Part 14 (2/2)

”No problem.”

”I need the full jacket on each one, not just the anthropology report.”

Something crossed her face, just a flicker of change and then it was gone.

”Where would you like them?” she asked, dropping her eyes to the list.

I gave her my office number, then left. Two strides down the corridor I remembered that I hadn't mentioned pictures. When I turned back I could see Jocelyn's head bent low over the printout. Her lips moved as a lacquered finger worked its way down each side of the paper. She seemed to be reading every word.

When I mentioned the photos, she started at my voice.

”I'm on it,” she said, sliding from her stool.

Weird one, I thought as I headed back to work on the Gately and Martineau reports.

Jocelyn brought me the dossiers within an hour, and I spent the next three going through them. In all, I'd worked on six headless women. Only two had lacked both thigh bones, and neither was young enough to be the girl in the pit.

From the years before I'd arrived in Montreal, seven female skeletons without crania remained unidentified. Two were young enough, but the descriptions of the remains were vague, and without skeletal inventories there was no way to know what bones had been recovered. Neither folder contained photographs.

I went back to the computer and checked the disposition of the earliest case. The bones had been held five years, rephotographed, then released for burial or destruction.

But the file contained no pictures. That was odd.

I asked for site of recovery. The bones had come in from Salluit, a village around twelve hundred miles north on the tip of the Ungava Peninsula.

I entered the more recent LML number and asked for site of recovery.

Ste-Julie. My pulse quickened. That was not twelve miles from St-Basile-le-Grand.

Back to the folder. Again, no photos.

I checked on the disposition and found nothing to indicate the case had been cleared.

Could I be that lucky?

When I began at the LML, I inherited a collection of skeletal cases. While I'd disposed of some, much of this material remained in my storeroom.

I unlocked the door and dragged a chair to the far end of the small room. Brown cardboard boxes lined both walls, arranged chronologically by LML number. I went to the section containing the oldest codes.

The case was on the top shelf. I climbed onto the chair, lifted it down, and carried it out to my worktable. Brus.h.i.+ng off dust, I raised the lid.

To the left lay a mound of vertebrae and ribs, to the right a stack of long bones. Though most joint surfaces had been gnawed by animals, it was clear that both femora were there.

d.a.m.n.

I took everything out and checked for inconsistencies, but nothing seemed amiss. Disappointed, I replaced the bones and reshelved the box. After was.h.i.+ng my hands I crossed to my office, planning to regroup over a tuna sandwich and carton of Jell-O pudding.

Swiveling my chair, I crossed my feet on the window ledge and peeled the cover from the pudding container. A colleague at UNC-Charlotte had a sticker on her door that read: Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first. I'd always considered that good advice.

Gazing at the river, I slurped b.u.t.terscotch, my thoughts adrift. Sometimes my mind works better that way, mingling a.s.sociations freely rather than herding them into the center of my consciousness.

The skull and leg bones we'd found in St-Basile were not the missing parts of a body recovered earlier. That was clear. At least not a body recovered in Quebec.

O.K.

Unless Claudel came up with a name, the next step would be CPIC.

Easy enough.

If that failed, we'd go to NCIC. There was nothing to suggest that the girl was local. She could have traveled north from the States.

Ally McBeal's therapist was right. I needed a theme song for times when I felt stressed.

Runnin' down the road tryin' to loosen my load Got a world of trouble on my mind . . . . . .

Maybe.

Slow down, you move too fast.

Got to make the morning last . . . . . .

As I reached for the sandwich an image of Sat.u.r.day night's grotesque offering flashed across my mind. Again my skin went cold and p.r.i.c.kly.

Forget it. It could be a pig's eye. Your picture was in the paper, and any moron could have stuck it on the car for laughs. If anyone is out there watching, it's some twisted nitwit without a life.

I am woman watch me- Definitely no.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood . . . . . .

Oh boy.

Game plan. Finish the reports on Gately and Martineau, finalize those on the Vaillancourt twins. Talk to Claudel. Based on his report, CPIC, then NCIC.

Life is under control. This is my job. There is no reason to feel stressed.

That thought had hardly materialized when the phone rang, destroying the calm I had worked so hard to achieve.

16.

A FEMALE VOICE SAID FEMALE VOICE SAID, ”I HAVE A CALL FROM HAVE A CALL FROM M MR. CREASE. HOLD, please.”

Before I could stop her he was on the line.

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