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?"

"Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipes."

Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I wondered why anyone would take the risk.

"The bones were lying on the surface?"

"Says he tripped on something sticking out of the ground. There."

Claudel cocked his chin at a shal ow pit where the south wal met the dirt floor. "Pul ed it loose. Showed the owner. Together they checked out the local library's anatomy col ection to see if the bone was human.

Picked a book with nice color pictures since they probably can't read."

I was about to ask a fol ow-up question when something clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner.

Instead of Charbonneau, we saw a scarecrow man in a knee-length sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty blue Nikes. Pigtails wormed from the lower edge of a red bandanna wrapped his head.

The man was crouched in the doorway, pointing a throwaway Kodak in my direction.

ClaudePs V narrowed and his parrot nose went a deeper red. "Tabernac!"

Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled sideways.

Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the wooden railing.

"Until SIJ returns, throw rocks."

SIJ--Section d'Identite Judiciaire. The Quebec equivalent of Crime Scene Recovery.

I watched Claudel's perfectly fitted buttocks disappear through the smal rectangular opening. Though tempted, I pegged not a single rock.

Upstairs, muted voices, the clump of boots. Downstairs, just the hum of the generator for the portable lights.

« 2 »

I

Breath suspended, I listened to the shadows around me.

No squeaking. No scratching. No scurrying feet.

Quick scan.

No beady eyes. No naked, scaly tails.

The little buggers were probably regrouping for another offensive.

Though I disagreed with Claudel's approach to the problem, I was with him on one thing: I could do without the rodents.

Satisfied that I was alone for the moment, I refocused on the moldy crate at my feet. Dr. Energy's Power Tonic. Dead tired? Dr. Energy's makes your bones want to get up and dance.

Not these bones, Doc.

I gazed at the crate's grisly contents.

Though most of the skeleton remained caked, dirt had been brushed from some bones. Their outer surfaces looked chestnut under the harsh il umination of the portable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A pelvis.

A human skul .

Damn.

Though I'd said it a half dozen times, reiteration couldn't hurt. I'd come from Charlotte to Montreal a day early to prepare for court on Tuesday. A man had been accused of kil ing and dismembering his wife. I'd be testifying on the saw mark analysis I'd done on her skeleton. It was complicated material and I'd wanted to review my case file. Instead, I was freezing my ass digging up the basement of a pizza parlor.

Pierre LaManche had visited my office early this morning. I'd recognized the look, correctly guessed what was coming as soon as I saw him.

Bones had been found in the cel ar of a pizza-by-the-slice joint, my boss had told me. The owner had cal ed the police. The police had cal ed the coroner. The coroner had cal ed the medicolegal lab.

LaManche wanted me to check it out.

"Today?"

"S'ilvous plait."

"I'm on the stand tomorrow."

"The Petit trial?"

I nodded.

"The remains are probably those of animals," LaManche said in his precise, Parisian French. "It should not take you long."

« 3 »

"Where?" I reached for a tablet.

LaManche read the address from a paper in his hand. Rue SteCatherine, a few blocks east of Centre-vil e.

CUM turf.

Claudel.

The thought of working with Claudel had triggered the morning's first "damn."

There are some smal -town departments around the island city of Montreal, but the two mam players in law enforcement are the SQ

and the CUM. La Surete du Quebec is the provincial force. The SQ

rules in the boomes, and in towns lacking municipal departments.

The Police de la Communaute Urbaine de Montreal, or CUM, are the city cops. The island belongs to the CUM.

Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau are detectives with the Major Crimes Division of the CUM. As forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec, I've worked with both over the years.

With Charbonneau, the experience is always a pleasure. With his partner, the experience is always an experience. Though a good cop, Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensitivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persistent skepticism as to the value of forensic anthropology.

Snappy dresser, though.

Dr. Energy's crate had already been loaded with loose bones when I'd arrived in the basement two hours earlier. Though Claudel had yet to provide many details, I assumed the bone col ecting had been done by the owner, perhaps with the assistance of the hapless plumber. My job had been to determine if the remains were human.

They were.

That finding had generated the morning's second "damn."

My next task had been to determine whether anyone else lay in repose beneath the surface of the cel ar. I'd started with three exploratory techniques.

Side lighting the floor with a flashlight beam had shown depressions in the dirt. Probing had located resistance below each depression, suggesting the presence of subsurface objects. Test trenching had produced human bones.

Bad news for a leisurely review of the Petit file.

When I'd rendered my opinion, Claudel and Charbonneau had

« 4 »

contributed to "damn"s three through five. A few quebecois expletives had been added for emphasis.

SIJ had been cal ed. The crime scene unit routine had begun.

Lights had been set up. Pictures had been taken. While Claudel and Charbonneau questioned the owner and his assistant, a ground penetrating radar unit had been dragged around the cel ar. The GPR

showed subsurface disturbances beginning four inches down in each depression. Otherwise, the basement was clean.

Claudel and his semiautomatic manned rat patrol while the STJ

techs took a break and I laid out two simple four-square grids. I was attaching the last string to the last stake when Claudel enjoyed his Rambo moment with the rats.

Now what? Wait for the SIJ techs to return?

Right.

Using SIJ equipment, I shot prints and video. Then I rubbed circulation into my hands, replaced my gloves, folded into a squat, and began troweling soil from square 1A.

As I dug, I felt the usual crime scene rush. The quickened senses.

The intense curiosity. What if it's nothing? What if it's something?

The anxiety.

What if I smash a critical y important section to hel ?

I thought of other excavations. Other deaths. A wannabe saint in a burned-out church. A decapitated teen at a biker crib. Bul et-riddled dopers in a streamside grave.

I don't know how long I'd been digging when the SIJ team returned, the tal er of the two carrying a Styrofoam cup. I searched my memory for his name.

Root. Racine. Tal and thin like a root. The mnemonic worked.

Rene Racine. New guy. We'd processed a handful of scenes. His shorter counterpart was Pierre Gilbert. I'd known him a decade.

Sipping tepid coffee, I explained what I'd done in their absence.

Then I asked Gilbert to film and haul dirt, Racine to screen.

Back to the grid.

When I'd taken square 1-A down three inches, I moved on to 1-B.

Then 1-C and 1-D.

Nothing but dirt.

OK. The GPR showed a discrepancy beginning four inches below the surface.

« 5 »

I kept digging.

My fingers and toes numbed. My bone marrow chil ed. I lost track of time.

Gilbert carried buckets of dirt from my grid to the screen. Racine sifted. Now and then Gilbert shot a pic. When al of grid one was down a level three inches, I went back to square f-A. At a depth of six inches I shifted squares as I had before.

I'd taken two swipes at square 1-B when I noticed a change in soil color. I asked Gilbert to reposition a light.

One glance and my diastolic ratcheted up.

"Bingo."

Gilbert squatted by my side. Racine joined him.

"Quoi?" Gilbert asked. What?

I ran the tip of my trowel around the outer edge of the blob seeping into 1-B.

"The dirt's darker," Racine observed.

"Staining indicates decomposition," I explained.

Both techs looked at me.

I pointed to squares 1-C and 1-D. "Someone or something's going south under there."

"Alert Claudel?" Gilbert asked.

"Make his day."

Four hours later al my digits were ice. Though I'd tuqued my head and scarved my neck, I was shivering inside my one-hundred-percentmicroporouspolyurethanepolymerizedcoatednylon-guaranteedtofortybelowCelsius Kanuk parka.

Gilbert was moving around the cel ar, snapping and filming from various angles. Racine was watching, gloved hands thrust into his armpits for warmth. Both looked comfy in their arctic jumpsuits.

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

« 6 »

,

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.

« 7 *

"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.

I creaked to my feet. Eight eves fol owed me to Dr. Energy's crate.

One by one I removed and observed the two pelvic halves, then the skul .

Crossing to the first trench, I knelt, extricated, and inspected the same skeletal elements.

Dear God.

Replacing those bones, I crawled to the second trench, leaned in, and studied the skul fragments.

No. Not again. The universal victims.

I teased free the right demi-pelvis.

Breath bil owed in front of five faces.

Sitting back on my heels, I cleaned dirt from the pubic symphysis.

And felt something go cold in my chest.

Three women. Barely past girl.

I

«w,

/AK1XG TO THL TUESD.-Yl MORNING \YLATI1LK REPORT, I KXIAY

I was in for kil er cold. Not the occasional mid-forties damp we whine about in January in North Carolina. I mean subzero cold. Arctic cold. If-I-stop-moving-Fl -die-and-be-eaten-by-wolves cold.

I adore Montreal. I love the not-quite-eight-hundred-foot mountain, the old port, Little Italy, Chinatown, the Gay Vil age, the steel and glass skyscrapers of Centre-vil e, the tangled neighborhoods with their al eys and gray stones and impossible staircases.

Montreal is a schizoid scrapper, continual y fighting with herself.

Anglophone-Francophone. Separatist-Federalist. Catholic-Protestant.

Old-New. I find it fascinating. I delight in the whole empanada, falafel,/>ow£z«e, Kong Pao multiculturalism of the place. Hurley's Irish Pub. Katsura. L'Express. Fairmont Bagel. Trattoria Trestevere.

I partake in the city's never-ending round of festivals: Le Festival International de Jazz, Les Fetes Gourmandes Internationales, Le Festival des Films du Monde, the bug-tasting festival at the Insectanum.

I frequent the stores on Ste-Cathenne, the outdoor markets at Jean-Talon and Atwater, the antique shops along Notre-Dame. I visit the museums, picnic in the parks, bike the paths along the Lachme Canal. I relish it al .

I do not relish the climate from November to May.

I admit it. I have lived too long in the South. I hate feeling chil ed.

9 »

I have no patience with snow and ice. Keep your boots and Chap Stick and ice hotels. Give me shorts and sandals and a thirty-blocker.

My cat, Birdie, shares this view. When I sat up he rose, arched, then tunneled back under the covers. Smiling, I watched his body compact into a tight round lump. Birdie. My sole and loyal roommate.

"I'm with you, Bird," I said, offing the clock radio.

The lump curled tighter.

I looked at the digits. Five-thirty.

I looked at the window. Pitch-black.

I bolted for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later I was at my kitchen table, coffee at my elbow, Petit file spread before me.

Marie-Reine Petit was a forty-two-year-old mother of three who worked at a boulangene sel ing bread. Two years earlier she'd gone missing. Four months later Marie-Reine's decomposed torso had been discovered in a hockey bag in a storage shed behind the Pent home. Marie-Reme's head and limbs had been stashed nearby in matching luggage.

A search of the Petit basement uncovered coping, hack, and carpenter's saws. I had analyzed the cut marks on Marie-Reine's bones to determine if a tool similar to one of hubby's had made them. Bingo on the hacksaw. Rejean Petit was now on trial for the murder of his wife.

Two hours and three coffees later, I gathered my photos and papers and rechecked the subpoena.

De comparaitre personnel ement devant la Cour du Quebec, chamber criminel e etpenal, au Palais de Justice de Montreal, a 09:00 heures, le 3

decembre--

Hot diggety. Personal y invited to testify. As personal as a summons to a tax audit. No RSVP necessary.

I noted the courtroom.

Zipping into boots and parka, I grabbed gloves, hat, and scarf, set the security alarm, and headed down to the garage. Birdie had yet to uncurl. Apparently my cat had enjoyed a predawn breakfast.

My old Mazda started on the first try. Good omen.

At the top of the ramp, I braked too quickly and swam crosswise into the lane like a kid on a Slip 'n Slide. Bad omen.

« 10 »

Rush hour. The streets were clogged, every vehicle spinning up slush. The early morning sun turned my salt-spattered windshield opaque. Though I applied my wipers and sprayers repeatedly, for stretches I found myself driving blind. Within blocks, I regretted not taking a taxi.

In the late sixteenth century a group of Laurentian Iroquois lived in a vil age they cal ed Hochelaga, situated between a smal mountain and a major river, just below the last stretch of serious rapids. In 1642, French missionaries and adventurers dropped in and stayed. The French cal ed their outpost Vil e-Mane.

Over the years, the residents of Vil e-Mane prospered and built and paved. The vil age took on the name of the mountain behind it, Mont Real. The river was christened the St. Lawrence.

Hel o, Europeans. Good-bye, First Nations.

Today the former Hochelaga-Vil e-Marie turf is known as VieuxMuiitreal.

Tourists love it.

Stretching uphil from the river, Old Montreal oozes quaint.

Gaslights. Horse-drawn carriages. Sidewalk vendors. Outdoor cafes. The solid stone buildings that were once home to colonists, stables, workshops, and warehouses now house museums, boutiques, gal eries, and restaurants. The streets are narrow and cobbled.

And offer not a chance of parking.

Wishing, once again, I'd taken a taxi, I left the car in a pay lot, then hurried up boulevard St-Laurent to the Palais de Justice, located at 1

rue Notre-Dame est, on the northern perimeter of the historic district.

Salt crunched underfoot. Breath froze on my scarf. Pigeons remained huddled when I passed, preferring col ective body warmth to the safety of flight.

As I walked, I thought of the pizza basement skeletons. Would the bones real y prove to be those of dead girls? I hoped not, but deep down I already knew.

I also thought of Marie-Reine Petit, and felt sorrow for a life cut short by unspeakable malice. I wondered about the Petit children.

Father jailed for murdering mother. Could these kids ever recover, or were they irreparably damaged by the horror that had been thrust upon them?

Passing, I glanced at the McDonald's franchise across StLaurent from the Palais de Justice. The owners had made a stab at colonial.

« 11 »

They'd lost the arches and thrown up blue awnings. It didn't real y work, but they had tried.

The designers of Montreal's main courthouse didn't bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smal er, glass-fronted box beneath. The upper stones shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.

I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies.

Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.

Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smel s drifted from the Cafe Vienhe. Alreadv wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.

Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against wal s, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in smal interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.

I took a seat outside 4.01 and pul ed the Petit file from my briefcase.

Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom.

With her long blonde hair and oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.

"You'l be my first witness." Cloutier's face was tense.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Your testimony is going to be critical."

Cloutier's fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip. She'd wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizza basement caper had nixed that.

Our late-night phone conversation hadn't provided the degree of preparation she'd wanted. I tried to reassure her.

"I can't tie the marks on the bones to Petit's specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool."

Cloutier nodded. "Consistent with."

"Consistent with," I agreed.

"Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Petit claimed he never laid eyes on that saw. An analyst from

« 12 »

I

your lab is going to testify that she removed the handle and found minute traces of blood in one of the screw grooves." I knew al of this from the previous night's discussion. Cloutier was verbalizing the case against Petit as much for her sake as for mine.

"A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Petit's. That ties him to the saw."

"And I tie the saw to the victim," I said.

Cloutier nodded. "This judge is a real pisser about qualifying experts."

"Aren't they al ?"

Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. "The bailiff wil cal you in about five minutes."

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