Monday Mourning

“Two variables matter,” I began. “The radioactivity of a known standard, and the radioactivity of our unknown sample. We’ve already discussed the phenomenon of atmospheric nuclear testing and its effect on Carbon 14 levels, so, to simplify, just assume that the standard value for Carbon 14 in 1950 is one hundred percent. Any value over that represents ‘bomb,’ or modern carbon, and indicates a death date more recent than 1950.”

I pointed to the last figure in a column labeled “Measured Radiocarbon Age.”

“The pMC for LSJML-38428 is 120.5, plus or minus .5.”

“A percent modern carbon significantly higher than one hundred percent.”

“Yes.”

“Meaning this girl died since 1950?”

“Yes.”

“How long after 1950?”

“It’s tricky. By the time atmospheric testing was banned in 1963, pMC values had elevated to one hundred ninety percent. But what goes up must come down. So a pMC value of one hundred twenty percent could indicate a point on the upside of the curve, when levels were increasing, or a point on the downside, when levels were dropping.”

“Meaning?”

“Death could have occurred in the late fifties or in the mid to late eighties.”

LaManche’s face sagged visibly.

“It gets worse. The present pMC value is around one hundred seven percent.” I pointed to the figures for LSJML-38426 and LSJML-38427.

“Mon Dieu.”

“These girls died as long ago as the early fifties, or as recently as the early nineties.”

“You will inform Monsieur Claudel of these results?”

“Oh yes,” I said. With feeling.

LaManche steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lower lip.

“If these girls disappeared during the past twenty years, it is possible they will be in the system. Descriptors must be sent to CPIC.”

LaManche referred to the Canadian Police Information Centre, the equivalent of NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in the United States.

CPIC and NCIC, maintained by the RCMP and the FBI respectively, are computerized indexes of information, including criminal record histories, details on fugitives and stolen properties, and data on missing persons. The databases are available to law enforcement and to other criminal justice agencies twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

As we rose, LaManche laid a hand on my shoulder.

“We must apply ourselves, Temperance. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh yes,” I repeated with equal feeling.

Thirty seconds later I was in my office talking to Claudel. He was making only minor contribution to the dialogue.

“Not so quickly.”

“Three-eight-four-two-six,” I repeated at the pace a sloth might have employed if speaking French. “Female.” Pause. “White.” Pause. “Age sixteen to eighteen.” Pause. “Height fifty-eight to sixty-two inches.”

“Dentals?” You could have used Claudel’s voice to scythe wheat.

“No restorations. But of course I have postmortem X-rays.”

“These are the bones from the crate?”

“Yes.”

“Next.”

“Three-eight-four-two-seven. Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Height sixty-four to sixty-seven inches. No dental work.”

“The bones recovered from the first depression?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Three-eight-four-two-eight. Female, white, age eighteen to twenty-two, sixty-five to sixty-eight inches in height. Healed Colles’ fracture of the distal right radius.”

“Meaning?”

“She fractured her right wrist several years before death. Colles’ fractures often occur when the hands are thrown out to break a fall.”

“The bones from the second depression?”

“Yes.”

“There are no distinguishing features on any of these individuals?”

“One was quite short. One broke her arm.”

“If these people died in the fifties this is a waste of time.”

“Their families might disagree.”

“Any relatives will be scattered. Or dead.”

“These girls were stripped naked and buried in a basement.”

“If these girls were associated with Cataneo, they were probably hookers.”

Deep breath. The man is a troll.

“Yes, they may have been prostitutes, guilty of the sins of ignorance and need. They may have been runaways, guilty of the sins of poor judgment and bad luck. They may have been random innocents, yanked from their lives and guilty of nothing. Whoever they were, Monsieur Claudel, they deserve more than a forgotten grave in a moldy cellar. We could not help these girls when they died, but perhaps we can prevent others from joining them in the future.”

Now the pause was of Claudel’s making.

“You’ve said the skeletons show no signs of violence.”

I ignored this. “As we both discovered”—pause to let Claudel know that I knew of his visit—“that building presently belongs to Richard Cyr. As I discovered, the previous owner was Nick Cataneo, and Cataneo’s period of ownership comes damn close to one of the Carbon 14 ranges.”

The silence that followed was long and hostile.

“You do realize the number of hits this may produce?”

I did.

“I’ll reexamine the bones to see if there’s anything else I might possibly help you with.”

“That would be appropriate.”

Dial tone.