Monday Mourning

When I looked up, Bergeron was gangling his way to the scope. The man was definitely not poetry in motion.

“Sealant is a thin coating of plastic resin that’s applied to the chewing surface of a bicuspid or molar. It’s painted on as a liquid, and in roughly a minute it hardens to form a protective shield.”

“What’s the purpose?”

“To prevent occlusal caries. Tooth decay.”

Bergeron slipped the lower jaw of LSJML-38428 under the lens, peered through the eyepieces, and adjusted focus.

“Oui, madame. That’s a sealant.”

Hope did a little moth-flutter in my chest.

“When did these sealants come into use?”

“The first commercially available sealants were marketed to dentists in the early 1970s. They’ve been in widespread use since the eighties.” Bergeron spoke without looking up.

The moth exploded into a hummingbird.

The girl in the leather shroud couldn’t have died in the fifties! By elimination, that jumped her to the late eighties!

I tried to keep my voice calm.

“How common are these sealants?”

“Unfortunately for forensic purposes, very. Most pediatric dentists recommend application once the permanent molars erupt. School-based programs have been under way in a majority of American states for at least twenty years. Canada’s a bit behind in that, but sealants have been very popular here since the mid-eighties.”

Bergeron clicked off the fiber-optic light.

“Didn’t help this young lady much.” He thrust his chin at Dr. Energy’s girl. “She’s got more decay than that one over there.”

“So she was seeing a dentist at one point, then quit caring for her teeth.”

“Typical pattern for runaways. The parents provide dental care while they’re growing up, then the kids hit the streets, their diets and hygiene go to hell, and their teeth suffer.”

“How old was she?”

Bergeron returned to the light table and examined the dental X-rays for 38428.

“A little older than the others. I’d give her eighteen to twenty-one.”

Again, Bergeron’s estimate was consistent with what I’d seen in the bones.

“Any evidence of sealant on the other two?”

Bergeron reexamined the teeth of 38426 and 38427. Neither had been treated.

“A pity there are no restorations on any of them. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.”

“You’ve helped plenty.”

I flew to my office and dialed Claudel.

He and Charbonneau were tied up in an interview and couldn’t be disturbed. I left a message requesting they call me as quickly as possible.

Returning to my lab, I picked up a fractured segment of jaw that Bergeron had left beside the scope. As I was returning it to LSJML-38427, I noticed a tiny nick on the right mandibular condyle.

Back to the scope.

By angling the fiber-optic light across the bone, I found two more nicks on the ascending ramus, and a minuscule groove at the mandibular angle.

I checked the left portion of the mandible.

No nicks or grooves.

The skull.

No nicks or grooves.

One by one I examined the isolated shards broken from the right cheek and temporal bones.

The light picked out six superficial grooves, each roughly five millimeters in length, grouped in three sets of two.

Another shoulder tap from my hindbrain.

I increased the magnification.

The nicks and grooves, though clearly not natural, looked different from those on 38428. Though V-shaped, these were much narrower in cross section and cleaner at the edges.

Like marks left by a scalpel. In fresh bone.

I leaned back, thinking through what that could mean.

In my mind I reconstructed the skull fragments and articulated the jaw.

The cuts circled the ear opening.

What the hell had gone on?

Coincidence? Something more sinister?

I was about to reexamine the skull and mandible of Dr. Energy’s girl when I spotted Charbonneau through the window over the sink. Gesturing him to my office, I stripped off my gloves, washed, and crossed the hall.

Charbonneau had assumed his usual legs-splayed, shoulder-slumped position in the chair facing my desk. Today’s jacket was cranberry and as glossy as the dental sealant.

“Monsieur Claudel is meeting with the Nobel committee this morning?”

Charbonneau dipped his chin, rolled his eyes up, and raised both palms.

“What? I’m not cool enough? Luc really is busy.”

“Being fitted for another Ermenegildo Zegna?”

Charbonneau looked at me as though I’d spoken Etruscan.

“They make suits,” I said.

Charbonneau suppressed a grin. “He’s going through Cyr’s tenant list.”

“Really?” My brows shot up in surprise.

“Authier phoned.”

LaManche must have spoken with the chief coroner, who then ordered Claudel to get serious about the pizza basement case.

“Not a lot of jolliness in Authier’s message?”

“Luc is viewing the comments as suggested guidelines.”

I explained Bergeron’s discovery.

“Bergeron’s convinced it’s this sealant stuff?”

“Absolutely. I believe that’s what journalists call independent corroboration.”

“So at least one of the three died in the seventies or later.”

“Carbon 14 analysis bracketed this girl’s death in the fifties or in the eighties.”

“Guess we’re talking the eighties.”

“Guess we are.”

“The kid with the broken wrist?”