Over many years I'd come to think of Claudel as obstinate and rigid, rather than outright loathing his att.i.tude. This case was threatening a reversal in that trend.

Quick trip downstairs for coffee.

Quick call to Anne suggesting lunch.

As feared, she begged off.

I told her about the Carbon 14 results.

"You have at it with your bones, Tempe. I'll just hang here."

"OK, but let me know if you change your mind. I'm flexible."

When we'd disconnected, I cleared the two worktables and the side counter in the lab, and laid out each of the skeletons. I was examining the Dr. Energy girl's tibia when Marc Bergeron appeared.

To say Bergeron is peculiar-looking is like saying fudge contains a wee bit of sugar. Standing six feet three, perpetually stooped, and weighing in on the downside of one sixty, Bergeron has all the grace and coordination of a wading stork.

Bergeron is Quebec's forensic odontologist. For thirty years he has drilled and filled the living Monday through Thursday, and examined the teeth of the dead each Friday.

We exchanged greetings. I expressed surprise at seeing Bergeron at the lab on a Thursday.

"Family wedding. Tomorrow I must be in Ottawa."

Bergeron walked to the closet, freed a lab coat from a hanger, and slipped into it. The coat hung on him like a bedsheet on an unstuffed scarecrow.

"Who are these folks?" Bergeron flapped a hand at the skeletons.

"Found in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a pizzeria."

"Reflection on the food?"

"I don't think so."

"Old?"

"All I know is that they died after 1950. Ideas?"

Bergeron adjusted his collar and fluffed his hair. It is extraordinary hair, white and frizzy, starting a mile north of his brows. Against all fashion logic, Bergeron lets it grow long enough to halo wildly around his head.

"Carbon 14 dates suggest death occurred either during the fifties or during the eighties and nineties."

Bergeron stick-walked to a drawer, withdrew a penlight, picked up the Dr. Energy skull, and peered at the dent.i.tion.

"Very poor hygiene. You pulled a molar for sampling?"

I nodded.

"I a.s.sume you'd first requested X-rays."

I unclipped a brown envelope from the LSJML-38426 case file, and slid ten small films onto the light box. Bergeron studied them, the dandelion hair electrified by the fluorescence.

"Besides extensive decay, there's little of note. A slightly rotated upper right canine." He tapped one X-ray with a bony finger.

"Age estimate?" I asked.

"Sixteen, maybe as old as eighteen."

"That was my thought."

Bergeron had shifted to LSJML-38428.

"That one was buried wrapped in a leather shroud."

"Was this body autopsied?"

"What do you mean?" His question threw me.

"These cuts on her temporal bone. Could they have been made during retraction of the scalp?"

"I hadn't considered that."

Carrying the skull to the dissecting scope, I viewed the marks under low, then higher-power magnification. Bergeron continued along his train of thought.

"Perhaps these are old biological specimens or teaching skeletons. Perhaps someone kept them as curiosities, later lost interest, or decided possession was risky."