206 BONES (3 page)

“Perry Schechter’s a Chicago legend. I once heard him interviewed. Explained his style as confrontational. Said being abrasive knocks people off their stride, causes them to reveal flaws.”

 

“Character flaws? Testimonial flaws?”

 

“Beats me. All I know is the guy’s a pit bull.”

 

I looked at Ryan. He shrugged. Whatever.

 

“Before they arrive,” I said. “Why are we here?”

 

Again, the mirthless smile. “Ever eat a Moo-Moo Bar or a Cluck-Cluck Pie?”

 

When Harry and I were kids, Mama had packed dozens of the little pastries into our lunches. Though uncertain of the relevance, I nodded recognition.

 

Ryan looked lost.

 

“Think Vachon,” I translated into Québécois. “Jos. Louis. May West. Doigts de Dame.”

 

“Snack cakes,” he said.

 

“Thirteen varieties,” Corcoran said. “Baked and sold by Smiling J Foods for two generations.”

 

“Are they still available?” I couldn’t remember seeing the little goodies in years.

 

Corcoran nodded. “Under new names.”

 

“Quite a slap in the face to our barnyard friends.”

 

Corcoran almost managed a genuine grin. “The J in Smiling J stood for Jurmain. The family sold out to a conglomerate in 1972. For twenty-one million dollars. Not that they needed the cash. They were bucks-up already.”

 

I began to get the picture.

 

So did Ryan.

 

“Family fortune spells political clout,” I said.

 

“Mucho.”

 

“Thus the kid gloves.”

 

“Thus.”

 

“I don’t get it. The case was closed over nine months ago. The Jurmain family got a full report but never responded. Though the coroner sent registered letters, until now no one has shown any interest in claiming the remains.”

 

“I’ll do my best to summarize a long but hardly original story.”

 

Corcoran looked to the ceiling, as though organizing his thoughts. Then he began.

 

“The Jurmain family is blue-blood Chicago. Not ancient, but old enough money. Home in East Winnetka. Indian Hills Country Club. First-name basis with the governor, senators, congressmen. North Shore Country Day, then Ivy League schools for the kids. Get the picture?”

 

Ryan and I indicated understanding.

 

“Rose’s father is the current patriarch, a sorry old bastard named Edward Allen. Not Ed. Not Al. Not E. A. Edward Allen. Rose was a black sheep, throughout her life refusing to follow any course Edward Allen deemed suitable. In 1968, instead of making her debut, she made the
Tribune
for assaulting a cop at the Democratic National Convention. Instead of enrolling at Smith or Vassar, she went off to Hollywood to become a star. Instead of marrying, she chose a lesbian lifestyle.

 

“When Rose turned thirty, Edward Allen pulled the plug. Deleted her from his will and forbade the family to have any contact.”

 

“Until she saw the light,” I guessed.

 

“Exactly. But that wasn’t Rose’s style. Thumbing her nose at Daddy, she chose to live on a small trust fund provided by Grandpa. Money Edward Allen was unable to touch.”

 

“A real free spirit,” I said.

 

“Yes. But things weren’t all sunshine and poppies. According to her partner, Janice Spitz, at the time of her disappearance, Rose was depressed and suffering from chronic insomnia. She was also drinking a lot.”

 

“That clicks with what we learned,” Ryan said.

 

“Did Spitz think she was suicidal?” I asked.

 

“If so, she never said.”

 

“So what gives?” I asked. “Why the sudden interest?”

 

“Two weeks ago, Edward Allen received an anonymous call at his home.”

 

Corcoran was always a blusher, did so often and deeply when embarrassed or anxious. He did so now.

 

“Concerning Rose’s death?” I asked.

 

Corcoran nodded, avoiding my eyes. I felt the first stirrings of uneasiness.

 

“What did this anonymous tipster say?”

 

“Walczak didn’t share that information with me. All I know is I was tasked with overseeing a review of the case from this end.”

 

“
Tabarnouche.
” Ryan slumped back in disgust.

 

I could think of nothing to say.

 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

 

Corcoran broke the silence.

 

“Edward Allen is now eighty-one years old and in failing health. Perhaps he feels like a schmuck for having driven Rose from his life. Perhaps he’s still the same controlling sonovabitch he always was. Perhaps he’s nuts. What I do know is that Jurmain called his lawyer. The lawyer called Walczak. And here we are.”

 

“Jurmain thinks the case was mishandled?” I asked.

 

Corcoran nodded, gaze locked on the tabletop.

 

“Walczak shares that belief?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Mishandled by whom?” It came out sharper than I meant.

 

Corcoran’s eyes came up and met mine. In them I saw genuine distress.

 

“Look, Tempe, this is not my doing.”

 

I took a calming breath. Repeated my question.

 

“Mishandled by whom, Chris?”

 

“By you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

 

 

I GLANCED AT RYAN. HE JUST SHOOK HIS HEAD.

 

“You can’t let on that I shared any of this.” Corcoran looked more anxious than I’d ever seen him.

 

“Of course not.” My tone was surprisingly calm. “I appreciate—”

 

The door opened. Corcoran and I sat back, casual as hell.

 

Two men entered, both wearing suits fitted by Armani himself, one blue, one gray.

 

I recognized Blue Suit as Stanley Walczak, peacock and legend in his own mind. Especially concerning his impact on women.

 

I had met Walczak at American Academy of Forensic Sciences meetings over the years, been favored by his attention on at least one occasion. For a full five minutes.

 

Why’d I bomb? Easy. I’m forty-plus. Though well past fifty, Walczak prefers ladies just out of training bras. Big ones.

 

Gray Suit, I assumed, was Perry Schechter. He had sparse black hair and a long craggy face that had taken at least six decades to form. His briefcase and demeanor screamed attorney.

 

As we rose, Walczak performed a quick but subtle assessment. Then he crossed to Ryan and shot out a hand.

 

“Stanley Walczak.”

 

“Andrew Ryan.”

 

The two shook. Corcoran jiggled keys in his lab coat pocket.

 

“Tempe.” Yards of capped dentition came my way. Walczak followed. “Each time we meet you look younger and younger.”

 

Digging deep, I managed to resist the famous Walczak charm.

 

“Nice to see you, Stan.” I proffered a hand.

 

Walczak enveloped my fingers in a double-palm grip, held on way too long.

 

“I understand you and Dr. Corcoran are already acquainted.”

 

Corcoran and I answered in the affirmative.

 

Walczak introduced Schechter.

 

There followed more pressing of palms.

 

“Gentlemen, Dr. Brennan.” Again, a lot of teeth were displayed for my benefit. “Shall we proceed?”

 

Walczak strode to the head of the table and sat.

 

Ryan and I withdrew files, he from his briefcase, I from my computer bag. As Schechter settled beside Corcoran, I booted up my laptop.

 

“So,” Walczak began. “I suppose you’re both wondering why the passing of an eccentric old lady with severe alcohol and psychiatric problems necessitates such extraordinary inconvenience on your parts.”

 

“Any death deserves proper attention.” Even to myself, I sounded pedantic. But I meant it. I share Horton’s worldview. A person’s a person. No matter how eccentric. Or old. Rose Jurmain was not even sixty.

 

Walczak regarded me a moment. With his silver hair and salon tan, I had to admit, he was pretty. On the outside.

 

“Precisely why I’ve asked Dr. Corcoran to do oversight on this case,” Walczak said.

 

Corcoran shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable.

 

“Dr. Brennan and I will be happy to answer all questions concerning my investigation, her examination of the remains, and the coroner’s finding,” Ryan said.

 

“Excellent. Then I’ll turn this meeting over to Mr. Schechter and Dr. Corcoran. Please let me know if there’s anything, anything at all, that you need.”

 

With a meaningful look in Corcoran’s direction, Walczak left the room.

 

“I’m pleased you speak English, detective.”

 

A subtle tensing around the eyes suggested that Schechter’s first words did not sit well with Ryan.

 

“
Mais oui, monsieur.
” Ryan’s accent was over-the-top Parisian.

 

“Mr. Jurmain requests clarification on a number of points.” Schechter’s tone indicated that Ryan’s humor was not appreciated.

 

“Clarification?” Ryan matched cool with cool.

 

“He is deeply troubled.”

 

“You have copies of our reports?”

 

Schechter withdrew a yellow legal pad, a gold Cross pen, and a large white envelope from his briefcase. I recognized the envelope’s logo, and the words
Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale
.

 

“Dr. Brennan and I have prepared scene and autopsy photos to walk you through the investigation.”

 

Clicking his pen to readiness, Schechter gave an imperious wave of one hand.

 

Ryan spoke to me in French. “Let’s clarify this prick’s head right out of his ass.”

 

“
Certainement,
” I agreed.

 

Connecting my laptop to the projector, I opened PowerPoint, chose a file labeled
LSJML 44893
, and double-clicked an image. A wide-angle view of L’Auberge des Neiges filled the screen. Built of redwood, with carved and painted balconies and window boxes, the inn looked like something straight out of
The Sound of Music
.

 

Corcoran handed me the laser pointer.

 

Ryan began.

 

“Ms. Jurmain checked into L’Auberge des Neiges on twenty September, having reserved for two weeks. On twenty-three September she volunteered to other guests her intent to hike the following day.”

 

“These other guests would be?” Schechter asked.

 

Ryan checked his notes.

 

“John William Manning of Montreal. Isabelle Picard of Laval. According to Manning and Picard, Ms. Jurmain appeared inebriated that evening, and had appeared to be so on several occasions spanning a period of three days.”

 

Ryan slid several papers across the table, I assumed summaries of interviews with the auberge’s staff and guests. Corcoran skimmed. Schechter took his time reading. Then, “These are written in French.”

 

“My apologies.” Ryan’s tone was as far from apologetic as a tone can be.

 

Schechter made an indecipherable noise in his throat.

 

I switched to a wide shot of Rose’s room. It featured a braided rug, lacquered pine furniture, and an overabundance of pink floral chintz. A suitcase
sat open on a small settee, clothes oozing like magma from a sleepy volcano.

 

I moved to a picture of the bed stand, then to close-ups of the labels on five small vials. Oxycodone. Diazepam. Temazepam. Alprazolam. Doxylamine.

 

I aimed the laser pointer. As the small red dot jumped from vial to vial, Corcoran translated into generic names for Schechter.

 

“The painkiller OxyContin, the antianxiety drugs Valium and Xanax, and the sleep aids Restoril and Unisom.”

 

Schechter drew air through his nostrils, exhaled slowly.

 

“When Rose got an idea into her head there was no reasoning with her. Always going off into the woods. Three years ago it was Quebec.” He said
Quee-beck
with the disgust one might reserve for “Eye-rack” or “Dar-four.” “Even though her”—he paused, seeking proper phrasing—“health was not good, she could not be dissuaded.”

 

Ryan proceeded without comment.

 

“At fifteen twenty hours, on twenty-four September, Ms. Jurmain was seen walking alone along Chemin Pierre-Mirabeau, in the direction of Sainte-Marguerite. Though the temperature was near freezing, a motorist reported that she wore a lightweight jacket, no hat, no gloves.”

 

As I projected a regional map, Ryan slid another paper to Schechter.

 

“Sunset that day was at approximately seventeen hundred hours. By nineteen hundred hours it was full dark. Overnight, temperatures fell to minus eight Celsius.

 

“On twenty-five September, it was noted that Ms. Jurmain had failed to return to the inn. A call was placed to an area code three-one-two number provided upon check-in. Subsequent investigation showed that line to be nonexistent.

 

“On twenty-six September, the SQ post covering Sainte-Marguerite was notified of Ms. Jurmain’s disappearance. Woods bordering the road and surrounding the auberge were searched with tracker dogs. Unsuccessfully.”

 

More paper.

 

“What is this SQ?” Schechter demanded.

 

“La Sűreté du Québec. The provincial police.”

 

“Why not call the locals?”

 

Ryan launched into a primer on law enforcement Quebec-style, laying on a thick Maurice Chevalier where opportunity presented itself.

 

“In cities and larger towns there are local forces. On the Island of
Montreal, for example, policing is the responsibility of the Service de police de la Ville de Montréal, or SPVM, formerly known as the service de police de la communauté urbaine de Montréal, or CUM. Same force, new name.

 

“In rural areas, law enforcement is handled by La Sűreté du Québec, or SQ. In places without provincial police, meaning all provinces except Ontario and Quebec, it’s the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, or RCMP, or, to Francophones, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, or GRC. Occasionally, the Mounties are invited into an investigation in Quebec, but that’s rare.”

 

In other words, jurisdiction in La Belle Province can be as confusing as in any American state. FBI. State bureau of investigation. City. County. Highway patrol. Sheriff ’s department. Who you gonna call? Good luck.