Page 25 of The Bone Code
“It truly sucked. Besides those committed by these asshole bikers, murders weren’t that common in Montreal. Our investigation should have been given high priority. But it wasn’t. And we never ID’d our vics, a woman and a child. Which meant we could never narrow our focus.”
“So the case went cold.”
“As an Arctic stream.”
Birdie rolled to his back. I started stroking his belly. He began purring like mad.
A few moments passed.
“What happened with the guy in the burning car?” Anne asked.
“I don’t think the investigation went anywhere. After I examined the remains, I gave my report to the pathologist and to some detective. Ryan didn’t catch that case. I was totally focused on the container vics, so I made no effort to follow up.”
“If someone was charged, wouldn’t you have heard? Or gotten a subpoena or something?”
“Possibly.” I made a mental note to ask Ryan.
Anne reached out to pet the cat. He didn’t recoil, but he didn’t exactly melt to her touch.
“So.” Anne picked up the thread. “You had no dentals and no prints on your container corpses. And you were unable to get DNA.”
“We tried but failed to extract enough for sequencing. The bones were pretty degraded.”
Anne was quiet for a very long time.
Then she made a startling suggestion.
7
Thursday, October 7–Friday, October 8
Up in my room, I opened the sliding glass door leading onto the balcony. The tide was out, and far across the beach, the ocean drummed its sibilant beat. The smell of salt air, seaweed, and wet sand, normally soothing, conjured images of a barrel and algae-coated bones.
And of something else.
A ring set with an emerald too garishly large to be real. Worthless. Except to a child who saw beauty in the gaudy stone and the peeling silver paint.
Though I’ll never know for sure, I picture the little girl, desperate, slipping her treasure into the only hiding place available to her. On her knees, a gun barrel pressed to her head.
When I found the plastic bauble wedged in what was once the tiny esophagus, my heart stopped, and a burning desire consumed me.I will avenge you, I’d whispered to the dead child.I will bring you down, I’d whispered to her killer.
That awful moment lies perpetually curled in some dark corner of my mind. Over the years, I’ve learned to keep the memory in its lair. But, when goaded, the image slinks free, sharp and clear as a high-def print.
As does my obsession with motive. Unlike with other crimes, the reason for murder is often unclear. Jealousy? Passion? Revenge? Financial gain?
But a woman and a child? Had the killer’s victims witnessed something that threatened him? Refused a demand? For money? For information? Did the killer promise to shoot the child if the woman didn’t comply? Did the child die first, the woman begging for mercy? Did the woman die first, the child watching in terror?
Stop!
Forcing my head clear, I dropped onto the bed and propped myself up with pillows. After calculating the hour in the Northwest Territories, I phoned Ryan. He answered right away.
“Bonjour, ma chère.”
“Hey.”
“I called several times, but you didn’t pick up.” A note of annoyance?
“Sorry. I spent the day in a morgue.”
