girl.”
“Yes. What does Frog know about her?”
“Not a thing. But Frog would give nothing up if there wasn’t a prize in it for him. What can you tell me about her?”
“She was a white female in her mid to late teens.”
“She was that young?”
“Yes.”
I could hear traffic in the background and figured Claudel was calling from the road.
“I’ll get a list of missing teenage girls. What time frame?”
“Go back ten years.”
“Why ten years?”
“I’d say the victim’s been dead at least two years, but with what we recovered I can’t really pinpoint an upper limit. I have a feeling this was a secondary burial.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think she was buried somewhere else, then dug up and moved to the place we found her.”
“Why?”
“Another perceptive question, Detective Claudel.”
I told him about the surgical implant.
“What does that mean?”
“When I find out I’ll let you know.”
I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. Carolyn Russell could see me at three. I looked at my watch. If the parking gods smiled I could make it.
I wrote the case number on the lid of a plastic specimen container and sealed the implant inside. Pausing only to tell Bergeron that he could have the girl’s skull, I hurried to my car and raced across town.
The Royal Victoria Hospital was built before the turn of the century. A sprawling gray stone complex, it lies in the heart of Montreal, looming over the McGill campus like a medieval castle on a Tuscan hillside.
At the Peel end is the Allan Memorial Institute, infamous for CIA drug experiments conducted there in the late fifties. The Montreal Neurological Institute is located to the east of the Royal Vic, across rue Université. Teaching and research units of McGill University, the MNI, the Neurological Hospital, and the new Brain Tumor Research Institute sit haunch to jowl with the football stadium, a testimonial in mortar and brick to the priorities of the modern university.
The Neuro, as the research institute and hospital are known, dates to the thirties, the brainchild of Wilder Penfield. Though a brilliant scientist and neurosurgeon, Dr. Penfield was not a visionary in traffic control. Parking is a nightmare.
Following Dr. Russell’s suggestion, I drove onto the grounds of the Royal Vic, forked over ten dollars, and began cruising the lot. I was on my third pass when I spotted brake lights. An Audi pulled out and I shot forward and into the space, thus avoiding the necessity of tuning to FM 88.5 for a parking update. My watch said two fifty-five.
I arrived at Russell’s office sweaty and panting from my dash down avenue des Pins and my trek through the hospital. It had begun to mist, and my bangs lay damp and limp across my forehead. When the doctor looked up, an expression of doubt crossed her face.
I introduced myself and she rose and held out a hand. Her hair was gray, cut short and swept to the side. Her face was deeply creased, but her grip was as strong as that of any man. I guessed she was somewhere in her sixties.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a little trouble finding you.” That was an understatement.
“Yes, this building is confusing. Please sit down,” she said in English, gesturing at a chair opposite her desk.
“I had no idea this place was so large,” I said, seating myself.
“Oh yes. The MNI is engaged in an enormous range of activities.”
“I know the institute is world famous for its epilepsy research.” I slipped off my jacket.
“Yes, more epilepsy surgeries are performed at our hospital than at any other center in the world. The surgical technique of cortical resection was pioneered at this institution. Studies in the mapping of cerebral function began with epilepsy patients here more than sixty years ago. It was that work that paved the way for the MRI and PET brain mapping going on today.”
“I’m familiar with Magnetic Resonance Imaging but what is PET?”
“Positron
“Yes. What does Frog know about her?”
“Not a thing. But Frog would give nothing up if there wasn’t a prize in it for him. What can you tell me about her?”
“She was a white female in her mid to late teens.”
“She was that young?”
“Yes.”
I could hear traffic in the background and figured Claudel was calling from the road.
“I’ll get a list of missing teenage girls. What time frame?”
“Go back ten years.”
“Why ten years?”
“I’d say the victim’s been dead at least two years, but with what we recovered I can’t really pinpoint an upper limit. I have a feeling this was a secondary burial.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think she was buried somewhere else, then dug up and moved to the place we found her.”
“Why?”
“Another perceptive question, Detective Claudel.”
I told him about the surgical implant.
“What does that mean?”
“When I find out I’ll let you know.”
I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. Carolyn Russell could see me at three. I looked at my watch. If the parking gods smiled I could make it.
I wrote the case number on the lid of a plastic specimen container and sealed the implant inside. Pausing only to tell Bergeron that he could have the girl’s skull, I hurried to my car and raced across town.
The Royal Victoria Hospital was built before the turn of the century. A sprawling gray stone complex, it lies in the heart of Montreal, looming over the McGill campus like a medieval castle on a Tuscan hillside.
At the Peel end is the Allan Memorial Institute, infamous for CIA drug experiments conducted there in the late fifties. The Montreal Neurological Institute is located to the east of the Royal Vic, across rue Université. Teaching and research units of McGill University, the MNI, the Neurological Hospital, and the new Brain Tumor Research Institute sit haunch to jowl with the football stadium, a testimonial in mortar and brick to the priorities of the modern university.
The Neuro, as the research institute and hospital are known, dates to the thirties, the brainchild of Wilder Penfield. Though a brilliant scientist and neurosurgeon, Dr. Penfield was not a visionary in traffic control. Parking is a nightmare.
Following Dr. Russell’s suggestion, I drove onto the grounds of the Royal Vic, forked over ten dollars, and began cruising the lot. I was on my third pass when I spotted brake lights. An Audi pulled out and I shot forward and into the space, thus avoiding the necessity of tuning to FM 88.5 for a parking update. My watch said two fifty-five.
I arrived at Russell’s office sweaty and panting from my dash down avenue des Pins and my trek through the hospital. It had begun to mist, and my bangs lay damp and limp across my forehead. When the doctor looked up, an expression of doubt crossed her face.
I introduced myself and she rose and held out a hand. Her hair was gray, cut short and swept to the side. Her face was deeply creased, but her grip was as strong as that of any man. I guessed she was somewhere in her sixties.
“Sorry I’m late. I had a little trouble finding you.” That was an understatement.
“Yes, this building is confusing. Please sit down,” she said in English, gesturing at a chair opposite her desk.
“I had no idea this place was so large,” I said, seating myself.
“Oh yes. The MNI is engaged in an enormous range of activities.”
“I know the institute is world famous for its epilepsy research.” I slipped off my jacket.
“Yes, more epilepsy surgeries are performed at our hospital than at any other center in the world. The surgical technique of cortical resection was pioneered at this institution. Studies in the mapping of cerebral function began with epilepsy patients here more than sixty years ago. It was that work that paved the way for the MRI and PET brain mapping going on today.”
“I’m familiar with Magnetic Resonance Imaging but what is PET?”
“Positron
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