Monday Mourning

Or the brainless indifference with which I’d treated her.

“Well, sunshine—”

“Yes, cupcake.” I cut him off.

Pause.

“You must find evidence to convince Claudel that he’s wrong.” Patient, a teacher reprimanding a kindergartner.

Long pause, filled with my irritated breathing. Again, Ryan spoke first.

“I’m guessing tonight is not good for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I understand how tired and frustrated you are. Go home and take one of your famous bubble baths. Things’ll serve up better in the morning.”

When we’d disconnected, I sat listening to the hum of the empty building.

There was no denying it. I’d been in Montreal three full days. And nights. Ryan had been his usual amiable and charming self.

And almost totally unavailable.

I didn’t need a burning bush. Officer Studmuffin was moving on.

And I was stuck with Detective Dickhead.

I tottered toward tears, yanked myself back.

I’d lived without Ryan. I would do so again.

I’d coexisted with Claudel. I would do so again.

But was the problem with Ryan of my own making? Why had I been so short with him just now?

Outside, the wind gusted. Downstairs, three young women lay silent on stainless steel.

I glanced at the phone. Mrs. Gallant/Ballant/Talent wasn’t hitting her redial button.

“Screw bubbles,” I said, rocketing from my chair.

“And screw you, Andrew Ryan. Wherever you are.”

By nine I’d finished with LSJML-38427, the skeleton from the first depression."

"Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Sixty-four to sixty-seven inches tall. No odor, no hair, not a shred of soft tissue. Bones well preserved, but dry and discolored, with some soil infiltration. Postmortem cranial damage, including fragmentation of the right temporal area, right facial bones, and right mandibular ramus. No perimortem skeletal trauma. No dental work. No associated clothing or possessions. 38427 was a carbon copy of 38426.

With one difference. I’d seen this young lady in situ and knew something about burial context. LSJML-38427 had been placed naked in a pit in a fetal curl.

We of the Judeo-Christian persuasion send our dead packing in their Sunday best. We literally lay them out, legs extended, hands on the belly or straight down at the sides. The tucked sleeping posture is more typical of our precontact native brethren.

So. Did the curled posture support Claudel’s assumption of antiquity?

Not that simple.

A flexed body requires a smaller hole. Less digging. Less time and energy. Pit burial is also popular with those in a hurry.

Like murderers.

Exhausted, I wheeled the bones to their bay, changed, returned to my office, and rechecked the phone.

No messages.

By the time I clocked out, it was well past ten. Wind whipped around the corner of Wilfrid-Derome, slicing through my clothes like a blade. My breath billowed as I scurried to my car.

Throughout the drive, I could think of nothing but the girls in the morgue.

Had they died of illness? Had they been killed in a manner leaving no mark on their bones? Poisoning? Smothering?

Hypothermia?

At the Viger traffic light, two teenagers emerged from the shadow of the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. Tattooed, pierced, and spiked, they raised squeegees with tense nonchalance. Nodding a go-ahead, I dug a dollar from my purse and watched as they scraped dirty water down my windshield.

Had the pizza basement girls been young rebels like these, marching toward nonconformity down prescribed paths? Had they been loners, abused by family tyrants? Runaways struggling to survive on the streets?

I’d found not a single indicator of clothing. Granted, natural fibers such as cotton, linen, and wool deteriorate quickly. But why no zipper tooth? Eyelet? Bodice fastener? Bra hook? These girls had been stripped before being hidden in anonymous graves.

Had they died together? Over a span of months? Years?

And always, the central question: When? A decade ago? A century?

By the time I reached home, a headache was cranking into high gear, and I was hungry enough to eat Lithuania. Except for granola bars and diet sodas, I’d consumed nothing all day.

After showering, I nuked a frozen Mexican dinner. As I dined with Letterman, I thought about Anne. Anne would understand. Let me vent. Say comforting things. I’d just collected the handset, when it rang in my hand.

“How’s Birdie?” Anne.

“You’re calling about my cat?”

“I don’t think the little guy gets enough attention.”

The little guy was beside me on the couch, staring at the sour cream oozing from my burrito remains.

“I’m sure Bird would agree.”

Setting my dinner on the coffee table, I scooped a dollop of cream and offered a finger. Birdie licked it clean and refocused on the plate.

“How about you?”

I was lost. “How about me what?”

“Are you getting enough attention?”

Though Anne has the instincts of a NAVSAT, she couldn’t have known of my anxiety over Ryan.