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I’d completely forgotten.
FRIDAY, JULY5
The temperature was well past eighty when I left home the next morning. In the underground garage, the air felt like a damp sweater wrapping my skin. Quebec would be enjoying another hot sticky one.
Ryan’s Jeep was already gone. I’d been vaguely aware of him moving around the bedroom at dawn.
L’heure de pointe. Rush hour. Well, not exactly. Traffic was brutal and no one was going anywhere fast. The constant braking and accelerating was beginning to rattle my dental work.
Nibbling my way east through Centreville, bored and annoyed, I considered the faces behind the windows in the cars around me. A workman in a painters cap. A woman wearing pink Styrofoam curlers. A kid with Airpods poking from his ears. Their expressions were variations on the same theme: irritation.
For distraction, I turned on the radio. Garou was crooning a seventies tune about being alone.Seul.
Not now, Pierre. I killed the music and listened to the white monotone of the AC blowers. Drummed the wheel. Formulated a plan of attack.
First, I’d order X-rays of the remains already logged in at the morgue. Though I had only a foot and some portions of an arm and a leg, I wanted no surprises when I went digging into the flesh. No surgical plates or screws, needles, wires, nails, barbed wire, or shards of glass. I also wanted a peek at the bones to get a jump start on establishing that the remains all came from one person.
Next, I’d collect tissue samples for possible genetic sequencing. Hopefully, the DNA section would be able to amplify enough to allow a cop to run a profile through the NDDB, the National DNA Data Base. The NDDB is the Canadian equivalent of the NDIS in the US, the National DNA Index System. Both the NDDB and the NDIS usean FBI software program called CODIS, the Combined DNA Index System, for comparing profiles.
Maybe we’d get lucky and score a hit close to home. If not, the cops could shoot the profile south of the border. Or wherever seemed appropriate.
Then, I’d examine every millimeter of flesh and bone grossly and microscopically. I’d attempt to construct a bio-profile, including age, sex, ancestry, and height. I’d consider cause of death, being particularly alert to evidence of lightning trauma. Given that I’d have so little to eyeball and measure, I suspected that part of my analysis wouldn’t take long.
Finally, satisfied that the remains could provide no further detail while fleshed, I’d request that a tech begin the maceration process.
That’s how I thought my day would go.
I was wrong.
The only thing that went well was parking. Miraculously, I scored a spot just a block from Wilfred-Derome. An easy downhill walk on rue Parthenais. Still, by the time I reached the building, my shirt was damp and pasted to my back.
I rode an elevator packed with sweaty cops, clerical staff, technicians, and scientists, all complaining about the heat.La vague de chaleur. La canicule.
Funny. Les Québécois have many slang expressions for extreme cold weather, but none for hot. Perhaps that says something about the fleeting nature of summer.
Exiting on twelve, I stowed my purse, then logged into my computer. The Bickerdike remains had been assigned the case number LML 37911-24.
After calling downstairs to have LML 37911-24 transferred from a cooler to an autopsy room, I skimmed the scant data already in the file: the date and location at which the remains were collected; thetime of their arrival at the morgue; a brief description of what was logged in.
Pierre LaManche was listed aspathologiste, I wasanthropolgue judiciaire.
The fields for the decedent’s name, address, and date of birth remained blank.
The police agency handling the case was the SPVM. The city police.
When I came to the line labeledNom enquêteurmy heart sank.
The detective in charge was Luc Claudel.
Claudel and I had collaborated on many investigations over the years. Though a good detective, the man had the personality of an un-lanced boil, and was unabashedly misogynistic. In other words, my time with Claudel had never been pleasant.
I wondered briefly why a homicide detective was assigned to a lightning death. Figured it was probably due to cutbacks in personnel at the SPVM.
After collecting my old-school clipboard and case forms, I walked the length of the corridor to an elevator whose buttons offered only three choices: Coroner. LSJML. Morgue.
In the basement, I changed into scrubs, then proceeded tosalle quatre, an autopsy room outfitted with special ventilation. The stinky room. The room in which I perform many of my examinations.
Lisa, one of the techs, met me at the door and offered to assist. Delighted, I accepted. Lisa was the best of the lot. We entered together.
