Grave Secrets (19 page)

I phoned Minos. He promised to have the cat hair packaged and ready in an hour.

I phoned the Guatemala City morgue. Dr. Fereira had carried through with what I’d requested.

I phoned Susanne Jean at the RP Corporation manufacturing plant in St-Hubert and gave her the same outline I’d given Gagné. She thought my idea would work.

I phoned Mateo. He told me to take all the time I needed.

Ditto for Galiano.

I hung up and headed for the door. O.K., Mrs. Ambassador. You’ve got yourself a traveling buddy. And I hope you and any companion get waved right through Guatemalan customs.

Angelina Fereira was well into another crash victim when I entered the autopsy room. A man lay on the table, head and arms badly charred, abdomen yawning like an open mouth in a Bacon painting. The pathologist was slicing a liver on a tray beside the body. She wielded a large, flat knife, and spoke without looking up.

“Un momento.”

Fereira peered closely at the exposed cross-sections, removed three slivers, and dropped them into a specimen jar. The tissue floated to the bottom and settled among its counterparts from the lungs, stomach, spleen, kidneys, and heart.

“Are you autopsying everyone?”

“We’re doing externals on the passengers. This is the driver.”

“Saved him for last?”

“Most of the victims are so badly burned we couldn’t be sure which one he was. Found him yesterday.”

Fereira stripped off mask and gloves, washed her hands, and crossed to the swinging doors, indicating that I should follow. She led me down a dingy corridor into a small, windowless office and closed the door. Unlocking a battered metal cabinet, she withdrew a large brown envelope.

“A radiologist at the Hospital Centro Médico owed me a favor.” She spoke English. “Had to call in the chit for this.”

“Thank you.”

“Sneaked the skull out after Lucas left on Tuesday. Wouldn’t want that getting out.”

“It won’t come from me.”

“Good thing I did.”

“What do you mean?”

Fereira slid one of several films from the envelope. It contained sixteen CT scans, each representing a five-millimeter slice through the skull found in the septic tank. Raising an X ray toward the overhead light, she pointed to a small white blob in the ninth image. Through the next several images the opacity enlarged, changed shape, diminished. By the fourteenth frame it was no longer visible.

“I spotted something in the ethmoid, thought it might be useful. After your call this morning, I went for another peek at the skull. The remains were gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Cremated.”

“After only one week?” I was dumbfounded.

Fereira nodded.

“Is that standard procedure?”

“As you can see, we’re cramped for space. Even under normal circumstances we don’t have the luxury of keeping unknowns for long periods of time. This bus crash has pushed us to the edge.” She lowered her voice. “But two weeks is unusual.”

“Who authorized it?”

“Tried to track that down. No one seems to know.”

“And the paperwork is missing,” I guessed.

“The technician swears he placed the order in the filing basket after carrying out the cremation, but it’s nowhere to be found.”

“Any theories?”

“Yep.”

She returned the film, held out the envelope.

“Vaya con Dios.”

At twelve fifty-seven I was belted into a first-class seat on an American Airlines flight to Miami. Dominique Specter sat beside me, lacquered nails drumming the armrest. Dr. Fereira’s CT scans were locked in a briefcase at my feet. The cat hair samples were tucked beside them.

Mrs. Specter had spoken incessantly during the limo ride and throughout the wait in the airport lounge. She described Chantale, recounted childhood anecdotes, floated theories as to the cause of her daughter’s problems, wove schemes for her rehabilitation. She was like a DJ between records, terrified of silence, nonselective in the banality with which she filled it.

Recognizing the talk as tension release, I made reassuring sounds but said little. Feedback was not necessary. The verbal flow continued unabated.

Mrs. Specter finally fell silent as we thundered down the runway for takeoff. She compressed her lips, leaned her head against the seatback, and closed her eyes. When we leveled off, she pulled a copy of
Paris Match
from her handbag and began flipping pages.

The wallpaper chatter resumed during our transfer in Miami, died again on the flight to Montreal. Suspecting my companion had a fear of flying, I continued to grant her conversational control.

Traveling with the ambassador’s wife had its advantages. When our plane touched down at ten thirty-eight, we were met by suited men and whisked through customs. By eleven we were in the back of another limo.

Mrs. Specter maintained her cruising altitude silence as we sped toward Centre-ville, exited at Guy, and turned right onto rue Ste-Catherine. Perhaps she had run out of words, or simply talked herself calm. Perhaps being home was soothing her soul. Together we listened to Robert Charlebois.

Je reviendrai à Montréal…
I will return to Montreal…

Together we watched the lights of the city go by.

In minutes we pulled up at my condo. The driver got out.

As I gathered my briefcase, Mrs. Specter grabbed my hand. Her fingers felt cold and clammy, like meat from the fridge.

“Thank you,” she said, almost inaudibly.

I heard the trunk squeak, thunk shut.

“I’m glad I can help.”

She drew a deep breath.

“You have no idea how much.”

The door on my side opened.

“Let me know when we can see Chantale. I’ll go with you.”

I laid my hand on Mrs. Specter’s. She squeezed, then kissed it.

“Thank you.” She straightened. “Shall Claude help you inside?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Claude accompanied me up the steps, waited as I located my key to the outer door. I thanked him. He nodded, placed my suitcase beside me, and returned to the limo.

Again, I watched Mrs. Specter glide into the night.

BY SEVEN THE NEXT MORNING I WAS RACING THROUGH THE

Quebec was in the grip of a rare spring heat wave. When I’d arrived home near midnight, my patio thermometer still topped eighty, and the temperature inside felt like nine hundred Celsius.

The AC was indifferent to my preference for sleeping cool. Ten minutes of clicking buttons, pounding, and swearing had done nothing to coax it to life. Sweating and angry, I’d finally opened every window and fallen into bed.

The street boys had been equally unconcerned about my comfort and need for sleep. A dozen were
en fête
on the back stoop of a pizza joint ten yards from my bedroom window. Yelling did not dampen their party mood. Neither did threats. Or curses.

I had slept badly, tossing and turning under limp sheets, awakened repeatedly by laughter, song, and angry outbursts. I had greeted the dawn with a pounding headache.

The Bureau du Coroner and the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale are located in a thirteen-story glass and concrete T in a neighborhood east of Centre-ville. In deference to its principal occupant, the provincial police, or Sûreté du Québec, over the decades the structure has been dubbed the SQ building.

Several years back, the Gouvernement du Québec decided to pump millions into law enforcement and forensic science. The building was refurbished, and the LSJML was expanded and moved from the fifth to the twelfth and thirteenth floors, into space formerly occupied by a short-term jail. In an official ceremony, the tower was reborn as the Édifice Wilfrid-Derome.

Old habits die hard. To most it remains the SQ building.

Exiting the tunnel at the Molson brewery, I passed under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, shot across De Lorimier, turned right, and wound through a neighborhood where neither the streets nor the people are beautiful. Three-flats with postage-stamp yards and metal staircases spiraling up their faces. Gray stone churches with silver spires. Corner
dépanneurs.
Storefront businesses. The Wilfrid-Derome/SQ looming over all.

After ten minutes of searching, I located a spot that appeared, through some bureaucratic loophole, to be legal, without permit, during the precise period I planned to park. I rechecked the monthly, hourly, and daily restrictions, maneuvered into place, grabbed my laptop and briefcase, and headed up the block.

Children were dribbling toward a nearby school in twos and threes, like ants converging on a melting Popsicle. Early arrivals milled in the playground, kicking balls, jumping ropes, screaming, chasing. A small girl peered through the wrought-iron fence, fingers clutching the uprights like those of the child at Chupan Ya. She watched me pass, face expressionless. I did not envy her the next eight hours, trapped in a hot classroom, summer freedom still a month away.

Nor did I envy the day facing me.

I was not looking forward to a mummified head. I was not looking forward to a putrefied torso. I dreaded mediating the reunion between Chantale and her mother. It was one of those mornings I wished I’d taken a job with the telephone company.

Paid vacations. Great benefits. No corpses.

I was perspiring by the time I entered the lobby. The morning mix of smog, exhaust, and the cocktail emanating from the brewery had not helped my cranial vessels. My skull felt as though the contents had exceeded capacity and were pushing for a way out.

There’d been no coffee at the condo. As I displayed my buildingID to the scanner, passed through security gates, pushed for an elevator, swiped my lab card, and exited on the twelfth floor, that single word formed on my lips.

Coffee!

One more swipe, glass doors swished open, and I entered the medico-legal wing.

Offices lined the right side of the corridor, labs lay to the left.
Microbiologie. Histologie. Pathologie. Anthropologie/Odontologie.
Windows ran from ceiling to mid-wall, designed to maximize visibility without compromising security. Through the glass I could see that every lab was empty.

I checked my watch. Seven thirty-five. Since most support, technical, and professional personnel began their day at eight, I would have almost thirty minutes to myself.

With the exception of Pierre LaManche. For the decade I’d worked at the LSJML, the director of the medico-legal section had arrived at seven and stayed long after his staff clocked out. The old man was as dependable as a Timex watch.

He was also an enigma. LaManche took three weeks off each July, one week during the Christmas holidays. During these breaks, he called in to work from home each day. He did not travel, camp, garden, fish, or golf. He had no hobbies, to anyone’s knowledge. Though queried, LaManche politely refused to discuss his vacations. Friends and colleagues had quit asking.

My office is last in the row of six, directly across from the anthropology lab. This door requires a key.

A mountain of paper covered my desk. Ignoring it, I deposited my computer and case, grabbed my mug, and set off for the staff lounge.

As expected, LaManche’s was the only other door open. I poked my head in on the way back.

LaManche looked up, half-moon glasses on the end of his nose. Long nose. Long ears. Long face, with long, vertical creases. Mr. Ed in reading specs.

“Temperance.” Only LaManche used my full name. In his proper, formal French, the last syllable rhymed with
sconce. “Comment ça va?”

I assured him I was well.

“Please, come in.” He flapped a huge, freckled hand at two chairs opposite his desk. “Sit down.”

“Thanks.” I balanced my coffee on the armrest.

“How was Guatemala?”

How do you summarize Chupan Ya?

“Difficult.”

“On many levels.”

“Yes.”

“The Guatemalan police were eager to have you.”

“Not everyone shared that enthusiasm.”

“Oh?”

“How much do you want to know?”

He removed the half-moons, tossed them onto the desktop, and leaned back.

I told him about the Paraíso investigation, and about Díaz’s efforts to block my participation.

“Yet this man did not interfere with your participation in the Claudia de la Alda case?”

“Never saw him.”

“Are there any suspects in that murder?”

I shook my head.

“The ambassador’s daughter and her friend are here, so only one young woman remains missing?”

“Patricia Eduardo.”

“And the septic tank victim.”

“Yes. Though that could be Patricia.”

Embarrassment must have shown on my face.

“You had no power to stop this Díaz.”

“I could have done a more thorough exam while I had the chance.”

We were silent for a moment.

“But I do have a couple of ideas.”

I told him about the cat hair sample.

“What do you hope to accomplish?”

“A profile might prove useful if a suspect is found.”

“Yes.” Noncommital.

“Dog hair nailed Wayne Williams for the Atlanta child murders.”

“Don’t be defensive, Temperance. I am agreeing with you.”

I swirled my coffee.

“It’s probably a dead end.”

“But if Monsieur Gagné is willing to profile the hair, why not?” I told him my plans for the CT scans.

“That sounds more promising.”

I hoped so.

“Did you find the two requests I left on your desk?”

LaManche referred to the
Demande d’Expertise en Anthropologie,
the form I receive as entrée into every case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it specifies the type of exam required, lists the personnel involved, and provides a brief overview of facts.