Monday Mourning

So how long are we talking for dust to dust?

With extreme heat and humidity, loss of soft tissue can occur in as little as three days. But that’s a land record. Under normal conditions, with shallow burial, a body takes six months to a year to go skeletal.

Enclosure in a basement might slow that. Enclosure in a basement in the subarctic might slow that a lot.

What facts did I have?

The bodies were found in shallow graves. Was that the original place of burial? How soon after death had they been placed there?

At least two had been flexed, knees drawn tight to the chest. At least one had been bundled, wrapped in an outer covering of leather. Beyond that, I knew squat. Moisture. Soil acidity. Temperature fluctuation.

What could I say?

The bones were dry, disarticulated, and completely devoid of flesh and odor. There was staining, and some soil invasion into the cranial sinuses and marrow cavities. Unless Claudel’s buttons were legitimately associated, the girls had been stashed, naked and anonymous, with no accompanying artifacts.

Best estimate: more than a year and less than a millennium. Claudel would have a field day with that.

Frustrated, I packed up LSJML-38426, determined to ask a lot more questions."

"I was rolling out LSJML-38427 when the phone behind me rang again. Irritated at the interruption, and expecting Claudel’s arrogant cynicism, I yanked down my mask and snatched up the receiver.

“Brennan.”

“Dr. Temperance Brennan?” A female voice, quavery and uncertain.

“Oui.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes until the switchboard rolled over to the night service.

“I didn’t expect you to actually answer. I mean, I thought I would get another secretary. The operat—”

“Is there something I can help you with?” I matched her English.

There was a pause, as if the caller was actually considering the question. In the background I could hear what sounded like birds.

“Well, I don’t know. Actually, I thought perhaps I could be of help to you.”

Great. Another citizen volunteer.

Members of crime scene recovery units are typically not scientists. They are technicians. They collect hairs, fibers, glass fragments, paint chips, blood, semen, saliva, and other physical evidence. They dust for prints. They shoot pics. When the goodies are tagged and logged, the crime scene unit’s involvement is over. No high-tech magic. No heart rush surveillance. No hot lead shoot-outs. Specialists with advanced degrees do the science. Cops chase the bad guys.

But Tinsel Town has done another tap dance; the public has been conned into believing crime scene techs are scientists and detectives, and every week I am contacted by starry-eyed viewers who think they may have uncovered something. I try to be kind, but this latest Hollywood myth needs a kick in the pants.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but to work at this lab you must submit your credentials and go through a formal hiring process.”

“Oh.” I heard a sharp intake of air.

“If you stop in the personnel office, I’m certain that printed material exists giving job descript—”

“No, no. You misunderstand. I saw your photo in Le Journal yesterday. I phoned your office.”

Worse than a cop show groupie. A snoopy neighbor with the tip of the century. Or some basehead looking to score a reward.

Tossing my pen to the blotter, I dropped into the chair. The call was probably a long shot, but so was Deep Throat.

“This may sound crazy.” Nervous throat clearing. “And I know how very busy you must be.”

“Actually, I am in the middle of something, Mrs.—?”

The name was distorted by static. Gallant? Ballant? Talent?

“—bones you dug up.”

Another pause. More background whistling and squawking.

“What about them?”

The voice became stronger.

“I feel it is my moral responsibility.”

I said nothing, staring at the bones on the gurney and thinking about moral responsibilities.

“My moral duty to follow through. At least with a telephone call. Before I leave. It’s the least I can do. People just don’t take time anymore. No one bothers. No one wants to get involved.”

In the hall, I heard voices, doors slamming, then quiet. The autopsy techs had left for the day. I leaned back, tired, but anxious to finish the conversation and get back to work.

“What is it you would like to tell me?”

“I’ve lived a long time in Montreal. I know what went on in that building.”

“What building?”

“The one where those bones were hidden.”

The woman now had my full attention.

“The pizza parlor?”

“Now it is.”

“Yes?”

At that moment a bell shrilled, like those regulating movement in old school buildings.

The line went dead.

6

I JIGGLED THE BUTTON, TRYING TO GET THE SWITCHBOARD OPERATOR’S attention.

Nothing.

Damn!

Slamming the receiver, I raced for the elevator.

Susanne, the LSJML receptionist, lives in a small town halfway between Montreal and the Ontario border.