Monday Mourning Part 9

LaManche stole a glance at his watch.

"The bottom line is that artificial or 'bomb' Carbon 14 can be used to determine if someone died before or after the period of atmospheric nuclear testing."

"How is this test done?"

"There are actually two methods. With the standard radiometric technique, materials are a.n.a.lyzed by synthesizing the sample carbon to benzene, then measuring the Carbon 14 content in a scintillation spectrometer."

"And the other method?"

"With the other method results are derived from reduction of the sample carbon to graphite. The graphite is then tested for Carbon 14 content in an accelerator ma.s.s spectrometer."

For several seconds LaManche said nothing. Then, "How much bone is required?"

"For conventional decay counting, two hundred fifty grams. For accelerator ma.s.s spectrometry, just a gram or even less."

"AMS testing costs more?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

I told him.

LaManche removed his gla.s.ses and squeezed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger.

"Is there no intermediate step to determine that such an expenditure is justified?"

"There's one thing I could try. The technique isn't terribly reliable, but it's simple and might show if death occurred more or less than a hundred years ago."

LaManche started to speak.

"And free," I added. "I can do it myself. But again, it will yield only a very rough indication of whether the bones are more or less than a century old."

"Please." LaManche repositioned his gla.s.ses and rose. "In the meantime I will discuss your proposal with Dr. Authier."

Jean-Francois Authier, the chief coroner, considered all requests for exceptional expenditures. Few were granted.

Grabbing a lab coat from my office, I headed to the morgue. Morin and Ayers were already cutting Y incisions in room two. I requested a UV light, and waited while the tech got it. Then I hurried to the appropriate bay and pulled the left femora from skeletons 38426, 38427, and 38428.

In autopsy room four, I wrote the respective case numbers on the proximal and distal ends of the leg bones, and placed them on the autopsy table. Each made a soft thunk in the stillness.

After masking, I plugged in and revved a Stryker saw. White powder coned on the stainless steel as I bisected each femoral shaft. A hot, acrid odor filled the air.

I wondered again about the young women whose bones I was cutting. Had they died surrounded by family? Probably not. Alone and frightened? More likely. Hopeful of rescue? Desperate? Angry? Relieved? All possible. They never get to say.

When I'd finished sawing, I gathered the femoral segments and the UV light, and carried them to a storage closet at the end of the hall.

Come on. Let this work.

Entering the closet, I located an outlet and plugged in the UV. Then I set the femoral halves on a shelf with their freshly sawn surfaces facing outward.

When I closed the door, it was pitch-black.

Barely breathing, I pointed the UV and thumbed the switch.

8.

"YES!" MY FREE HAND PUMPED THE AIR.

Limb bones of up to a century in age may fluoresce when viewed under UV light. This fluorescence diminishes over time, the dead zone progressing outward from the marrow cavity and inward from the external surface. A century postmortem, the yellow-green glow is absent altogether.

These babies were smoking like neon doughnuts.

OK, Claudel. That's step one.

Returning the femora to their respective body bags, I went in search of my boss.

LaManche was slicing a brain in the histo lab. He looked up when I entered, knife in one hand, plastic ap.r.o.n tied behind his neck and waist. I explained what I'd done.

"And?"

"The cut surfaces lit up like novas."

"Indicating?"

"The presence of organic const.i.tuents."

LaManche laid his knife on the corkboard. "So these are not native burials."

"These girls died after 1900."

"Definitely?"

"Probably." Less vehement.

"The building was constructed around the turn of the century."

I did not reply.

"Do you recall the remains found near le Cathedral Marie-Reine-du-Monde?"

LaManche was referring to a time he'd sent me downtown to investigate "bodies" discovered by a water main crew. I'd arrived to find backhoes, dump trucks, and an enormous hole in boulevard Rene-Levesque. Skull, rib, and long-bone fragments lined the pavement and lay at the bottom of the freshly dug trench. Mingled with the human bits I could see wood slivers and corroded nails.

Easy one. Coffin burials.

Archaeologists later confirmed my opinion. Until a cholera epidemic forced its closure in the mid-eighteenth century, a cemetery had occupied the land where the cathedral now oversees rush hour on Rene-Levesque. The repair crew had stumbled on a few souls overlooked during the graveyard's relocation.

"You think the b.l.o.o.d.y building was constructed over unmarked graves?" I asked. "I found no evidence of coffins."

French Canadians are virtuosos of the shrug, using subtle nuances of hands, eyes, shoulders, and lips to convey countless meanings. I agree. I disagree. I don't care. What can I do? Who knows? You are a fool. Do as you like.

LaManche raised one shoulder and both brows. A "maybe, maybe not" shrug.

"Have you discussed radiocarbon dating with Authier?" I asked.

"Dr. Authier is hosting visitors from the Moroccan Inst.i.tute of Legal Medicine. I left a message asking that he call me."

"The testing will take time." I didn't mask my agitation.

"Temperance." LaManche was the only person on the planet to address me thus. On his tongue mon nom mon nom had perky little accent marks and rhymed with "sconce." "You are becoming much too personally involved." had perky little accent marks and rhymed with "sconce." "You are becoming much too personally involved."

"I don't believe these bones are ancient. They don't have that feel, that look. The context seems wrong. I-"

"Did these girls die last week?" The hound dog face sagged with patience.

"No."

"Is there great urgency?"

I said nothing.

LaManche gazed at me so long I thought his mind had wandered. Then, "Send off your samples. I will deal with Dr. Authier."

"Thank you." I resisted the impulse to hug him.

"In the meantime, perhaps the third skeleton will yield useful information." With that not so subtle hint, LaManche turned back to his brain.

Elated, I headed downstairs and changed into scrubs.

Lisa stopped me on my way to autopsy room four. The trailer fire victim had no teeth, no dentures, and no printable digits. Identification had become problematical, and Dr. Pelletier wanted my opinion.

I told her I would join Pelletier in half an hour.

Working quickly, I cut a one-inch plug from the midshaft of each femur, raced upstairs, logged onto the Web, and entered the address of the Florida lab that would perform the a.n.a.lyses. Clicking onto the sample data sheet, I filled in the required information, and requested testing by accelerated ma.s.s spectrometry.

I paused at the section concerning delivery. Standard service took two to four weeks. With advanced service, results could be available in as little as six days.

At a significantly higher price.

Screw it. If Authier balked, I'd pay.

I checked the second box and hit SEND SEND.

After completing transfer-of-evidence forms, I gave Denis the address, and asked that he package and FedEx the specimens immediately.

Back downstairs.

I had to agree with Pelletier. The owner of the motor home was a sixty-four-year-old white male. The body on the table was wearing the charred remains of a Wonder Bra and handcuffs.

OK. So the guy was kinky.

Nope. X-rays showed a diaphragm center stage in the pelvis.

It was late afternoon when we finally got it sorted.

The fire victim was female, white, and toothless, with healed fractures of the right radius and both nasal bones. She'd been walking the earth thirty-five to fifty years.

Where was Trailer Man? That problem now belonged to the cops.

At three-forty, I washed, changed, and returned topside, grabbing a Diet c.o.ke and two powdered sugar doughnuts on the way to my office.

The phone was flas.h.i.+ng like a sale light at Kmart. Bolting from the door, I grabbed the receiver.

Anne. Her flight would arrive at five twenty-five.

Arthur Holliday, the man who would perform the Carbon 14 test. His message asked that I contact him before sending the samples.

Racing to the secretarial office, I checked the mound of outgoing mail. FedEx had yet to collect my package. I dug it out, returned to my office, and dialed the lab in Florida, puzzled as to what the problem could be.

"Tempe, good, good. I called as soon as I got your e-mail. Have you sent off the bone samples?"

"They're ready, but still here. Is there a problem?"

"No, no. Not at all. Terrific. Good. Listen, do your unknowns have teeth?"

"Yes."

"Good. Good. Listen, we've got a little research project going down here, and we wondered if place of birth might be of interest in your case."

"I hadn't considered that angle, but yes, that information might be useful. Can you do do that?" that?"

"Is there a lot of groundwater in that bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"No, it's fairly dry."

"I can't promise anything, but we're getting some pretty good results with our strontium isotope a.n.a.lyses. If you'll allow us to store the results in our database, then get back to us when your unknowns are eventually identified, I'll be glad to perform this experimental test on your samples gratis."

"Gratis?"

"We need to expand our reference database."

"What should I send?"

He told me and started to expound on the reasons for needing both bone and tooth specimens. The clock said three-fifty. I cut him off.