Free Death Du Jour by Kathy Reichs Page A

Jane. As in Baby Jane. A septuagenarian.”
    Bertrand looked at him.
    “In her seventies.”
    “An old lady?”
    “With a bullet in her brain.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit.”
    “Someone shot her and torched the place?”
    “Or Granny pulled the trigger after having lit the barbecue. But, then, where’s the weapon?”
    When they’d gone I checked my consult requests. Ajar of ashes had arrived in Quebec City, the cremains of an elderly man who died in Jamaica. The family was accusing the crematory of fraud, and had brought the ashes to the coroner’s office. He wanted to know what I thought.
    A skull was found in a ravine outside the Côte des Neiges Cemetery. It was dry and bleached, and had probably come from an old grave. The coroner needed confirmation.
    Pelletiér wanted me to look at the baby for evidence of starvation. That would require microscopy. Thin sections of bone would have to be ground down, stained, and placed on slides so I could examine the cells under magnification. While high turnover of bone is typical of infants, I’d look for signs of unusual porosity and abnormal remodeling in the microanatomy.
    Samples had been sent to the histology lab. I’d also study the X-rays and the skeleton, but that was still soaking to remove the putrefied flesh. A baby’s bones are too fragile to risk boiling.
    So. Nothing urgent. I could open Élisabeth Nicolet’s coffin.
    After a refrigerated sandwich and a yogurt in the cafeteria, I rode down to the morgue, asked to have the remains brought to room three, then went to change.
    The coffin was smaller than I remembered, measuring less than three feet in length. The left side had rotted, allowing the top to collapse inward. I brushed off loose soil and took photos.
    “Need a crowbar?” Lisa stood in the doorway.
    Since this was not an LML case, I was to work alone, but I was getting a lot of offers. Apparently I was not the only one fascinated by Élisabeth.
    “Please.”
    It took less than a minute to remove the cover. The wood was soft and crumbly, and the nails gave easily. I scooped dirt from the interior to reveal a lead liner containing another wood coffin.
    “Why are they so little?” asked Lisa.
    “This isn’t the original casket. Élisabeth Nicolet was exhumed and reburied around the turn of the century, so they just needed enough space for her bones.”
    “Think it’s her?”
    I drilled a look at her.
    “Let me know if you need anything.”
    I continued scooping dirt until I had cleared the lid of the inner casket. It bore no plaque, but was more ornate than the outer, with an elaborately carved border paralleling the hexagonal outside edge. Like the exterior coffin, the one inside had collapsed and filled with dirt.
    Lisa returned in twenty minutes.
    “I’m free for a while if you need X-rays.”
    “Can’t do it because of the lead liner,” I said. “But I’m ready to open the inner casket.”
    “No problem.”
    Again the wood was soft and the nails slipped right out.
    More dirt. I’d removed only two handfuls when I spotted the skull. Yes! Someone was home!
    Slowly, the skeleton emerged. The bones were not in anatomical order, but lay parallel to one another, as though tightly bound when placed into the coffin. The arrangement reminded me of archaeological sites I’d excavated early in my career. Before Columbus, some aboriginal groups exposed their dead on scaffolds until the bones were clean, then bundled them for burial. Élisabeth had been packed like this.
    I’d loved archaeology. Still did. I regretted doing solittle of it, but over the past decade my career had taken a different path. Teaching and forensic casework now occupied all my time. Élisabeth Nicolet was allowing me a brief return to my roots, and I was enjoying the hell out of it.
    I removed and arranged the bones, just as I had the day before. They were dry and fragile, but this person was in much better shape than yesterday’s lady from St-Jovite.
    My skeletal