Monday Mourning

Claudel’s aversion to autopsies is legendary. I used to play on this, think up ruses to force him belowdecks. I no longer bothered.

“I’ll need a few minutes to clean up,” I said.

“This is probably pointless, anyway.”

“I sincerely hope so.” I hung up.

Easy. It’s Claudel. The man is a throwback.

Drawing a sheet over the table, I stripped off my gloves, scrubbed, and headed upstairs, a growing dread hanging heavy on my mind.

I knew my bones. I knew I was right.

Despite his sanctimonious arrogance, I hoped to God Claudel was right, too.

5

CLAUDEL WAS SEATED FACING MY DESK, BROWS, NOSE, AND mouth pointing south. He did not rise or greet me when I entered. I returned his cordiality.

“You have finished?”

“No, Monsieur Claudel. I have not finished. I have hardly begun.” I sat. “But I have made some disturbing observations.”

Claudel curled his fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.

“Based on cranial and pelvic features, I can tell you that skeleton 38426 is that of a female who died in her mid to late teens. Analysis of the long bones will allow me to narrow that age estimate, but it’s obvious that the basilar suture has only recently fused, the iliac crest—”

“I do not need an anatomy lesson.”

How about my heel up your ass?

“The victim is young.” Chilly.

“Go on.”

“They’re all young.”

Claudel’s brows angled up in a question.

“Females. In their teens or barely past.”

“Cause of death?”

“That will require a detailed examination of each skeleton.”

“People die.”

“Not usually as kids.”

“Racial background?”

“Uncertain at this point.” Though I had yet to verify ancestry, cranio-facial details suggested all three were white.

“So it’s possible we’ve dug up Pocahontas and her court.”

I bit back a response. I would not let Claudel goad me into a premature statement.

“While the bones from the crate and those from the northeastern depression retain no soft tissue, those from the bundled burial show traces of adipocere. Grave wax. I am not convinced these deaths took place in the distant past.”

Claudel spread both hands, palms up. “Five years, ten, a century?”

“A determination of time since death will require further study. At this point I would not write these burials off as historic or prehistoric.”

“I do not require instruction on how to prepare my reports. What exactly are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you we just recovered three dead girls from a pizza parlor basement. At this stage of inquiry, it is not appropriate to conclude that the remains are of great antiquity.”

For several seconds Claudel and I glared at each other. Then he reached into a breast pocket, extracted a Ziploc baggie, and tossed it onto the desktop.

Slowly, I dropped my eyes.

The baggie contained three round items.

“Feel free to remove them.”

Unzipping the baggie, I dropped the objects onto my palm. Each was a flat metal disk measuring slightly over an inch in diameter. Though corroded, I could see that each disk had a female silhouette engraved on the front, an eyelet on the back. The initials ST were etched beside each eyelet.

I looked a question at Claudel.

“With some persuasion, the Prince of Pizza admitted to liberating certain items while crating the bones.”

“Buttons?”

Claudel nodded.

“They were buried with the skeleton?”

“The gentleman is a little vague on provenance. But yes, they are buttons. And it’s obvious they are old.”

“How can you be certain they’re old?”

“I can’t. Dr. Antoinette Legault at the McCord could.”

The McCord Museum of Canadian History houses over a million artifacts, with more than sixteen thousand of those belonging to the clothing and apparel collection.

“Legault is a button expert?”

Claudel ignored my question. “The buttons were manufactured in the nineteenth century.”

Before I could reply, Claudel’s cell phone warbled. Without excusing himself, he rose and stepped into the hall.

My eyes went back to the buttons. Did they mean the skeletons had been in the ground a century or more?

In less than a minute, Claudel was back.

“Something important has come up.”

I was being dismissed.

I have a temper. I admit that. Sometimes I lose it. Claudel’s condescension was prodding me toward one of those times. I had rushed through a preliminary evaluation to accommodate his schedule on the assumption that this investigation was of immediate priority, and now he was brushing me aside after a cursory inquiry.

“Meaning this case is not important?”

Claudel lowered his chin and looked at me, a picture of infinitely strained patience.

“I am a police officer, not a historian.”

“And I am a scientist, not a conjecturer.”

“These artifacts”—he flapped a hand at the buttons—“belong to another century.”

“Three dead girls now belong to this one.” I rose abruptly.

Claudel’s body stiffened. His eyes crimped.

“A prostitute has just arrived at l’hôpital Notre-Dame with a fractured skull and a knife in her gut. Her colleague is less fortunate. She is dead. My partner and I are going to arrest a certain pimp to improve other ladies’ odds of surviving.”

Claudel jabbed a finger in my direction.

“That, madame, is important.”