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The limb had been severed—I suspected by a powerful boat propeller—below the shoulder and above the elbow. The truncated humerus glowed white within the mottled grays of the surrounding tissue. Lacking both ends, it yielded little info on the age of the decedent. The bone quality was good, the muscle attachments robust, which suggested a young adult male. I made notes, and we moved on.
The segment of thigh was equally uninformative. No femoral joints, so no age markers. Ditto the lower leg. The propeller had left only the mid-shaft portions of the tibia and fibula.
The foot was more promising. The propeller had struck high enough and hard enough to jam part of the lower tip of the fibula into the flesh of the foot.
“Yes!” I said out loud.
Lisa looked at me, eyes questioning above her mask.
“See that triangular fragment?” I pointed.
Lisa nodded.
“See that squiggly white line running across it?” I pointed again.
“I do.”
“You know what epiphyses are, right?”
“Little caps that fuse onto bones at certain ages in kids.”
“That”—tapping the white line on the screen—“is the ankle end of the fibula caught in the act of wrapping things up. Which puts this guy’s age somewhere between sixteen and nineteen.”
“So young,” Lisa said sadly.
“Yes,” I agreed.
“How did he die?”
“If this is the Jacques Cartier Bridge victim, he was struck by lightning.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Lisa was right. I was seeing none of the typical signs of lightning trauma on the skin. But I had little to observe. And no organs.
“If I cut a bone sample, how soon could a histo tech have thin sections ready?”
She checked her watch. “With a little persuading, perhaps a bribe, I’m sure Marcel could produce some by this afternoon?”
“Perfect.” If anyone could sweet-talk my case to the front of the line, it was Lisa. Maybe it was her aquamarine eyes and sunny smile. Everyone loved Lisa, especially the male cops and techs. Maybe that was her 42 double D’s working.
I used a scalpel to strip putrefying tissue from the uppermost portion of the thigh, being careful to introduce no new nicks or scratches. Then Lisa revved up a Stryker saw and cut a three-inch plug from the newly exposed femur. After marking a plastic vial, I sealed the specimen inside and handed it to her.
“I can manage here,” I said. “Let me know as soon as the slides are ready.”
Giving a snappy salute, Lisa hurried upstairs to the histology lab.
Once I’d collected samples for DNA testing, I focused on phase three of my plan: observation of the body parts constituting LML 37911-24. Halfway through my exam, the anteroom desk phone rang. Suspecting who the caller was, I braced myself, stripped off a glove, lowered my mask, and answered.
“Bonjour. Dr. Brennan.”
Without greeting or preamble, Claudel launched in.
“As you must know, I will be reviewing the incident that occurred on the Jacques Cartier Bridge last Saturday night. Since the death was accidental, the only outstanding question is the man’s ID.”
“Monsieur Claudel, I haven’t yet determ—”
“I will be in your office at noon.” Not a request, a directive. Typical Claudel.
