“Do you have the images?” Booting my laptop.

“I’ve transferred them to my computer.”

I pictured Bergeron squinting through grimy lenses, dandelion hair backlit by the screen.

“Are they clear enough to determine which teeth have the root canals?” I asked.

“They will do. I assume the issue is identity.”

“The fragment was recovered from a house fire. It’s from the right posterior, near the mandibular angle.”

“I see that.”

I’d also downloaded the images to my Mac. During the pause that ensued, I opened the file so we were looking at the same thing.

“I also see evidence of a gunshot wound,” Bergeron said.

“Yes.”

I waited quite a long time.

“From the positioning of the sockets relative to the ramus, their sizes, and the recurve and compression of the roots themselves, I’d say the mesial tooth is forty-seven and the distal tooth is forty-eight.”

I’d been expecting him to say thirty-one and thirty-two. Then I remembered. CPIC uses the FDI dental scoring system, NCIC the universal system.

“The right second molar and wisdom tooth,” I said.

“Though small, as is common, the third molar is well formed and fully erupted. Whatever necessitated the root canal came later. It’s quite unusual to see one in a third molar.”

“Terrific. Thanks. Listen, the coroner is striking out with MP reports here in Yellowknife. Can you get this into CPIC for me?”

“Is this a lab case?” Bergeron was a stickler for rules.

“Yes.” In the very broadest sense, true. Three of Ruben’s babies were found in Quebec. My involvement had started there.

I could practically hear Bergeron frown.

“I’d have Ryan do it, but I’m afraid he’d screw up the coding,” I said.

“Does Dr. LaManche know of this case?”

“He does.” I made a note to e-mail the chief immediately.

“Please give me the details.”

“All we know is that the victim was male, in his forties, and not overly large. He died in March 2008.”

“That’s not much.”

“It’s not.”

“If the system finds a match, we must request original records.”

“Of course.”

After shooting a note to LaManche, I grabbed my new books and headed downstairs.

Another dawn in the Trader’s Grill. My fellow diners were an elderly couple all atwitter about wildflowers.

I didn’t expect to see Snook and didn’t. I ordered eggs and toast, then checked e-mail. Mostly out of boredom. It was too soon to hear from Bergeron, and I doubted King had learned much since midnight.

I was opening the book on Fipke and his pals when Ryan appeared. He looked like hell. Baggy eyes. Tension in his jaw that made him look gaunt. He spotted me and crossed to my table.

“Company?”

“Sure.”

Ryan dropped into the other chair and looked around. “Glad I found an empty seat.”

“Apparently, it will be hopping later.”

Ryan cocked a brow.

“The place is famous for Sunday brunch.”