Kathy Reichs_Bones_12 by 206 Bones

Author:206 Bones
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Montreal (Quebec), Mystery & Detective, Montreal (Québec), Montréal (Québec), Crimes Against, Fiction, Chicago (Ill.), Women, Women Forensic Anthropologists, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Sleuths, Brennan, Thrillers, Suspense, General, Sabotage, Temperance (Fictitious Character), Women - Crimes Against
ISBN: 9781416525677
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2009-08-25T05:00:00+00:00

22

Caller has confidential information.

Perry Schechter’s name was accompanied by a ten-digit sequence starting with 312.

Chicago.

Had Jurmain’s lawyer discovered the identity of the bastard who set me up?

I dialed.

Four rings, then a way too smooth voice asked that I leave my name, number, and reason for phoning.

I did as directed, then slammed the receiver.

Could anything else go wrong today?

I checked the handwritten date and time. Schechter had contacted the lab at nine fifteen that morning.

The clock said six forty.

I decided to split and call again from home.

Sure. That’ll work.

It didn’t.

I tried once upon arrival, twice after sharing take-out pad thai with Birdie.

Vecamamma rang as I was collecting the dinner debris. She was considering cataract surgery, wanted my opinion. I told her to go for it.

I asked about Cukura Kundze. Vecamamma said that Laszlo’s remains had been released by the coroner, and that his parents had organized a memorial service and interment. She’d attended, of course. Though sad, both Cukura Kundze and Mr. Tot appeared relieved that the boy was finally square with the Lord, at least from a funerary perspective. She described the coffin, the flowers, the music, the supper, Cukura Kundze’s inappropriately magenta dress, and, of course, the minister’s homily.

Familiar with policy concerning retention of samples in open homicide cases, I wondered how much of Lassie had actually gone into the ground. Didn’t say it.

I asked about the investigation. Vecamamma knew nothing.

After disconnecting, I speculated for the hundredth time on what had happened to Lassie. Why had the kid been murdered? Where? By whom? I hoped his case wouldn’t end up like thousands of others, in a forgotten box on the shelf of a police property room.

At eleven I went to bed.

The cat joined me sometime in the night.

I slept until eight the next morning. Driving to the lab, I had a session with myself. Hostility bad. Serenity good. Smell the roses. Better for health, longevity. Blah. Blah. Blah.

First thing, I called Schechter.

The same recorded voice smarmed the same directive. After dictating a second message, I recradled the receiver. Gently.

Staff meeting was the arctic affair it had been on Monday. No smiles. No jokes. No one wanting to be there.

Briel was absent. I learned she’d begun teaching a course at the med school in Laval.

As we dispersed, I pulled Ayers aside to ask why everyone seemed so down. Mumbling about fatigue and overwork, she hurried off to cut a Y in Marilyn Keiser’s chest.

Back at my desk, I called the coroner’s office. A new secretary picked up. I began my request. Stopped. Asked the woman’s name. Adele.

I identified myself. Adele and I exchanged pleasantries. The new me.

“Has the Gouvrard file come in?”

“Un instant, s’il vous plaît.”

I heard a clunk. Computer keys. A rush of air as the receiver was raised to an ear.

“Oui. Dr. Briel has it.”

“What?” Sharp.

Silence.

I took a breath. “Sorry, Adele, but I’m confused. Why was the file sent to Dr. Briel?”

“According to the record she’s handling the case.”

“That is an error.” So very polite. “Please replace Dr. Briel’s name with mine.

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