The two homicide cops, Claudel and Charbonneau, stood side by side, feet spread, hands clasped in front of their genitals. Each wore a black woolen overcoat and black leather gloves. Neither wore a happy face.

Eight dead rats adorned the base of the wal s.

The plumber's pit and the two depressions were open to a depth

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,

of two feet. The former had yielded a few scattered bones left behind by the plumber and owner. The depression trenches were a different story.

The skeleton under grid one lay in a fetal curl. It was unclothed, and not a single artifact had turned up in the screen.

The individual under grid two had been bundled before burial. The parts we could see looked ful y skeletal.

Flicking the last particles of dirt from the second burial, I set aside my paintbrush, stood, and stomped my feet to warm them.

"That a blanket?" Charbonneau's voice sounded husky from the cold.

"Looks more like leather," I said.

He jabbed a thumb at Dr. Energy's crate.

"This the rest of the dude in the box?"

Sergeant-detective Michel Charbonneau was born in Chicoutimi,

;.ix hours up the St. Lawrence from Montreal, in a region known as the Saguenay. Before entering the CUM, he'd spent several years working in the West Texas oil fields. Proud of his cowboy youth, Charbonneau always addressed me in my mother tongue. His English was good, though "de"s replaced "the"s, syl ables were often inappropriately accented, and his phrasing used enough slang to fil a ten-gal on hat.

"Let's hope so."

"You hope so?" A smal vapor cloud puffed from ClaudePs mouth.

"Yes, Monsieur Claudel. I hope so."

Claudel's lips tucked in, but he said nothing.

When Gilbert finished shooting the bundled burial, I dropped to my knees and tugged at a corner of the leather. It tore.

Changing from my warm woolies to surgical gloves, I leaned in and began teasing free an edge, gingerly separating, lifting, then rol ing the leather backward onto itself.

With the outer layer ful y peeled to the left, I began on the inner.

At places, fibers adhered to the skeleton. Hands shaking from cold and nervousness, I scalpeled rotten leather from underlying bone.

"What's that white stuff?" Racine asked.

"Adipocere."

"Adipocere," he repeated.

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"Grave wax," I said, not in the mood for a chemistry lesson.

"Fatty acids and calcium soaps from muscle or fat undergoing chemical changes, usual y after long burial or immersion in water."

"Why's it not on the other skeleton?"

"I don't know."

I heard Claudel puff air through his lips. I ignored him.

Fifteen minutes later I'd detached the inner layer and laid back the shroud, ful y exposing the skeleton.

Though damaged, the skul was clearly present.

"Three heads, three people." Charbonneau stated the obvious.

"Tabernoucbe," Claudel said.

"Damn," I said.

Gilbert and Racine remained mute.

"Any idea what we've got here, Doc?" Charbonneau asked.