Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

Then, “How much bone is required?”

“For conventional decay counting, two hundred fifty grams. For accelerator mass spectrometry, just a gram or even less.”

“AMS testing costs more?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

I told him.

LaManche removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.

“Is there no intermediate step to determine that such an expenditure is justified?”

“There’s one thing I could try. The technique isn’t terribly reliable, but it’s simple and might show if death occurred more or less than a hundred years ago.”

LaManche started to speak.

“And free,” I added. “I can do it myself. But again, it will yield only a very rough indication of whether the bones are more or less than a century old.”

“Please.” LaManche repositioned his glasses and rose. “In the meantime I will discuss your proposal with Dr. Authier.”

Jean-François Authier, the chief coroner, considered all requests for exceptional expenditures. Few were granted.

Grabbing a lab coat from my office, I headed to the morgue. Morin and Ayers were already cutting Y incisions in room two. I requested a UV light, and waited while the tech got it. Then I hurried to the appropriate bay and pulled the left femora from skeletons 38426, 38427, and 38428.

In autopsy room four, I wrote the respective case numbers on the proximal and distal ends of the leg bones, and placed them on the autopsy table. Each made a soft thunk in the stillness."

"After masking, I plugged in and revved a Stryker saw. White powder coned on the stainless steel as I bisected each femoral shaft. A hot, acrid odor filled the air.

I wondered again about the young women whose bones I was cutting. Had they died surrounded by family? Probably not. Alone and frightened? More likely. Hopeful of rescue? Desperate? Angry? Relieved? All possible. They never get to say.

When I’d finished sawing, I gathered the femoral segments and the UV light, and carried them to a storage closet at the end of the hall.

Come on. Let this work.

Entering the closet, I located an outlet and plugged in the UV. Then I set the femoral halves on a shelf with their freshly sawn surfaces facing outward.

When I closed the door, it was pitch-black.

Barely breathing, I pointed the UV and thumbed the switch.

8

“YES!” MY FREE HAND PUMPED THE AIR.

Limb bones of up to a century in age may fluoresce when viewed under UV light. This fluorescence diminishes over time, the dead zone progressing outward from the marrow cavity and inward from the external surface. A century postmortem, the yellow-green glow is absent altogether.

These babies were smoking like neon doughnuts.

OK, Claudel. That’s step one.

Returning the femora to their respective body bags, I went in search of my boss.

LaManche was slicing a brain in the histo lab. He looked up when I entered, knife in one hand, plastic apron tied behind his neck and waist. I explained what I’d done.

“And?”

“The cut surfaces lit up like novas.”

“Indicating?”

“The presence of organic constituents.”

LaManche laid his knife on the corkboard. “So these are not native burials.”

“These girls died after 1900.”

“Definitely?”

“Probably.” Less vehement.

“The building was constructed around the turn of the century.”

I did not reply.

“Do you recall the remains found near le Cathédral Marie-Reine-du-Monde?”

LaManche was referring to a time he’d sent me downtown to investigate “bodies” discovered by a water main crew. I’d arrived to find backhoes, dump trucks, and an enormous hole in boulevard René-Lévesque. Skull, rib, and long-bone fragments lined the pavement and lay at the bottom of the freshly dug trench. Mingled with the human bits I could see wood slivers and corroded nails.

Easy one. Coffin burials.

Archaeologists later confirmed my opinion. Until a cholera epidemic forced its closure in the mid-eighteenth century, a cemetery had occupied the land where the cathedral now oversees rush hour on René-Lévesque. The repair crew had stumbled on a few souls overlooked during the graveyard’s relocation.

“You think the bloody building was constructed over unmarked graves?” I asked. “I found no evidence of coffins.”

French Canadians are virtuosos of the shrug, using subtle nuances of hands, eyes, shoulders, and lips to convey countless meanings. I agree. I disagree. I don’t care. What can I do? Who knows? You are a fool. Do as you like.

LaManche raised one shoulder and both brows. A “maybe, maybe not” shrug.

“Have you discussed radiocarbon dating with Authier?” I asked.

“Dr. Authier is hosting visitors from the Moroccan Institute of Legal Medicine. I left a message asking that he call me.”

“The testing will take time.” I didn’t mask my agitation.

“Temperance.” LaManche was the only person on the planet to address me thus.