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“I just received a call from thebureau du coroner. A cyclist biking the Chemin du Tour de L’Île spotted human remains washed ashore by a ferry ramp.”
“On Île Sainte-Hélène?” I named a recreational island in the river, not far from Bickerdike Basin.
“Oui.Given the site’s proximity to the Jacques Cartier Bridge, the remains are suspected to be those of Saturday’s lightning victim.”
“Are they complete?”
“The death investigator spoke of a partial body.”
I knew what was coming.
“The remains will arrive at the morgue in the next few hours. I am hoping you can view them with me first thing tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I said, surprised he’d perform an autopsy on a Saturday. “And I may have something that will help put a name on the victim.” I told him about the tattoo and its link to the Turks and Caicos Islands.
“Bon.Have you contacted the authorities down there?”
“Not yet.”
“Perhaps you could handle that? I must meet with the next of kin in a house fire death shortly.”
“I was thinking—”
“Hopefully we will be able to lift prints tomorrow. But in the meantime, the TCI police could begin searching their missing person files.”
“Of course.”
“Until tomorrow.Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir.”
After we disconnected, I logged back into Google and found a nonemergency number for the Royal Turks and Caicos Islands Police Force. Activating the speakerphone function, I punched in the digits.
My call was answered after two rings.
“Police. How may I help you?” The voice was female. Melodic and businesslike at the same time.
I explained who I was and my reason for calling.
“Hold please.”
I held, mercifully subjected to no tinny instrumentals.
Minutes passed. I drummed my fingers on the blotter. Straightened a stack of reports. Picked up and knuckle-wove a pen.
More minutes passed.
I wondered what time zone I was calling. What the TCI station looked like. What qualified the island force as “royal.”
Across the way, the last of the pathologists locked his office and strode up the corridor, briefcase in hand. Closed doors told me the others had already left.
I glanced at the wall clock. Five-forty. Save for me, the floor was empty and filled with that hush that makes large buildings feel so abandoned after hours.
“Detective Musgrove.” The voice snapped me out of my reverie.
“Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said. “I’m calling from the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal.”
“So I’ve been told.” This voice was also female. And so British itmight have been wearing wellies. “I understand one of our citizens has gotten himself killed in your town.”
