Monday Mourning (3 page)

“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 authored any books, Dr. Brennan?”

I listed them.

“Do you belong to any professional associations?”

I listed them.

“Have you held office in any of those associations?”

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 assessing 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. Pétit’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 identity, manner of death, and postmortem mutilation or other damage.”

“How do you help with questions of identity?”

“By examining skeletal remains I am able to provide a biological profile, including the age, sex, 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 associated with the discovered remains. We often provide the first level of analysis of a completely unknown set of remains.”

“How do you help with questions concerning manner of death?”

“By analyzing 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.

Pétit’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 basement bones.

I
T WAS DARK WHEN
I
EMERGED FROM THE COURTHOUSE
. W
HITE
lights twinkled in the trees along rue Notre-Dame. A calèche clopped by, horse sporting red-tasseled ear covers and a sprig of pine. Flakes floated around faux gas lanterns.

Bonne fête!
Christmas in Quebec.

Traffic was again bumper-to-bumper. I nosed in and began creeping north on St-Laurent, still high on an
après
witness stand rush.

My fingers drummed the wheel. My thoughts ricocheted from topic to topic. My testimony. The pizza basement 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 bastard?

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
it love?

At de la Gauchetière I passed 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.
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 René-Lévesque, 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.

As I waited out the traffic light at Peel, a man crossed my headlights, tall, face ruddy, hair sandy and tousled in the wind.

Mental ricochet.

Andrew Ryan, Lieutenant-détective, Section de Crimes contra la Personne, Sûreté du Québec. My first romantic sortie after the breakup of a twenty-year marriage.

My partner in history’s briefest affair?

The tempo of the finger drumming sped up.

Since Ryan works homicide and I work the morgue, our professional lives often intersect. I identify the vics. Ryan collars the perps. For a decade we’ve investigated gangbangers, cultists, bikers, psychopaths, and people who seriously dislike their spouses.

Over the years I’d heard stories of Ryan’s past. The wild youth. The conversion to the good guys. Ryan’s rise within the provincial police.

I’d also heard tales about Ryan’s present. The theme never varied. The guy was a player.

Often he suggested playing with me.

I have a steadfast rule against
amour
in the workplace.

But Ryan’s thinking is often at odds with mine. And he likes a challenge.

He persisted, I stood firm. Moving force. Resisting object. I’d been separated two years, knew I wouldn’t be returning to my husband, Pete. I liked Ryan. He was intelligent, sensitive, and sexy as hell.

Four months back. Guatemala. An emotionally battering time for us both. I decided to reassess.

I invited Ryan to North Carolina. I bought the mother lode of skimpies and a man-eater black dress. I took the plunge.

Ryan and I spent a week at the beach and hardly saw the ocean. Or the black dress.

My stomach did that flip thing it does when I think of Ryan. And that beach week.

Add another item to the list of positives. Canadian or not, the guy is Captain America in bed.

We’d been, if not “a couple,” at least “an item” since August. A secret item. We kept it to ourselves.

Our times together looked like the clichéd sequences in romantic comedies. Walking hand in hand. Cuddling by fires. Romping in leaves. Romping in bed.

So why the feeling that something is wrong?

Turning right onto Guy, I gave the question some thought.

There’d been long, late-night conversations following Ryan’s return to Montreal from North Carolina. Recently, the frequency of those calls had diminished.

Big deal. You’re in Montreal every month.

True. But Ryan had been less available on my last trip. Slammed at work, he claimed. I wondered.

I’d been so happy. Had I missed or misread some signals? Was Ryan distancing himself from me?

Was I imagining the whole thing, mooning like the heroine in a pulp fiction romance?

For distraction, I clicked on the radio.

Daniel Bélanger sang
“Séche Tes Pleurs.”
“Dry Your Tears.”

Good advice, Daniel.

The snow was coming faster now. I turned on the wipers and focused on my driving.

Whether we eat at his place or mine, Ryan usually prepares the meal. Tonight I’d volunteered.

I cook well, but not instinctively. I need recipes.

Arriving home at six, I spent a few minutes recapping my day for Birdie, then took out the folder in which I stuff menus clipped from the
Gazette.

A five-minute search produced a winner. Grilled chicken breast with melon salsa. Wild rice. Tortilla and arugula salad.

The list of ingredients was relatively short. How hard could it be?

I threw on my parka and walked to Le Faubourg Ste-Catherine.

Poultry, greens, rice, no problem.

Ever try scoring a Crenshaw melon in December in the arctic?

A discussion with the stock boy resolved the crisis. I substituted cantaloupe.

By seven-fifteen I had the salsa marinating, the rice boiling, the chicken baking, and the salad mixed. Sinatra was flowing from a CD, and I reeked of Chanel No. 5.

I was ready. Belly-sucking size-four Christmas-red jeans. Hair tucked behind my ears and disheveled Meg Ryan style in back. Fluffed bangs. Orchid and lavender lids. Katy’s idea. Hazel eyes — lavender shadow. Dazzling!

Ryan arrived at seven-thirty with a six-pack of Moosehead, a baguette, and a small white box from a patisserie. His face was flushed from the cold, and fresh snow sparkled on his hair and shoulders.

Bending, he kissed me on the mouth then wrapped me in his arms.

“You look good.” Ryan pressed me to him. I smelled Irish Spring and aftershave mingled with leather.

“Thanks.”

Releasing me, Ryan slipped off his bomber jacket and tossed it on the sofa.

Birdie rocketed to the rug and shot down the hall.

“Sorry. Didn’t see the little guy.”

“He’ll cope.”

“You look
really
good.” Ryan caressed my cheek with his knuckles.

My stomach did jumping jacks.

“You’re not half bad, yourself, Detective.”

It’s true. Ryan is tall and lanky, with sandy hair, and impossibly blue eyes. Tonight he was wearing jeans and a Galway sweater.

I come from generations of Irish farmers and fishermen. Blame DNA. Blue eyes and cable knit knock me out.

“What’s in the box?” I asked.

“Surprise for the chef.”

Ryan detached a beer and placed the rest in the fridge.

“Something smells good.” He lifted the cover on the salsa bowl.

“Melon salsa. Crenshaws are tough to find in December.” I left it at that.

“Buy you a beer or mixed drink, cupcake?” Ryan flashed his brows and flicked an imaginary cigar.

“My usual.”

I checked the rice. Ryan dug a Diet Coke from the fridge. His lips twitched at the corners as he offered the can.

“Who’s calling most?”

“Sorry?” I was lost.

“Agents or talent scouts?”

My hand froze in midair. I knew what was coming.

“Where?”

“Le Journal de Montréal.”

“Today?”

Ryan nodded. “Above the fold.”

“Front page?” I was dismayed.

“Fourteen back. Color photo. You’ll love the angle.”

“Pictures?”

An image flashed across my mind. A skinny black man in a knee-length sweater. A trapdoor. A camera.

The little turd at the pizza parlor had sold his snapshots.

When working a case, I am adamant in my refusal to give media interviews. Many journalists think me rude. Others have described me in more colorful terms. I don’t care. Over the years I have learned that statements inevitably lead to misquotes. And misquotes invariably lead to problems.