Free Deadly Decisions by Kathy Reichs

printout showed a grid. The horizontal lines indicated depth, based on our calibration with the control pit, with the ground surface at the top. The vertical lines were dotted, and corresponded to the signals sent by Claudel as each grid stake was crossed.
    The pattern just below the ground surface was a wavy but generally flat line. But superimposed over gridline 11 North was a series of bell-shaped curves, one inside the next, like ribs on a skeleton. The profile indicated a disturbance at the intersection of north-south line 11 and east-west line 4. It lay at a depth of approximately five feet.
    I switched to profiles of the area taken on the east-west sweeps. Comparing perpendicular transects allowed me to estimate the size and shape of the disturbance. What I saw made my heart pick up a beat.
    The anomaly was roughly six feet long and three feet wide. Grave size.
    At grave depth.
    “This will work?” I hadn’t heard Claudel approach.
    “We’re cookin’.”
    “Now?”
    “Yep.”
    I finished my Diet Coke and climbed into the Jeep. The van slogged along behind as Quickwater drove toward the 11 North 4 East coordinates. We’d decided that I would dig that location while Claudel and Quickwater investigated the other two disturbances. After I laid a simple grid around each site, they would remove the earth in thin slices, screening every shovelful.
    I’d instructed the Carcajou investigators on how to watch for differences in soil color and texture. If they spotted any changes they would holler. Each of us would be aided by personnel from the Section d’Identité Judiciaire, or SIJ, and section photographers would shoot and video the entire operation.
    And that’s what we did.
    Claudel supervised as his team worked the disturbance at 13 North 5 East, approximately ten feet from mine. Now and then I’d glance over to see him standing above his crew, gesturing instructions or asking about something in the dirt. He’d yet to remove his sports jacket.
    After thirty minutes a shovel chinked loudly in Claudel’s pit. My head flew up and my stomach tightened. A blade had struck something hard and unyielding.
    As Claudel watched, the technicians and I revealed the contour. The object was rusted and caked with mud, but the shape was unmistakable. Claudel’s SIJ screener made the call.
    “Tabernac! C’est un Weber.”
    “Eh, Monsieur Claudel, you planning a barbecue? Throw on burgers, bring out the lawn chairs, maybe invite girls?”
    “Jean-Guy, tell Luc there’s an easier way. They’ve got these things at the Wal-Mart.”
    “Yes.” Claudel never cracked a smile. “You are so hilarious we may need a body bag because I’m going to die laughing. Now keep digging. We still have to haul this thing out and make sure there aren’t any surprises underneath.”
    Claudel left the grill to his teammates and walked back to 11 North 4 East with me. I resumed troweling at the north end while Claudel stood over my SIJ helper in the south. By two we were down approximately three feet and I’d spotted nothing in the pit or screen to indicate I was nearing a burial.
    Then I saw the boot.
    It was lying sideways, the heel projecting slightly upward. I used my trowel to clear dirt, widening the area around it. My helper watched briefly, then continued scraping at the far end of the pit. Claudel observed without comment.
    Within minutes I’d found the mate. Handful by tedious handful I peeled away dirt until the pair was fully exposed. The leather was wet and badly discolored, the eyelets bent and rusted, but both boots were reasonably intact.
    When the footwear was fully exposed I made notes as to level and position, and the photographer captured my find on film. As I pried each boot loose and laid it on a plastic sheet it was obvious that neither contained leg or foot bones.
    Not a good sign.
    The sky was delft blue, the sun strong. Now and then a breeze teased the branches overhead, tapping them gently against one another. To