Monday Mourning

After masking, I plugged in and revved a Stryker saw. White powder coned on the stainless steel as I bisected each femoral shaft. A hot, acrid odor filled the air.

I wondered again about the young women whose bones I was cutting. Had they died surrounded by family? Probably not. Alone and frightened? More likely. Hopeful of rescue? Desperate? Angry? Relieved? All possible. They never get to say.

When I’d finished sawing, I gathered the femoral segments and the UV light, and carried them to a storage closet at the end of the hall.

Come on. Let this work.

Entering the closet, I located an outlet and plugged in the UV. Then I set the femoral halves on a shelf with their freshly sawn surfaces facing outward.

When I closed the door, it was pitch-black.

Barely breathing, I pointed the UV and thumbed the switch.

8

“YES!” MY FREE HAND PUMPED THE AIR.

Limb bones of up to a century in age may fluoresce when viewed under UV light. This fluorescence diminishes over time, the dead zone progressing outward from the marrow cavity and inward from the external surface. A century postmortem, the yellow-green glow is absent altogether.

These babies were smoking like neon doughnuts.

OK, Claudel. That’s step one.

Returning the femora to their respective body bags, I went in search of my boss.

LaManche was slicing a brain in the histo lab. He looked up when I entered, knife in one hand, plastic apron tied behind his neck and waist. I explained what I’d done.

“And?”

“The cut surfaces lit up like novas.”

“Indicating?”

“The presence of organic constituents.”

LaManche laid his knife on the corkboard. “So these are not native burials.”

“These girls died after 1900.”

“Definitely?”

“Probably.” Less vehement.

“The building was constructed around the turn of the century.”

I did not reply.

“Do you recall the remains found near le Cathédral Marie-Reine-du-Monde?”

LaManche was referring to a time he’d sent me downtown to investigate “bodies” discovered by a water main crew. I’d arrived to find backhoes, dump trucks, and an enormous hole in boulevard René-Lévesque. Skull, rib, and long-bone fragments lined the pavement and lay at the bottom of the freshly dug trench. Mingled with the human bits I could see wood slivers and corroded nails.

Easy one. Coffin burials.

Archaeologists later confirmed my opinion. Until a cholera epidemic forced its closure in the mid-eighteenth century, a cemetery had occupied the land where the cathedral now oversees rush hour on René-Lévesque. The repair crew had stumbled on a few souls overlooked during the graveyard’s relocation.

“You think the bloody building was constructed over unmarked graves?” I asked. “I found no evidence of coffins.”

French Canadians are virtuosos of the shrug, using subtle nuances of hands, eyes, shoulders, and lips to convey countless meanings. I agree. I disagree. I don’t care. What can I do? Who knows? You are a fool. Do as you like.

LaManche raised one shoulder and both brows. A “maybe, maybe not” shrug.

“Have you discussed radiocarbon dating with Authier?” I asked.

“Dr. Authier is hosting visitors from the Moroccan Institute of Legal Medicine. I left a message asking that he call me.”

“The testing will take time.” I didn’t mask my agitation.

“Temperance.” LaManche was the only person on the planet to address me thus. On his tongue mon nom had perky little accent marks and rhymed with “sconce.” “You are becoming much too personally involved.”

“I don’t believe these bones are ancient. They don’t have that feel, that look. The context seems wrong. I—”

“Did these girls die last week?” The hound dog face sagged with patience.

“No.”

“Is there great urgency?”

I said nothing.

LaManche gazed at me so long I thought his mind had wandered. Then, “Send off your samples. I will deal with Dr. Authier.”

“Thank you.” I resisted the impulse to hug him.

“In the meantime, perhaps the third skeleton will yield useful information.” With that not so subtle hint, LaManche turned back to his brain.

Elated, I headed downstairs and changed into scrubs.

Lisa stopped me on my way to autopsy room four. The trailer fire victim had no teeth, no dentures, and no printable digits. Identification had become problematical, and Dr. Pelletier wanted my opinion.

I told her I would join Pelletier in half an hour.

Working quickly, I cut a one-inch plug from the midshaft of each femur, raced upstairs, logged onto the Web, and entered the address of the Florida lab that would perform the analyses. Clicking onto the sample data sheet, I filled in the required information, and requested testing by accelerated mass spectrometry.

I paused at the section concerning delivery. Standard service took two to four weeks. With advanced service, results could be available in as little as six days.

At a significantly higher price.

Screw it. If Authier balked, I’d pay.

I checked the second box and hit SEND.

After completing transfer-of-evidence forms, I gave Denis the address, and asked that he package and FedEx the specimens immediately.

Back downstairs.