206 bones a novel, p.11
206 Bones: A Novel, page 11
part #12 of Temperance Brennan Series
"Ça va bien." I'm doing fine.
"Couldn't stay away from our Montreal weather, eh?" Ayers knew my feelings on snow.
"No comment." I took a seat.
Briel glanced in my direction.
I nodded. Smiled.
Briel looked down at her notepad, vertical lines creasing the gap where heavy dark brows reached for each other over her nose.
I looked at Ayers. She shrugged. Who knows?
I tried again with my newest colleague. "I hope you're now feeling comfortable here."
Briel's face rose, frown lines in place. "Oui."
"Not letting these old goats get on your nerves."
Ayers bleated softly.
"I can handle difficulties."
Marie-Andréa Briel was not blessed with beauty. Perhaps thirty-two, she had a substantial fundament, frizzy black hair, and skin the color of fluoridated teeth. That skin now went incandescent.
"I'm not implying that anyone is difficult. That's not what I meant. I'm very happy here. Thankful for the chance to learn."
Though grammatically flawless, Briel's French was oddly without accent or inflection. Definitely not Québécois or European. I made a mental note to ask about her origins.
Morin reached over and patted Briel's hand. "You're doing fine."
The frown lines relaxed. A micron.
"The old lady from Oka is downstairs?" Morin asked me.
"Yes. I started my analysis on Saturday, hope to finish today."
"Then outa here for a Dixie Christmas?" Ayers.
"That's the plan."
"Put elf hats on the hunting dogs?" Ayers loved to tease about my Southern roots.
"Yep. Then the cousins gather in my trailer to drink hooch and eat pork skins."
"Bon." Morin distributed photocopied rosters of the day's cases. "Then let's not waste time."
I skimmed the daily morgue sheet. Eight autopsies. A typical Monday. Busy as hell.
Morin went over each case.
A Ski-Doo had slammed into a tree near Sainte-Agathe. A second snowmobile had then plowed into the first. Two dead. Alcohol intoxication was suspected.
An Argentine seaman had died in a home-rigged sauna in the Gay Village. The presumed host was in critical condition at the General. Alcohol and drug intoxication were suspected.
Two men and a woman had been discovered dead in their beds in Baie-Comeau. Carbon monoxide poisoning was suspected.
A man had been gunned down outside a convenience store in Longueuil.
A woman had been stabbed in her home in Lac-Beauport. The estranged husband was in custody.
Only the Longueuil shooting victim's identity was unknown. Prints were being run and a photo was being shopped to known gang members.
Nothing for the anthropologist. Hot damn. I'd be free to work on the Oka lady.
Though Briel offered, Morin assigned himself the stabbing victim. Mo went onto the roster beside that case.
Santangelo got the snowmobilers. Sa.
Ayers volunteered for the sailor and the gunshot death. Again Briel offered, but was refused. The shooting was clearly a homicide. The sautéed sailor was a foreign national. That meant potential diplomatic issues. Ay.
Briel's brow-pucker deepened as Morin wrote Br beside the chalet vics then tossed her a ziplock filled with vials of prescription drugs.
"Christelle Villejoin's antemortem records," he said, handing me an envelope whose size did not look encouraging.
"No X-rays?"
Morin shook his head.
"Dentals?"
"Apparently les soeurs Villejoin were not fond of medical professionals. Everything in the file looks pretty old."
Great.
Morin turned to budget matters. Additional cuts had been demanded by the ministry. Nothing new. Each year funding grew more spartan. The joke was that soon autopsies would be billed by the pound.
We were pushing from the table when Briel spoke up.
"I have taken on a student."
We all paused.
"A student?" Morin raised a questioning brow.
"I am beginning a new project and need a new research assistant."
"A project?" The brow floated higher.
"Montreal remains the last U.S. or Canadian city with a population over one million that does not fluoridate its water. Some communities in the West Island do fluoridate. Pointe-Claire, Dorval, Beaconsfield, Baied'Urfé, Kirkland, and parts of Dollard-des-Ormeaux and Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue."
Ayers groaned softly. It was an old issue.
Briel ignored her.
"Though the Quebec government endorses and has offered to subsidize fluoridation in Montreal, the city refuses. I have read statistics stating that Montreal children have seventy-seven percent more cavities compared to children in areas of Quebec where fluoride is added to the water. The dichotomy on the Island of Montreal provides a natural laboratory. My assistant and I will be comparing the decay rates of unfluori-dated city children to those of their fluoridated surburban counterparts."
"All costs will have to--"
"I have a grant."
"What happened to your old student?"
"I had to let her go."
"Who is the new student?" Santangelo asked.
"Solange Duclos. She is a fourth-year biology major at l'Université de Montréal. She will come for six hours each week beginning next Tuesday."
"Shouldn't this have been discussed prior to making a commitment?" Santangelo's voice had an edge. "There are security and safety issues."
Briel's cheeks flamed again, reminding me of Chris Corcoran. Which reminded me of Edward Allen Jurmain and his snake-belly informant. I would begin digging as soon as I finished with the Oka woman.
"--visibility for the lab. I plan to present my findings to the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. And to publish them in the Journal of Forensic Sciences and the Journal of the Canadian Dental Association."
Ayers started to comment. Morin cut her off.
"You are new here. There is much to absorb."
Briel's shoulders hitched back. "I have completed a residency program in anatomic and clinical pathology. And several postdocs. I am not without experience."
"Our autopsy schedule is very demanding," Ayers said. "Look at today. You have two cases."
"I don't mind working late. Or on weekends. The research will be done on my own time."
Ayers shook her head. Santangelo wrote something on her roster.
"Access must be limited to our section alone," Morin said. "As with your previous student, Ms. Duclos must not enter the morgue or any other restricted area of the building. And she must, for security purposes, submit to a full background check."
"The background check has already been done."
"Have Ms. Duclos come to my office when she arrives on Tuesday." Morin looked around the table. "Other business?"
Nothing.
"Let's get cutting."
Downstairs, the Oka bones were as I'd left them.
The clock said ten past ten. Normally, I'd have begun with a full skeletal inventory. Since Hubert would be phoning soon, I decided to jump protocol and go straight to ID. Completion of the bone count could wait.
To avoid the influence of preconceived bias, I perform my analyses prior to viewing documentation. I see working in the dark as a sort of double-blind check.
Setting the antemortem records aside, I began to construct a biological profile.
By noon I'd determined that the skeleton was, in fact, that of a white female in excess of sixty-five years of age. Though I'd noted widespread osteoarthritis, advanced periostitis, and significant tooth loss, I'd found nothing sufficiently unique to positively establish ID.
I was sliding Christelle Villejoin's medical records from their envelope when I heard the anteroom door open. Seconds later, Briel appeared.
Though the frown lines were present, she made a lip gesture I chose to interpret as a grin.
"Taking a break?" I asked.
"Bones interest me. May I watch while you work?"
I matched her nonanswer with one of my own.
"I apologize for knowing so little about you. I'm away so much. You come to us from where?"
She misinterpreted my meaning. "My father was a diplomat. We moved a great deal."
OK. That explained the accent.
"Where was home before Montreal?"
"Montpellier, France."
"Ooh, climate shock." I laughed.
She did not. "My husband is from here."
"Still. In winter." I pantomimed weighing two objects, one in each hand. "South of France? Quebec? That's devotion above and beyond."
The perpetual frown never faltered.
"What does your husband do?"
"He is in private business."
Conversation was like pulling impacted molars. I remembered why I'd given up in the past. Nevertheless, I soldiered on.
"Do you live in the city?"
"We have a condo on Fullum."
"Handy. You can walk here."
"Yes. May I observe you?"
When working, there are things I avoid like a case of the drips. Cops trying to rush me. Prosecutors trying to sway me. Anyone trying to look over my shoulder.
I started to dodge her request. As I had previous ones.
"I'm sorry, but I've explained. I don't--"
"It's my lunch hour. My own time."
"I'm really humping to get this one done." I smiled modestly. "Besides, most of what I do is flat-out boring."
"I don't see it that way."
I was framing a firmer refusal when the door opened again. My second visitor was Ryan. His expression told me something was very wrong.
"What's up?" I asked.
Ryan chin-cocked the remains. "Is it Villejoin?"
"I haven't finished."
Ryan nodded to Briel, then spoke to me. "The situation could be nastier than we thought."
16
RYAN'S FINGERS RAKED HIS HAIR. TOUCHED HIS MOUTH. DRUMMED his belt.
"We may have a serial."
Beside me, Briel went very still.
"In Montreal?"
"No. In Saskatoon."
"Hardy friggin' har."
"I ran into your pal Claudel this morning."
Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel, SPVM. A city cop. Claudel and I were pals in the sense Hatfields and McCoys were buds.
"He's working an MP."
Ryan referred to a missing person case.
"Ten days ago a landlord named Mathieu Baudry dropped in on one of his tenants, Marilyn Keiser, a seventy-two-year-old widow living alone. Baudry was pissed about unpaid rent."
"Where's the apartment?"
"Édouard-Montpetit. The place looked abandoned. Unopened mail. Dead plants. Spoiled food in the refrigerator. The usual. Baudry asked around the building. None of the neighbors had seen or talked to Keiser in months. One suggested she might have gone south for the winter."
"Was that her pattern?"
"No. Keiser wasn't a snowbird. She drove, occasionally made short trips. Quebec City. Ottawa. Charlevoix. That was about it."
"Her car is also missing?"
Ryan nodded.
"Family?"
"Two kids, both married and living in Alberta. The only local relative is a stepson named Myron Pinsker. Baudry phoned Pinsker repeatedly. After a week of no contact and no returned calls he gave up and dialed nine-one-one.
"Claudel caught the case, did some digging, learned that since October Marilyn Keiser has missed medical appointments, book club meetings, a sit-down with her rabbi, and about a zillion other engagements. No apologies, no explanations."
"That's out of character?"
"Definitely. The stepson is a forty-four-year-old grounds worker at a West Island golf course. Beaconsfield, I think. Told Claudel he was unaware Keiser was missing."
"Maybe they aren't close."
"Maybe not. But someone cashed Keiser's last three old age insurance pension checks."
"Crap."
"Claudel learned that late yesterday. This morning he hauled Pinsker's ass to the bag."
"Detective Claudel thinks Madame Keiser is dead?"
Ryan and I glanced at Briel in surprise. She'd been so still, I think we'd both forgotten she was there.
"Doesn't look good," Ryan said.
"He suspects the stepson?"
"Pinsker better have a good explanation for those checks."
Ryan turned to me.
"Four elderly women in two years."
Three, yes. But four? I must have looked confused.
"Keiser. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin. This one." Ryan jabbed a thumb toward the bones behind me. "Jurmain."
"Rose Jurmain was hardly elderly," I said.
"But she looked old. Remember Janice Spitz's photos, the ones taken shortly before Jurmain's death?"
I nodded understanding. Maybe the drugs. Maybe the booze. Rose had looked decades beyond her fifty-nine years.
Again, Ryan gestured at the table. "Keiser's disappearance throws a whole new wrinkle into this ID."
I remembered Hubert's rhetorical question at graveside. How many grannies go missing around here?
Too many, I thought.
"I'll know within the hour if it's Christelle Villejoin," I said.
"Gotta roll. Claudel's interrogating Pinsker now."
With that, Ryan was gone.
A greedy relative? Or an anonymous predator targeting the weak?
I felt the usual riot of emotions. Anger. Outrage. Sorrow.
I needed a break.
Excusing myself to Briel, I stripped off my gloves and headed upstairs.
Thirty minutes later I was back in the basement. Coming down the corridor, I noticed Briel through the little window in the door to the large autopsy suite. She was speaking to Joe Bonnet while removing the brain from one of the Baie-Comeau corpses.
I paused briefly, wondering how the two new hires meshed. Joe was prickly, quick to take offense. Briel was as amiable as a statue in the park.
Briel said something. Joe listened, hair doing a latter-day Ric Flair in the fluorescent light.
Briel touched Joe's hand. He smiled. Actually laughed.
I continued on to Salle 4.
Taking the envelope that Morin had delivered to me from the Bureau du coroner, I spread the contents on the anteroom desk.
My pessimism was justified. There was little to spread.
Entries only went back to 1987. Nothing sinister there. Space in medical offices is limited, and paperwork is often destroyed when legally permissible.
For the past two decades, Christelle Villejoin had used a GP named Sylvain Rayner. Sparingly.
In 1989 she'd been diagnosed with shingles. In 1994 it was mild bronchitis.
The most recent entries dated to 1997.
On April 24 Christelle had complained of constipation. Rayner prescribed a laxative. On April 26 the problem was diarrhea.
Good job, Doc.
Christelle had no history of any bone-altering disease. No stents, pins, rods, or artificial joints had been placed in her body. She'd suffered no fractures. She'd undergone no surgeries of any kind.
No X-rays.
Nothing dental.
Christelle's chart was useless to me.
But there was a number for Rayner's office.
When I phoned, a robotic voice told me to take a hike. I'm paraphrasing.
On a hunch, I returned to the twelfth floor and tried Google on my laptop.
Sylvain Alexandre Rayner had earned his MD at McGill in 1952, retired from practice in 1998. A little more searching and I had a home number and directions to Rayner's residence in Côte Saint-Luc.
God bless the Internet.
My call went unanswered. I left a message and headed back downstairs.
I'd barely entered Salle 4 when the anteroom phone shrilled.
"Dr. Temperance Brennan, s'il vous plaît," a male voice said.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Sylvain Rayner."
"The Sylvain Rayner who treated Christelle Villejoin?" I spoke loudly and slowly, a well-intentioned reaction based on a common and often false assumption. Rayner is elderly, therefore hard of hearing, perhaps dull-witted.
"Oui."
"Dr. Sylvain Rayner?" I repeated the name, upping the volume and emphasizing the title.
"I can hear you, miss." The man had switched to English. "Yes. This is Sylvain Rayner. I'm returning your call."
Clearly, the good doctor had excellent ears. Or a dandy of a hearing aid. He'd even caught my Anglophone accent.
"Sorry, sir. Occasionally this phone distorts sound levels," I lied.
"How may I help you?"
"As I said in my message, my name is Temperance Brennan. I'm the forensic anthropologist with the coroner in Montreal. I have some questions concerning a former patient."
I expected the usual rebuff based on confidentiality. That's not what I got.
"You've found Christelle Villejoin," Rayner said.
"Perhaps." Careful. "Remains have come into the morgue. I've determined the bones are those of an elderly white female, but I've found nothing sufficiently unique to permit positive identification. The medical file I have is quite limited."
"I'm not surprised. The Villejoin sisters were blessed with remarkable genes. I saw both of them from the mid-seventies until my retirement in 'ninety-eight. They rarely had an ailment. Oh, a bellyache now and then. Common cold. Maybe a rash. Anne-Isabelle and Christelle may have been the two healthiest patients I treated in my entire forty-six years of practice. Never smoked, never drank. Took only drugstore vitamins, an aspirin now and then. No magic potions or lifestyle secrets. Just whoppin' good DNA."
"The coroner provided no dental records."
"The girls weren't so lucky there. Brushed and flossed like the devil, but still lost their teeth. Didn't matter how much I scolded. Both hated dentists. Got it from their mama, I think."
"I see." Discouraged, I slumped back in my chair.
"Fact is, they distrusted medicine in general. As far as I know, they gave up on doctors altogether when I retired. I referred their files to the young fellow who took over my practice, but he once told me he never laid eyes on either. Funny, them working all their lives at the hospital."
Is it? I thought. Maybe they'd seen too much.
