not sure. Maybe some type of congenital defect. Maybe an abscess. I’ll know better when I empty the skull and get a look at the endocranial surface. I’ll also need X rays to see what’s going on inside the bone.”
Bergeron looked at his watch.
“Let me know when you’ve finished so I can shoot some bite-wings on this one. I didn’t see any restorations, but I might spot something on the X rays. The right canine has an odd alignment which will be useful, but I’d prefer having the lower jaw.”
“I’ll work harder next time.”
“Not necessary.” He laughed.
When Bergeron left I set the skull upside down in a rubber ring and adjusted the water so it ran gently into the foramen magnum. Then I went back to photographing Gately and Martineau, documenting skeletal features relevant to their identifications. I also took multiple shots of the bullet holes in the back of each man’s head.
Periodically I checked the unknown female’s skull, pouring off muck as the water loosened it. Just before noon, as I was draining sediment, something broke free and tapped against the cranial interior. I placed the skull back on the ring and slipped my fingers inside.
The object felt long and thin. I tried to dislodge it, but the thing had a tail of some sort still embedded in the mud. Barely able to contain my curiosity, I adjusted the tap and went back to the Gately report.
By 1 P.M. the object floated free, but the trailer was still firmly cemented. Impatient, I allowed the sink to fill, immersed the skull, and went downstairs to the cafeteria.
When I returned from lunch the soaking had liquefied the last of the dirt, and I was able to pour it off easily. Holding my breath, I inserted my fingers and delicately manipulated the object free.
The device was less than four inches long, and consisted of a length of tubing with a valve at one end. I cleaned it and placed it on a tray. Certain of its importance, but unsure as to what it was, I washed my hands and went in search of a pathologist.
According to the duty board, LaManche was at a meeting of the committee on infant mortality. Marcel Morin was at his desk.
He looked up when I tapped on the door.
“Got a minute?”
“But of course.” His French was warm and lyrical, reflecting the Haiti of his boyhood. I entered the office and placed the tray in front of him.
“Ah. A surgical implant.” His eyebrows rose behind rimless glasses. They were graying, like the tightly cropped frizz of hair retreating backward on his scalp.
“I thought so. Can you tell me more about it?”
He lifted both palms. “Not much. It looks like a ventricular shunt, but I’m not a neurosurgeon. You might want to talk to Carolyn Russell. She’s done some neuro consults for us.”
He flipped through his Rolodex, jotted down a number, and handed it to me, saying, “She’s at the MNI.”
I thanked him, went to my office, and dialed the Montreal Neurological Institute. Dr. Russell was in a meeting, so I left a message. I’d just hung up when the phone rang. It was Claudel.
“You’ve talked to Bergeron?” he asked.
“He just left.”
“So two make the jump from the list of missing to the list of dead.”
I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
“And?”
A Claudel pause, then, “We’ve started making calls, but no one knows a thing. Not surprising, given the fact that more than a decade has passed and these people aren’t geographically stable. Of course they wouldn’t tell us spit if we’d hauled their grandmothers out of that hole.”
“What about Rinaldi?”
“Frog’s sticking to his story. He knew what he knew by word of mouth. According to club lore Gately and Martineau went to a party and walked right in on their own funeral.”
“In stocking feet.”
“Right. These fellows tend to underdress. But Frog wasn’t there when the hit went down. It was probably his night for charity work. What about the third guy?”
“The third guy is a girl.”
“A
Bergeron looked at his watch.
“Let me know when you’ve finished so I can shoot some bite-wings on this one. I didn’t see any restorations, but I might spot something on the X rays. The right canine has an odd alignment which will be useful, but I’d prefer having the lower jaw.”
“I’ll work harder next time.”
“Not necessary.” He laughed.
When Bergeron left I set the skull upside down in a rubber ring and adjusted the water so it ran gently into the foramen magnum. Then I went back to photographing Gately and Martineau, documenting skeletal features relevant to their identifications. I also took multiple shots of the bullet holes in the back of each man’s head.
Periodically I checked the unknown female’s skull, pouring off muck as the water loosened it. Just before noon, as I was draining sediment, something broke free and tapped against the cranial interior. I placed the skull back on the ring and slipped my fingers inside.
The object felt long and thin. I tried to dislodge it, but the thing had a tail of some sort still embedded in the mud. Barely able to contain my curiosity, I adjusted the tap and went back to the Gately report.
By 1 P.M. the object floated free, but the trailer was still firmly cemented. Impatient, I allowed the sink to fill, immersed the skull, and went downstairs to the cafeteria.
When I returned from lunch the soaking had liquefied the last of the dirt, and I was able to pour it off easily. Holding my breath, I inserted my fingers and delicately manipulated the object free.
The device was less than four inches long, and consisted of a length of tubing with a valve at one end. I cleaned it and placed it on a tray. Certain of its importance, but unsure as to what it was, I washed my hands and went in search of a pathologist.
According to the duty board, LaManche was at a meeting of the committee on infant mortality. Marcel Morin was at his desk.
He looked up when I tapped on the door.
“Got a minute?”
“But of course.” His French was warm and lyrical, reflecting the Haiti of his boyhood. I entered the office and placed the tray in front of him.
“Ah. A surgical implant.” His eyebrows rose behind rimless glasses. They were graying, like the tightly cropped frizz of hair retreating backward on his scalp.
“I thought so. Can you tell me more about it?”
He lifted both palms. “Not much. It looks like a ventricular shunt, but I’m not a neurosurgeon. You might want to talk to Carolyn Russell. She’s done some neuro consults for us.”
He flipped through his Rolodex, jotted down a number, and handed it to me, saying, “She’s at the MNI.”
I thanked him, went to my office, and dialed the Montreal Neurological Institute. Dr. Russell was in a meeting, so I left a message. I’d just hung up when the phone rang. It was Claudel.
“You’ve talked to Bergeron?” he asked.
“He just left.”
“So two make the jump from the list of missing to the list of dead.”
I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
“And?”
A Claudel pause, then, “We’ve started making calls, but no one knows a thing. Not surprising, given the fact that more than a decade has passed and these people aren’t geographically stable. Of course they wouldn’t tell us spit if we’d hauled their grandmothers out of that hole.”
“What about Rinaldi?”
“Frog’s sticking to his story. He knew what he knew by word of mouth. According to club lore Gately and Martineau went to a party and walked right in on their own funeral.”
“In stocking feet.”
“Right. These fellows tend to underdress. But Frog wasn’t there when the hit went down. It was probably his night for charity work. What about the third guy?”
“The third guy is a girl.”
“A
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