Page 76 of The Bone Code
I gazed out the window at the street below. A light snow was falling. People were still streaming in both directions along rue Sherbrooke. A van was pulling from the curb on rue Crescent beside the Musée des Beaux-Arts. A car was waiting, eager to claim the spot.
A Porsche Panamera. Sleek and low to the ground.
Sudden flashback to avenue Laurier.
All my senses jolted awake.
Body tense, I watched the Porsche lurch back and forth, the driver clearly struggling with the steep downhill incline. After six or seven passes, the ragged maneuvering stopped. A door opened, and a woman got out. She wore a brown overcoat that hung below the tops of her boots, a plaid muffler, and a red tuque rimmed by curly white hair.
I settled back in my chair, embarrassed by the melodrama that had taken hold of my brain.
On to plan B.
Scrolling through my contacts, I thumbed in another number. Far off in Virginia, a receptionist asked my name, then connected me to Lizzie Griesser.
“You’re pissed that I haven’t sent your sketches.” Lizzie blew out a breath. “My bad. But we’ve been—”
“That’s not why I’m calling.” Though there was some truth to what she said.
Lizzie waited.
“Does your lab do SNP genotyping?”
“Yes.”
“Forensic genealogy?”
“Oh, my God. Lately, we’re doing a shit ton. So much that we’ve contracted with a forensic genealogist. That’s part of the reason—”
“If I have the Charleston coroner provide additional samples—”
“I never received samples from Charleston.”
“Seriously?”
“All I got were the ones from your Montreal vics.”
Herrin hadn’t followed through on my request. Thatdidpiss me off.
“If I have samples sent, can you do SNP genotyping on the two kids found in the container down there?”
“How degraded is the bone?”
“The state lab was able to sequence STR.”
“Doesn’t mean diddly-squat. But I can try.”
“Thanks.”
“And Iwillget those phenotype sketches to you.”
“Right on.”
To his dismay, Ryan spent Halloween in his exquisite room, 1807. I brought him a trick-or-treat bag filled with his faves, Hershey’s, Twix, and Kit Kat bars. Actually, my faves. Ryan thanked me, face looking like a Merriam-Webster illustration beside the definition ofcranky.
Though Ryan argued, neither his physician nor the surgeon would budge. Concussion. Burr hole. The patient was staying put. I sided with the docs.
First thing Monday, I phoned the office of the Charleston County coroner. Got voice mail. Left a message.
