MONDAY MOURNING

also by kathy reichs

DEJA DEAD

DEATH DU YOUR

DEADLY DECISIONS

FATAL VOYAGE

GRAVE SECRETS

BARE BONES

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Darden Hood, Director, Beta Analytic Inc., for advice on radiocarbon dating. W Alan Gorman and James K. W Lee, Department of Geological Sciences, Queens University, Kingston, Ontario, and Brian Beard, Department of Geology, University of Wisconsin, shared their knowledge of bedrock geology and strontium isotope analysis.

Michael Fmnegan, Department of Anthropology, Kansas State University, provided details on aging bone with UV light. Robert B. J.

Dorion, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, supplied information on property research in Montreal. Sergeant Pierre Marineau, Special Constable, Securite Publique, guided me on a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale, answered questions pertaining to pathology and autopsies. Michael Abel shared his knowledge of al things Jewish. Jim Junot double-checked countless details.

Paul Reichs offered advice on the qualification of an expert witness.

As usual, his comments on the manuscript were greatly appreciated.

My friend Michel e Phil ips graciously al owed the use of the

"Monday, Monday" lyrics.

Much gratitude to James Woodward, Chancel or of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, for his continued support. Merci to Andre Lauzon, Chef de service, and to al of my col eagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale.

My editor, Susanne Kirk, and my agent, Jennifer Walsh, were, as always, patient, understanding, and total y supportive.

For Deborah Miner

My baby sister.

My Harry.

Thanks for always being there.

MONDAY

MOURNING

Oh Monday mornin' you gave me no warnin' of

what was to be ...

--john phil ips,

The Mamas and the Papas

Monday, Monday . . .

Can't trust that day . . .

As

IS THE TUNE PLAYED INSIDE MY HEAD, GUNFIRE EXPLODED IN

the cramped underground space around me.

My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splattered against rock just three feet from me.

The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward, leaving a smear of blood and hair.

I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved hand.

Stil squatting, I swiveled.

"Assert" Enough!

Sergeant-detective Luc Claudel's brows plunged into a V He lowered but did not holster his nine-mil imeter.

"Rats. They are the devil's spawn." ClaudePs French was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upnver roots.

"Throw rocks," I snapped.

"That bastard was big enough to throw them back."

Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a December Monday in Montreal had taken a tol . My knees protested as I rose to a standing position.

« i »

S

"Where is Charbonneau?" I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the other.

"Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea soup."

"The owner discovered this?" I flapped a hand at the ground behind me.

"Non. Leplombier."

"What was a plumber doing in the cel ar?"