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I started to reply. Heard only dead air.
Easy, Brennan.The man is a boor.
After two hours’ work, my notes were sparse, my conclusions sparser.
I could state that all the body parts came from the same individual. That the individual was a male in his late teens with a tattoo on his upper right arm. That the degree of decomposition was consistent with immersion in the river for a period of five days. That the trauma was consistent with dismemberment by a powerful propeller. That cause and manner of death were undetermined.
Claudel would be thrilled.
At 11:40, I wheeled the remains to the cooler and headed to the locker room.
Claudel was true to his word. Approaching my office, I could see the profile of his perfectly razor-cut hair through the open door. I hadn’t yet arrived and already he was checking his Rolex.
Claudel looked my way when I entered but said nothing.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel. Comment ça va?”
“Bonjour.”
I settled in my chair, placed my file on the blotter, folded my hands, and smiled across the desk.
Claudel studied me coolly. His face brought to mind a parrot, the features angling from his ears toward the center to culminate in a beak-like nose. Along the midline, his chin, mouth, and the tip of the beak cascaded downward in a stack ofVs. When he smiled, which was rare, theVof his mouth widened and his lips drew in, rather than back.
He was not smiling now.
Fine. Through much practice, I’d learned to resist the man’s charm.
Claudel drew a small notebook from his crisply ironed linen shirt and clicked a Mont Blanc ballpoint into readiness.
I briefed him on what I’d learned about LML 37911-24.
“That’s all you can tell me?”
“Once the foot bones are cleaned, I may be able to provide a height estimate.”
“Racial background?”
“No can do. I have no head and the skin is bleached due to exposure.” I wasn’t about to launch into an explanation of race as a social construct.
“Manner of death was accidental?” Claudel referred to one of five categories recognized by coroners and medical examiners: suicide, homicide, accident, natural, or undetermined.
“Undetermined,” I said.
Claudel sighed. He was being exceedingly patient with me.
“Surely there must be something to indicate that this man was struck by lightning.”
“If thisisthe man from the bridge, and so far I have no proof of that, I may find some microscopic evidence in the bone.”
“And when might that be?”
“By end of day.”
Claudel returned the notebook and Mont Blanc to his pocket. “I am a homicide detective. This should not be my problem.”
Not asking why it was, I pulled a page from my file and slid it across the blotter, an image I’d printed before coming upstairs. The pic showed the inked spider/octopus encircling a number five.
“Perhaps you can run the tattoo?”
