Grave Secrets

He tapped again. I ignored him.

He tapped a third time, harder. When I looked up, his badge was pressed to the glass.

Rolling my eyes, I got up and let him in.

“Feeling better?”

“I feel fine.”

Ryan’s gaze fell to the table.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to him?”

The thing was bizarre, measuring approximately six inches in diameter, with long dark hair and shriveled brown skin. The features looked like a bat imitating a human face. Pins projected from the lips, and frayed cording peeked from a hole in the tongue.

I positioned a magnifying glass so Ryan could see, moved it over the nose, cheeks, and jaws.

“What do you notice?”

“Tiny cuts.”

“The skin was peeled back for removal of the muscles. The cheeks are probably stuffed with some sort of fabric.”

I rotated the head.

“The base was damaged to extract the brain.”

“So what the hell is it?”

“A Peruvian trophy skull.”

Ryan looked at me like I’d just told him it was an alien star child.

“Most were made along the south coast between the first and sixth centuries A.D.”

“A shrunken head?”

“Yes, Ryan. A shrunken head.”

“How did it get from Peru to Canada?”

“Collectors love these things.”

“Are they legal?”

“They’ve been illegal in the States since ninety-seven. I’m not sure about Canada.”

“Have you ever seen one before?”

“I’ve looked at several fakes. Never a real one.”

“This is genuine?”

“It looks authentic to me. And the dental chipping suggests the little guy’s been kicking around awhile.”

I laid the trophy skull on the table.

“Authentication will be up to an archaeologist. What is it you want?”

Ryan continued to study the head.

“Your thoughts on the torso.”

He reached out and touched the hair, poked the cheek.

“Any septuagenarians missing upriver?”

“Oh, yeah?”

He looked up, wiped his hand on his jeans.

“I’ve only done a preliminary, but this guy’s got a lot of miles on him.”

“Probably not Clément?”

“Probably not.”

I picked up my calipers, but Ryan made no move to leave.

“Is there something else?”

“Galiano asked me to have a little heart-to-heart with naughty Chantale. Save him a trip. He suggested you might like to tag along.”

Tag along? A flicker of red.

Ryan pointed to the skull.

“Why the hole in the forehead?”

“Rope.”

“I hate it when that happens to me.”

I gave him the “spare me” face.

“The Specters are out of the picture for your septic tank case. Actually, with the Gutiérrez collar, it looks like the whole serial killer theory is sucking wind. But Galiano thought it couldn’t hurt to talk to the little princess.”

“Galiano phoned again?” Cool.

“This morning.”

“Has Gutiérrez confessed?”

“Not yet, but Galiano’s convinced he’ll give it up.”

“I’m glad he’s keeping you informed.”

“I’m here, he’s there. I’m doing the interrogation as a professional courtesy.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Yeah.”

“God bless gonads.”

“You’re a scientist, Brennan. You look at bones. I’m a cop. I question people.”

As I started to speak, Ryan’s beeper sounded. He slipped it off his waistband and checked the readout.

“Gotta go. Look, you don’t have to go on the Chantale visit. Galiano thought you’d like to be included.”

“When is this little outing?”

“I should be back from Drummondville by six.”

I shrugged. “Normally that’s when I watch the Shopping Channel.”

“Are you PMS, Brennan?”

“What?”

He feigned a self-defense maneuver with his hands.

“I’ll pick you up around five forty-five.”

“My heart’s thumping.”

“And Brennan.” Ryan jerked a thumb at the table. “Take a cue from our Peruvian friend. Quit while you’re a head.”

I spent the rest of the day with our Peruvian friend. X rays verified that the skull was human, not dog or bird, the species typically used by creators of fakes. I took photographs, wrote my report, then contacted the chair of the Anthropology Department at McGill University. He promised to track down the proper expert.

At two, Robert Gagné stopped by my office to say that the profiles would be ready shortly. I was as shocked at his pace with the cat hair as I’d been with Susanne’s with the cranial cast. Cops waited weeks for DNA results.

Gagné’s response was identical to Susanne’s. The project was out of the ordinary. It intrigued him. He’d run with it.

By three, I was on my way to St-Hubert.

By four-thirty, I was heading home, a replica of the Paraíso skull in a box on the seat beside me. The facial approximation was now up to me.

Traffic was heavy, and I moved ahead in starts and stops, alternately palming the gearshift and drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Gradually the starts succumbed to the stops. On the Victoria Bridge, they gave out altogether, and I sat fixed in place, surrounded by a four-lane automotive showroom.

I’d been there ten minutes when my cell phone sounded. I reached for it, happy for the diversion.

It was Katy.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Where are you?”

“Charlotte. Classes are done for the year.”

“Isn’t this a late wrap-up?”

“I had to finish my methods class project.”