Page 3 of Cold, Cold Bones
I am a forensic anthropologist. I consult to coroners and medical examiners needing help with corpses unfit for standard autopsy—the decomposed, dismembered, burned, mutilated, mummified, and skeletal. I help recover those with the misfortune to die away from home or a hospital bed. I give names to the nameless. I document postmortem interval and body treatment. I consider manner of death, be it by suicide, homicide, accident, or natural causes.
Mine was not the job of any parent Katy encountered growing up. But she was good with my being different, and in her teens began asking questions. Some things I shared, others I didn’t.Manyothers.
In my experience the world divides into two camps: those fascinated by my profession and those repelled by it. Katy, never squeamish, has always been a member of Camp Fascination.
I glanced up. Katy’s eyes were looking past me, focused on a point elsewhere in the room. Elsewhere in time? I didn’t ask what she was thinking. Waited until she spoke again.
“What’s the sitrep withMonsieur le détective?”
“Sitrep?”
“Situation report.”
My daughter was asking about Lieutenant-détective Andrew Ryan, a former Sûreté du Québec homicide cop with whom I currently was living. In Montreal and Charlotte.C’est compliqué.
“Ryan?” I asked.
“No. Inspector Clouseau,” she said, rolling her very green eyes.
“We’re good.”
“Thatsounds convincing.”
“Really. Ryan was here at Christmas. You two just missed each other.”
“He’s retired, right? Working as a PI?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now?”
“On a case in Saint Martin.”
“Tough duty.”
“The guy blisters if he even looks at a beach. Canadian skin, you know.”
“He’s gone a lot?”
“He is.”
“What’s he privately investigating?” she asked, hooking air quotes.
“It has to do with a grounded sailboat and an insurance claim.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Many of his cases are.”
I took another bite of my sandwich, blotted red wine vinegar from the front of my tee. Stole a peek at Katy. She’d asked aboutmylove life. What the hell?
“So.” Casual as a Sunday stroll on a boardwalk. “Any romance in your life?”
Katy gave what some might call a guffaw. I’ve never been clear on how one sounds.
“Ro-mance? Did you really use the word‘ro-mance’? Like, do I have a suitor? A sweetheart? A beau?”
“People still say romance.”
