Bones to Ashes

“It’s possible. But let me continue. The diatom concentration in bone marrow is usually proportionate to the diatom concentration in the drowning medium. That concentration varies due to the natural cycle of blooms and die-offs. In the northern hemisphere, diatom blooms occur in the spring and fall, creating persistently high levels in rivers and lakes throughout the summer. In winter, levels are typically at their lowest.”

“So the victim could have drowned in the river, but before this season’s bloom.”

“It’s another possibility.”

“When did this season’s bloom occur?”

“April.”

I was scribbling notes next to my doodles.

“Aspiration of water is required to transport the diatoms,” Suskind continued. “The transportation process works because diatoms are resistant to the mucus of the respiratory system and are able to embolize from the circulatory system into the internal organs.”

I knew where she was going. “Blood has to be pumping to get diatoms into the marrow.”

“Of course.”

“So the victim may not have been breathing when she hit the water.”

“It’s another possibility. But remember. Diatoms are found in only one third of all drowning cases.”

“Why such a low percentage?”

“Many reasons. I’ll give you the primary three. First, it may have to do with method of collection. If very few diatoms are present in the marrow cavity, they may simply be missed in sampling. Second, victims who hyperventilate and pass out under water or who experience laryngeal spasm may die more quickly, leading to a reduced quantity of inhaled water. Third, as I am sure you know, a relatively low volume of blood flows to and through the bone and bone marrow. And, for this individual, one bone plug was all I had. No samples from lungs, brain, kidney, liver, spleen.”

“When may I expect your report?”

“I’m completing it now.”

Thanking Suskind, I disconnected.

Great. The girl drowned or didn’t. In the river or elsewhere.

But the boat ramp. That was useful.

I called, but Ryan didn’t answer his cell. Of course. He was in court. I left a message.

The receiver had barely hit the cradle when the phone rang again.

“Having a nice day, kitten?” Male. Unaccented English.

“Who is this?”

“No matter.”

My mind looked for matches.

Cheech, the thug from Tracadie? I couldn’t be sure. He’d only spoken a sentence or two.

“Where did you get this number?”

“You’re easy to find.”

“What do you want?”

“Working hard fighting crime?”

I refused to be goaded.

“Noble endeavor, that. Protecting the good citizens of this province.”

Down the hall, a phone rang.

“But hazardous.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“That’s one fine-looking sister you’ve got.”

A cold tentacle curled in my gut.

“What’s little sis do while big sis plays cop?”

I didn’t react.

“She’s pretty easy to find, too.”

“Screw you,” I said, and slammed the receiver.

I sat a moment twisting and untwisting the phone cord. Cheech? If so, was he a threat, or merely a yokel with a bad approach and an overblown opinion of his own appeal? No. He was delivering a threat from someone.

Why? Did he work for Bastarache? What did he mean by “this province”? Where was he?

Who was he?

Phone Hippo?

No way.

Fernand Colbert.

Good one, Brennan. Colbert was a techie cop who owed me for bringing him barbecue sauce from North Carolina.

I phoned.

When Colbert answered, I explained the anonymous call. He promised to try a trace.

I was hanging up when my gaze fell on my doodles.

Duck…

Shell…

Forget it. Focus on current cases. Ryan’s MP’s: Kelly Sicard. Anne Girardin. Claudine Cloquet. Phoebe Quincy. Ryan’s DOA’s: Rivière des Mille Îles. Dorval. Lac des Deux Montagnes.

Duck…

Shell…

The whisper broke through, and jumped all thoughts of MP’s, DOA’s, or Cheech and the threat.

25

H URRYING TO THE LIBRARY, I PULLED OUT THE SAME NEW Brunswick atlas I’d consulted on Saturday, and flipped to the same map. Sheldrake Island lay in the mouth of the Miramichi River.

I checked an English dictionary.

Sheldrake. Any of several varieties of Old World ducks of the genus Tadorna…

Duck. Shell. Sheldrake.

Duck Island. Sheldrake Island.

A bec scie was a duck.

Could Sheldrake Island be the English equivalent of Île-aux-Becs-Scies? Was that the short-circuiting message to my cerebrum? Could Jerry O’Driscoll’s drifter, Tom Jouns, a one-time archaeologist, have taken the girl’s skeleton from Sheldrake Island?

Returning to my office, I logged onto the Internet. Before Google opened, my phone rang again. This time it was Harry.

“Did you call the forensic linguist?”

“Not yet.”

Harry used silence to express her disapproval.

“I will.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

More censuring nothing hummed across the line.

“I’ll do it now.”

“Good.”

“What are you up to?”

“Not much. Reading through these poems. They’re really quite beautiful.”

I could tell she was down.

“Harry, do you remember how we used to cook when Mama was having one of her bad spells?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s do that tonight. You and me.”

“You were pretty bossy.”

“Pick a recipe. I’ll be sous chef.”