Death Du Jour: A Novel by Kathy Reichs

Author:Kathy Reichs
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Forensic anthropology, Mystery & Detective, Arson investigation, Montréal (Québec), Fiction, General, Suspense, Women Sleuths, Brennan, Women anthropologists, Temperance (Fictitious character)
ISBN: 9780743200806
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 1999-02-15T05:00:00+00:00

17

AFTER DINNER AT STEAMERS OYSTER BAR, KATY AND I VISITED A gallery on Saint Helena. We meandered the rooms of the creaky old inn, inspecting the work of local Gullah artists, appreciating another perspective on a place we thought we knew. But as I critiqued collages, paintings, and photos, I remembered bones and crabs and dancing flies.

Katy bought a miniature heron carved from bark and painted periwinkle blue. On the way home we stopped for coffee ice cream, then ate it on the bow of the Melanie Tess, talking and listening to the lines and halyards of the surrounding sailboats clicking in the breeze. The moon spread a shimmering triangle outward from the marsh. As we chatted I watched the pale yellow light ripple on the undulating blackness.

My daughter confided her ambition to be a criminal profiler, and shared her misgivings about attaining that goal. She marveled at the beauty of Murtry and described the antics of the monkeys she’d observed. At one point I considered telling her of the day’s discovery, but held back. I didn’t want to sully the memory of her visit to the island.

I went to bed at eleven and lay for a long time listening to the creak of mooring lines and willing myself to sleep. Eventually I drifted off, taking the day with me and weaving it into the fabric of the last few weeks. I rode in a boat with Mathias and Malachy, desperately trying to keep them on board. I brushed crabs from a corpse, watched the seething mass re-form as fast as I scattered it. The corpse’s skull morphed into Ryan’s face, then into the charred features of Patrice Simonnet. Sam and Harry shouted at me, their words incomprehensible, their faces hard and angry.

When the phone woke me I felt disoriented, unsure where I was or why. I stumbled to the galley.

“Good morning.” It was Sam, his voice sounding strained and edgy.

“What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

“Where are you?”

“At the sheriff’s office. Your plan isn’t going to work.”

“Plan?” My brain fought to patch into the conversation.

“Your guy is in Bosnia.”

I peeked through the blinds. At the inner dock, a grizzled old man sat on the deck of his sailboat. As I released the slats he tipped back his head and drained a can of Old Milwaukee.

“Bosnia?”

“Jaffer. The anthropologist at USC. He’s gone to Bosnia to excavate mass graves for the UN. No one is sure when he’ll be back.”

“Who’s covering his casework?”

“It doesn’t matter. Baxter wants you to do the recovery.”

“Who’s Baxter?”

“Baxter Colker is the Beaufort County coroner. He wants you to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to do it.”

That was straightforward enough.

“When?”

“As soon as possible. Harley’s got a detective and a deputy lined up. Baxter is meeting us here at nine. He has a transport team on call. When we’re ready to leave Murtry, he’ll phone over and they’ll meet us at the Lady’s Island dock to take the body to Beaufort Memorial. But he wants you to do the digging. Just tell us what equipment you need and we’ll get it.

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