Monday Mourning

Anne phoned at one-fifteen, her voice sounding listless and flat. After apologizing for being lousy company all week, she told me she was thinking of leaving. Said she didn’t want to impose on my hospitality any longer.

I assured her that she was not imposing. I also assured her that I was enjoying her company tremendously. Given her current mood, the latter was a stretch, but I encouraged her to think in terms of staying until she decided on a better place to go.

Charbonneau phoned at one-forty.

“Cibole! It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”

Not all of Charbonneau’s expressions were Texan in origin.

“You ran the CPIC search?”

“I did.”

I heard cellophane.

“Since we don’t know if the two without dental sealant died before or after the one with the sealant, I ran those cases two ways. First I searched disappearances reported in the nineties.”

“Makes sense, given the Carbon 14.”

“Some came close, but no cigars.”

Charbonneau sounded like he was eating something involving caramel or taffy.

“Then I left the date of disappearance open. Got what I expected, given no dentals, no details, and no dates.”

“Lots of hits?”

“List from here to East Bumfuck.”

“What about 38428?”

“Pulled up everything back to 1980. Broken wrist cut the numbers down. Again, a few came close, but no matches. Sure would help to know where the kid lived.”

“How about north-central California?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“I’m serious.”

All crinkling and chewing stopped.

“You’re kiddin’.”

Simplifying the biochemistry and geophysics, I told Charbonneau what I’d learned from Art Holliday.

“Luc’s gonna shit his Fruit of the Looms.”

“You’ve got to send her descriptors south of the border.”

“NCIC. Done. I’ll also roll them by the Vermont and California State Police.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“Can’t hurt anything.”

“Except your partner’s shorts.”

Charbonneau laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

“There’s something else.”

“Make my day.”

I described the nicks and grooves.

“And you think the marks were made by a scalpel?”

“Or an extremely sharp, fine-edged blade.”

“You’re talking all three skeletons?”

“Yes. Though the marks on the shrouded burial differ from those on the other two.”

“Differ how?”

“They’re cruder. And there’s more chipping along the edges.”

“Meaning they were made by a different tool?”

“Maybe. Or maybe they were made after the bone had dried out. Or maybe they’re not the result of cutting at all. Maybe they’re postmortem artifacts mimicking cut marks.”

“Scratches caused by dragging or rolling or something?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“There seems to be a pattern.” I stopped, picturing the skulls and jaws in my mind. “The marks circle the right ear opening.”

“On which skeleton?”

“On all three.”

“And nothing anywhere else?”

“No.”

“Holy crap. You think someone was slicing off ears?”

The thought had occurred to me.

“I don’t know.”

After telling LaManche what I’d learned from Art Holliday, I spent the rest of the afternoon with my pizza basement girls. That’s how I’d come to think of them. My girls. My lost girls.

I reexamined every bone, bone fragment, and tooth. I studied the dental and skeletal X-rays. I rescreened the soil. I pored over the buttons.

When at last I sat back, the windows were dark and the halls were quiet. The clock said five-twenty.

I’d learned not one damn additional thing.

I closed my eyes.

I felt sadness over my failure to give names to these girls. Anger over my failure to satisfy Claudel. Frustration over my failure to understand the buttons. Guilt over my failure to spot the cut marks before Bergeron pointed them out.

How could I have missed those marks? Yes, I’d been interrupted many times. Yes, I’d been working on different aspects of the case. Yes, the marks were almost invisible. Yes, at least one skull was fragmented. But how could something that important have escaped my attention?

Failure, failure everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Failure with Anne.

Failure with Ryan.

“Ryan,” I snorted.

“Yes?”

My eyes flew open.

Ryan was standing in the doorway, coat finger-hooked over one shoulder. He was regarding me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.

Ryan raised his free hand, palm out.

“I know. What are you doing here? Right?”

I started to speak. Ryan cut me off.

“I work downstairs.” Ryan grinned. “I’m a cop.”

I sat forward and tucked my hair behind my ears.

“Do you have news on Louise Parent?”

“No.”

“Have you found Rose Fisher?”

The grin evaporated. “No. It doesn’t look good.”

“You think she’s dead?”

“She’s sixty-four. She’s been missing almost a week.”

“What kind of mutant murders elderly women?”

Ryan took my question as rhetorical. “Is the extra surveillance still on your place?”

“Yes.” If you came to visit you’d know. “Are you suggesting I’m elderly?”

“I want you to keep your eyes open, Tempe.”

“They’re rarely closed these days, Andy.”

Ryan ignored that.

“I’m going to swing by Fisher’s house. Thought you might like to ride along.”

I did.

I waved a hand in the direction of the skeletons. “I’m pretty busy.”

“They’re not going anywhere.” Another boyish grin.