Page 40 of The Bone Code
Continuing along the corridor, I passed pathology, histology, and anthropology/odontology labs on my left, pathologists’ offices on my right. LaManche. Pelletier. Morin. Santangelo. Ayers. Mine was the last in the row.
More security. Old-school lock and key.
I’d been away two weeks. My office looked like I’d been gone since the wall went down in Berlin.
Workers, probably floor polishers, had displaced every freestanding item onto my desk. The wastebasket, my chair, the hall tree with clean lab coats still on hangers. My CSU kit and boots had been jammed onto the windowsill, along with a potted barrel cactus, DOA. But the tile at my feet shone brightly.
After muscling the furnishings back into place, I settled into my squeaky old chair.
The blotter was mounded with enough paper to have cost several trees their lives. I tossed the flyers and ads, saved the following: the latest copy ofVoir Dire, the LSJML gossip sheet; a medical dossier from a hospital in Saint-Jérôme; a packet of photos from a Section d’Identité Judiciaire photographer; a letter from an attorney in Quebec City; twodemande d’expertise en anthropologieforms.
Antediluvian, granted, but I keep all hard copy from my cases. In addition to the photos and final reports, which go into the system, I retain my handwritten notes and diagrams and the forms I fill out while doing an analysis.
Ignoring the survivors of my triage, I crossed to a disturbingly hefty file cabinet, which tends to lurch forward when the top two drawers are opened simultaneously, and dug out the folders for LSJML-41207 and LSJML-41208. Fifteen years old meant the bottom drawer—safe turf vis-à-vis the gravity thing.
Returning to my desk, I opened the first folder. Skimmed. Moved on to the second.
Armed with the necessary information, I began my quest. First by computer, then at a number of locations around the building.
An hour later, I was back, empty-handed. Discouraged and frustrated, I shifted from old business to new and skimmed the first request for an anthropology consult on remains recently arrived at the LSJML.
Pathologist: M. Morin. Investigating officer: L. Claudel, Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal. SPVM. Formerly known as the Service de Police de la Communauté Urbaine de Montréal, or SPCUM, the SPVM are the city boys. Same force, new handle.Nom: Inconnu. Name: Unknown. Skipping over the LSJML, morgue, and police incident numbers, I went straight to the summary of known facts.
A homeowner had unearthed bones while digging in his basement in Saint-Leonard. Could I determine if the remains were human? If human, the number of persons? Time since death? If recent, could I ascertain age, sex, race, and height and describe individuating characteristics for each individual? Could I establish cause of death?
Typical FA stuff.
The second form listed Pierre LaManche as the pathologist. I read that summary. The situation involved an auto accident and a missing leg bone. I read it again, baffled.
Unlike Morin’s, LaManche’s case fell to the SQ. The provincial cops.
One town, two agencies? Sounds complicated. It’s not. And it is.
Montreal is an island, its southern tip wrapped by the Fleuve Saint-Laurent, its northern side by the Rivière des Prairies. Only fifty kilometers long, the tiny hunk of land varies from five to thirteen kilometers in width, narrowing at its extremities and thickening at its center. Its dominant feature is Mont Royal, an igneous intrusion rising a proud 231 meters above sea level.Les Montréalaiscall this modest bumpla montagne. The mountain.
For policing purposes, Montreal is parceled out according tothese particulars of geology. On the island: SPVM. Off the island: SQ. Assuming there’s no local PD. Though rivalries exist, in generalça marche. It works.
Dr. Pierre LaManche, the director of the LSJML’s medico-legal section, favors crepe soles and empty pockets and moves so quietly he can appear without a hint of warning.
He did so at that moment.
“What a fortunate turn of events.” LaManche’s French is Parisian and precise.
I looked up.
Le directeurwas standing in my doorway, file folders pressed to his chest. A lot of them. Which was typical for a Monday morning. As in any jurisdiction,les Québécoisfind limitless ways to off themselves or others on weekends. Following a six-pack or a liter of bourbon, a half gainer into a quarry or a DIY booby trap seems like a brilliant idea.
“I heard a rumor that you had rejoined us early.”
“Bonjour. Please come in.” Hiding my surprise. It wasn’t often the boss visited my humble little space.
LaManche is a big man in a Great-Uncle-Joe-was-a-linebacker sort of way. At well past sixty, his posture is beginning to suggest he should be ringing bells at Notre Dame. He looked around, hesitant.
“Sorry.” Circling my desk, I gathered the lab coats, currently heaped in my sole visitor’s chair, and returned them to the hall tree.
Nodding, LaManche entered and reconfigured himself from a stooped upright to a stooped seated position, brows tightly knit. Clearly, something was on his mind. I waited for him to begin.
“You knowmaîtreLauzon, of course.”
