Monday Mourning

”

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.”"

"With that he strode out the door.

I stood a moment, face burning with anger. I despise the fact that Claudel has the power to turn me pyrotechnic, sometimes illogically so. But there it was. He’d done it again.

Dropping into my chair, I swiveled, put my feet on the sill, and leaned my head sideways against the wall. Twelve floors down, the city stretched toward the river. Miniature cars and trucks flowed across the Jacques-Cartier Bridge, motoring toward Île Ste-Hélène, the south shore suburbs, New York State.

I closed my eyes and did some Yogic breathing, Slowly, my anger dissipated. When I opened them, I felt—what?

Flattened.

Confused.

Death investigations are complex enough. Why was it always doubly difficult with Claudel? Why couldn’t he and I enjoy the easy exchange that characterized my professional interactions with other homicide investigators? With Ryan?

Ryan.

Doris tapped on my shoulder for a few frames of Pillow Talk.

Some things were clear. Claudel’s mind was made up. He didn’t like rats. He didn’t like the pizza parlor. He didn’t think these bones were worth his attention. Whatever investigative support I needed I would have to find through other sources.

“OK, you supercilious, knee-jerk skeptic. Scoff at my analysis without trying to understand it. We’ll do this without you.”

Grabbing my clipboard, I headed back downstairs.

Three hours later I’d finished a skeletal inventory on LSJML-38426. The remains were complete save for the hyoid, a tiny U-shaped bone suspended in the soft tissue of the throat, and several of the smaller hand and foot bones.

Long bones continue to increase in length as long as their epiphyses, the small caps at each end, remain separate from the bone itself. Growth stops when a bone’s epiphyses unite with its shaft. Luckily for the anthropologist, each set of epiphyses marches to its own clock.

By observing the state of development of the arm, leg, and collarbones, I was able to narrow my age estimate. I’d requested dental X-rays so I could observe molar root development, but already I had no doubt. The girl in the crate had died between the ages of sixteen and eighteen.

My case form had a dozen checks in the column indicating European ancestry. Narrow nasal opening. Sharply projecting lower nasal border. Highly angled nasal bridge. Prominent nasal spine. Cheekbones tight to the face. Every feature and measurement placed the skull squarely in the Caucasoid category. I was certain the girl was white.

And tiny. Leg bone measurements indicated she stood approximately five feet two inches tall.

Though I’d examined every bone and bone fragment, I’d found not a single mark of violence. A few scratches in the vicinity of the right auditory canal looked superficial and V-shaped under magnification. I suspected the marks were a postmortem artifact, caused by abrasion with the ground surface, or careless handling during removal to the crate.

The teeth showed evidence of poor hygiene and no dental restorations.

Now I was turning to postmortem interval. How long had she been dead? With just dry bone, PMI was going to be a bitch.

The human body is a Copernican microcosm composed of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen. The heart is the daystar, providing life source to every metabolic system in the galaxy.

When the heart stops pumping, it’s cytoplasmic chaos. Cellular enzymes begin a cannibalistic feast on the body’s own carbohydrates and proteins. Cell membranes rupture, releasing food for armies of microorganisms. Bacteria in the gut start munching outward. Environmental bacteria, carrion insects, and scavenging animals start munching inward.

Burial, submersion, or embalming retards the process of decomposition. Certain mechanical and chemical agents boost it.