Monday Mourning

“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.

3

IT WAS DARK WHEN I EMERGED FROM THE COURTHOUSE. WHITE 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.