Part 9 (2/2)

”I a.s.sume so since his dentist doesn't speak a word of French.”

”Not too many of those among les motards.” les motards.”

”None that I know of,” Bergeron agreed.

”Will you give the good news to Quickwater and Claudel?”

”I've already made the call.”

I went to the storage shelves and pulled the box containing the third St-Basile victim. Since the remains were coated with dirt, I placed a screen in the sink, set them in it, and ran warm water over them.

The long bones cleaned easily, so I laid them on the drainboard and began brus.h.i.+ng mud from the outside of the skull. Its weight told me that the cranial interior was packed solid. When the facial features were clear I inverted the skull and let the tap water run over the base. Then I crossed to my desk to fill out a case identification card.

When I returned to the sink Bergeron held the skull in his hands, turning it faceup, then rotating it for a lateral view. He stared at the features a long time then said, ”Oh my.”

When he handed me the cranium I repeated his movements, then echoed his thought.

”Oh my.”

11.

ONE LOOK AND I I KNEW KNEW I I'D BEEN WRONG. THE SMOOTH FOREHEAD and occiput, slender cheekbones, and small mastoid processes told me that bachelor number three was clearly of my own gender. and occiput, slender cheekbones, and small mastoid processes told me that bachelor number three was clearly of my own gender.

I got my calipers and took a measurement from one of the bones that lay on the drainboard. The femoral head is a ball-like structure that fits into a socket in the pelvis to form the hip joint. This one had a diameter of only thirty-nine millimeters, placing it squarely in the female range.

And the victim had been young. I could see a jagged line across the top of the ball, indicating that fusion of the growth cap was incomplete at the time of death.

I returned to the cranium. Squiggly lines separated all the bones. I rotated the skull for a view of the base. Just in front of the foramen magnum, the hole through which the spinal cord leaves the brain, there was a gap between the sphenoid and occipital bones.

I showed Bergeron the open suture.

”She was just a kid,” I said. ”Probably in her teens.”

He made a comment, but I didn't hear. My attention had been drawn to an irregularity on the right parietal bone. Cautiously, I ran my fingers over it. Yes, there was something there.

Taking care to cause no damage, I held the skull under the faucet and teased away dirt with a soft-bristle toothbrush. Bergeron watched as the defect came into focus. It took only moments.

What I'd spotted was a small round hole, slightly above and behind the ear opening. I estimated its diameter at approximately one centimeter.

”Gunshot wound?” Bergeron suggested.

”Maybe. No. I don't think so.”

Though the proper size for a small-caliber projectile, the perforation didn't look like a bullet entrance. Its border was smooth and rounded, like the inside of a doughnut hole.

”Then what?”

”I'm not sure. Maybe some type of congenital defect. Maybe an abscess. I'll know better when I empty the skull and get a look at the endocranial surface. I'll also need X rays to see what's going on inside the bone.”

Bergeron looked at his watch.

”Let me know when you've finished so I can shoot some bite-wings on this one. I didn't see any restorations, but I might spot something on the X rays. The right canine has an odd alignment which will be useful, but I'd prefer having the lower jaw jaw.”

”I'll work harder next time.”

”Not necessary.” He laughed.

When Bergeron left I set the skull upside down in a rubber ring and adjusted the water so it ran gently into the foramen magnum. Then I went back to photographing Gately and Martineau, doc.u.menting skeletal features relevant to their identifications. I also took multiple shots of the bullet holes in the back of each man's head.

Periodically I checked the unknown female's skull, pouring off muck as the water loosened it. Just before noon, as I was draining sediment, something broke free and tapped against the cranial interior. I placed the skull back on the ring and slipped my fingers inside.

The object felt long and thin. I tried to dislodge it, but the thing had a tail of some sort still embedded in the mud. Barely able to contain my curiosity, I adjusted the tap and went back to the Gately report.

By 1 P.M. P.M. the object floated free, but the trailer was still firmly cemented. Impatient, I allowed the sink to fill, immersed the skull, and went downstairs to the cafeteria. the object floated free, but the trailer was still firmly cemented. Impatient, I allowed the sink to fill, immersed the skull, and went downstairs to the cafeteria.

When I returned from lunch the soaking had liquefied the last of the dirt, and I was able to pour it off easily. Holding my breath, I inserted my fingers and delicately manipulated the object free.

The device was less than four inches long, and consisted of a length of tubing with a valve at one end. I cleaned it and placed it on a tray. Certain of its importance, but unsure as to what it was, I washed my hands and went in search of a pathologist.

According to the duty board, LaManche was at a meeting of the committee on infant mortality. Marcel Morin was at his desk.

He looked up when I tapped on the door.

”Got a minute?”

”But of course.” His French was warm and lyrical, reflecting the Haiti of his boyhood. I entered the office and placed the tray in front of him.

”Ah. A surgical implant.” His eyebrows rose behind rimless gla.s.ses. They were graying, like the tightly cropped frizz of hair retreating backward on his scalp.

”I thought so. Can you tell me more about it?”

He lifted both palms. ”Not much. It looks like a ventricular shunt, but I'm not a neurosurgeon. You might want to talk to Carolyn Russell. She's done some neuro consults for us.”

He flipped through his Rolodex, jotted down a number, and handed it to me, saying, ”She's at the MNI.”

I thanked him, went to my office, and dialed the Montreal Neurological Inst.i.tute. Dr. Russell was in a meeting, so I left a message. I'd just hung up when the phone rang. It was Claudel.

”You've talked to Bergeron?” he asked.

”He just left.”

”So two make the jump from the list of missing to the list of dead.”

I waited for him to go on, but he didn't.

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