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The victim’s genitalia declared that he was clearly male. His body bore no other scars or tattoos. His teeth suggested a young adult age range. And a disregard for dental hygiene or regular check-ups. An odontology work-up would not prove useful. No dental records would exist.
The man’s nose, lips, and eyelids had disappeared into the bellies of scavenging sea creatures. What remained of his one orbit was so distorted that eye color was anyone’s guess. His scalp retained a few strands of medium-length dark hair. His left cheek and jaw bore a scraggly stubble aspiring to status as a mustache and beard.
Before sending the man for X-rays, LaManche inspected the digits on his left hand.
“The fingertips are quite shrunken and wrinkled, but I think with some rejuvenation we can lift partials,” he said to Lisa. “Let’s try xylene.”
Lisa disappeared to gather the necessary materials. While awaiting her return, I informed LaManche of Detective Musgrove’s plan to travel to Montreal.
“That really isn’t necessary,” he said.
“Exactly what I told her. She insisted.”
The mask hid LaManche’s mouth. But the creases cornering his eyes crimped ever so slightly. “I’m sure Detective Claudel will enjoy the comradery afforded by the visit of a fellow officer from afar.”
“That’s an excellent thought,” I said.
LaManche had no sooner made his excellent observation than the phone in the anteroom sounded.
“I’ll get it,” I said, again suspecting who the caller would be.
Again, I was right.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel.”
“Bonjour. Have you news for me?”
“Dr. LaManche and I are performing the autopsy now. It’s early, but—”
“Have you made progress toward a positive ID?”
“We’re hoping—”
“Ms. Brennan. An accidental death should not be requiring so much of my time. You have the man’s profile and his country of origin.”
Claudel had cut me off one time too many. It was petty, but I couldn’t resist.
“Dr. LaManche and I are about to lift prints. Fortunate that you’re working the weekend. We feel it would be best if you joined us here.”
Not true. But I knew Claudel’s reputation for avoiding autopsies. I wanted to discomfort the jerk. To see him sweat.
“I doubt—”
“We’re in room four.”
I disconnected and hurried to rejoin LaManche.
Shrinkage on the bulb portion of the fingers is common with immersion and decomposition. Sometimes it can be corrected by injecting a mixture of glycerin and gelatin between the nail and the skin. LaManche, Lisa, and I agreed. This man’s digits were too far gone for that.
As we watched, Lisa applied a xylene solution to each fingertip. Repeated the process again and again. While we waited, LaManche began his preliminary exam, methodically inspecting the body, starting at the head and moving toward the feet.
“I think they’re ready now,” Lisa said, meaning the skin was sufficiently pliable.
LaManche nodded but didn’t respond. He was staring at the man’s chest. I noted tension in his neck and shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
I was about to ask what he’d spotted but was distracted by a noise behind me. I turned.
Claudel stood framed in the open doorway, looking like a man trapped in a cage with venomous snakes. He didn’t enter the room, but stood frozen, one hand on the knob. Present just enough to say that he’d been there.
