Death Du Jour tb-2
Death Du Jour
( Temperance Brennan - 2 )
Reichs, Kathy
ALSO BY KATHY REICHS
DÉJÀ DEAD
DEATH
DU JOUR
KATHY REICHS
S C R I B N E R
SCRIBNER
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Copyright © 1999 by Kathleen J. Reichs
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SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Jossey-Bass, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.
ISBN: 0-7432-0080-2
To all who survived
the Great Quebec Ice Storm of 1998.
Nous nous souvenons.
The characters and events in this book are fictional and created out of the imagination of the author. The setting is in Montreal, Canada; Charlotte, North Carolina; and other locations. Certain real locations and institutions are mentioned, but the characters and events depicted are entirely fictional.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Grateful thanks are extended to Dr. Ronald Coulombe, specialiste en incendies; to Ms. Carole Péclet, specialiste en chimie; and to Dr. Robert Dorion, Responsable d’Odontologie, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale; and to Mr. Louis Metivier, Bureau du Coroner de la Province de Québec, for sharing their knowledge with me.
Dr. Walter Birkby, forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Medical Examiner of Pima County, Arizona, provided information on the recovery of burned remains. Dr. Robert Brouillette, Head of the Divisions of Newborn Medicine and of Respiratory Medicine at the Montreal Children’s Hospital helped with data on infant growth.
Mr. Curt Copeland, the Beaufort County coroner; Mr. Carl McCleod, the Beaufort County sheriff; and Detective Neal Player of the Beaufort County sheriff’s department were most helpful. Detective Mike Mannix of the Illinois State Police also answered many questions pertaining to the investigation of a homicide. Dr. James Tabor, Professor of Religious Studies at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, supplied information on cults and religious movements.
Mr. Leon Simon and Mr. Paul Reichs provided information on Charlotte and its history. I am also indebted to the latter for his comments on the manuscript. Dr. James Woodward, chancellor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, supported me unquestioningly throughout the writing of this book.
Special thanks must go to three individuals. Dr. David Taub, mayor of Beaufort and primatologist extraordinaire, was steadfastly helpful despite the barrage of questions I sent his way. Dr. Lee Goff, Professor of Entomology at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, did not abandon me as I pestered him endlessly for advice on bugs. Dr. Michael Bisson, Professor of Anthropology at McGill University, was a resource on McGill University, on Montreal, and on basically anything I needed to know.
Two books were particularly useful in the writing of this story. Plague: A Story of Smallpox in Montreal (1991), by Michael Bliss, Harper Collins, Toronto; and Cults in Our Midst: The Hidden Menace in Our Everyday Lives (1995), by Margaret Thaler Singer with Janja Lalich, Jossey-Bass Publishers, San Francisco.
I am grateful for the loving care of my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, and my editors Susanne Kirk and Maria Rejt. Without them Tempe could not tell the stories that she does.
DEATH
DU JOUR
1
IF THE BODIES WERE THERE, I COULDN’T FIND THEM.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside the old church, just the scrape of my trowel and the hum of a portable generator and heater echoed eerily in the huge space. High above, branches scratched against boarded windows, gnarled fingers on plywood blackboards.
The group stood behind me, huddled but not touching, fingers curled tightly in pockets. I could hear the shifting from side to side, the lifting of one foot, then the other. Boots made a crunching sound on the frozen ground. No one spoke. The cold had numbed us into silence.
I watched a cone of earth disappear through quarter-inch mesh as I spread it gently with my trowel. The granular subsoil had been a pleasant surprise. Given the surface, I had expected permafrost the entire depth of the excavation. The last two weeks had been unseasonably warm in Quebec, however, allowing snow to melt and ground to thaw. Typical Tempe luck. Though the tickle of spring had been blown away by another arctic blast, the mild spell had left the dirt soft and easy to dig. Good. Last night the temperature had dropped to seven degrees Fahrenheit. Not good. While the ground had not refrozen, the air was frigid. My fingers were so cold I could hardly bend them.
We were digging our second trench. Still nothing but pebbles and rock fragments in the screen. I didn’t anticipate much at this depth, but you could never tell. I’d yet to do an exhumation that had gone as planned.
I turned to a man in a black parka and a tuque on his head. He wore leather boots laced to the knee, two pairs of socks rolled over the tops. His face was the color of tomato soup.
“Just a few more inches.” I gave a palm-down gesture, like stroking a cat. Slowly. Go slowly.
The man nodded, then thrust his long-handled spade into the shallow trench, grunting like Monica Seles on a first serve.
“Par pouces!” I yelped, grabbing the shovel. By inches! I repeated the slicing motion I’d been showing him all morning. “We want to take it down in thin layers.” I said it again, in slow, careful French.
The man clearly did not share my sentiment. Maybe it was the tediousness of the task, maybe the thought of unearthing the dead. Tomato soup just wanted to be done and gone.
“Please, Guy, try again?” said a male voice behind me.
“Yes, Father.” Mumbled.
Guy resumed, shaking his head, but skimming the soil as I’d shown him, then tossing it into the screen. I shifted my gaze from the black dirt to the pit itself, watching for signs that we were nearing a burial.
We’d been at it for hours, and I could sense tension behind me. The nuns’ rocking had increased in tempo. I turned to give the group what I hoped was a reassuring look. My lips were so stiff it was hard to tell.
Six faces looked back at me, pinched from cold and anxiousness. A small cloud of vapor appeared and dissolved in front of each. Six smiles in my direction. I could sense a lot of praying going on.
Ninety minutes later we were five feet down. Like the first, this pit had produced only soil. I was certain I had frostbite in every toe, and Guy was ready to bring in a backhoe. Time to regroup.
“Father, I think we need to check the burial records again.”
He hesitated a moment. Then, “Yes. Of course. Of course. And we could all use coffee and a sandwich.”
The priest started toward a set of wooden doors at the far end of the abandoned church and the nuns followed, heads down, gingerly navigating the lumpy ground. Their white veils spread in identical arcs
across the backs of their black wool coats. Penguins. Who’d said that? The Blues Brothers.
I turned off the mobile spotlights and fell in step, eyes to the ground, amazed at the fragments of bone embedded in the dirt floor. Great. We’d dug in the one spot in the entire church that didn’t contain burials.
Father Ménard pushed open one of the doors and, single file, we exited to daylight. Our eyes needed little adjustment. The sky was leaden and seemed to hug the spires and towers of all the buildings in the convent’s compound. A raw wind blew off the Laurentians, flapping collars and veils.
Our little group bent against the wind and crossed to an adjacent building, gray stone like the church, but smaller. We climbed steps to an ornately carved wooden porch and entered through a side door.
Inside, the air was warm and dry, pleasant after the bitter cold. I smelled tea and mothballs and years of fried food.
Wordlessly, the women removed their boots, smiled at me one by one, and disappeared through a doorway to the right just as a tiny nun in an enormous ski sweater shuffled into the foyer. Fuzzy brown reindeer leaped across her chest and disappeared beneath her veil. She blinked at me through thick lenses and reached for my parka. I hesitated, afraid its weight would tip her off balance and send her crashing to the tile. She nodded sharply and urged me with upturned fingertips, so I slipped the jacket off, laid it across her arms, and added cap and gloves. She was the oldest woman that I had ever seen still breathing.
I followed Father Ménard down a long, poorly lit hallway into a small study. Here the air smelled of old paper and schoolhouse paste. A crucifix loomed over a desk so large I wondered how they’d gotten it through the door. Dark oak paneling rose almost to the ceiling. Statues stared down from the room’s upper edge, faces somber as the figure on the crucifix.
Father Ménard took one of two wooden chairs facing the desk, gestured me to the other. The swish of his cassock. The click of his beads. For a moment I was back at St. Barnabas. In Father’s office. In trouble again. Stop it, Brennan. You’re over forty, a professional. A forensic anthropologist. These people called you because they need your expertise.
The priest retrieved a leather-bound volume from the desktop, opened it to a page with a green ribbon marker, and positioned the book between us. He took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and exhaled through his nose.
I was familiar with the diagram. A grid with rows divided into rectangular plots, some with numbers, some with names. We’d spent hours poring over it the day before, comparing the descriptions and records for the graves with their positions on the grid. Then we’d paced it all off, marking exact locations.
Sister Élisabeth Nicolet was supposed to be in the second row from the church’s north wall, third plot from the west end. Right next to Mother Aurélie. But she wasn’t. Nor was Aurélie where she should have been.
I pointed to a grave in the same quadrant, but several rows down and to the right. “O.K. Raphael seems to be there.” Then down the row. “And Agathe, Véronique, Clément, Marthe, and Eléonore. Those are the burials from the 1840s, right?”
“C’est ça.”
I moved my finger to the portion of the diagram corresponding to the southwest corner of the church. “And these are the most recent graves. The markers we found are consistent with your records.”
“Yes. Those were the last, just before the church was abandoned.”
“It was closed in 1914.”
“Nineteen fourteen. Yes, 1914.” He had an odd way of repeating words and phrases.
“Élisabeth died in 1888?”
“C’est ça, 1888. Mère Aurélie in 1894.”
It didn’t make sense. Evidence of the graves should be there. It was clear that artifacts from the 1840 burials remained. A test in that area had produced wood fragments and bits of coffin hardware. In the protected environment inside the church, with that type of soil, I thought the skeletons should be in pretty good shape. So where were Élisabeth and Aurélie?
The old nun shuffled in with a tray of coffee and sandwiches. Steam from the mugs had fogged her glasses, so she moved with short, jerky steps, never lifting her feet from the floor. Father Ménard rose to take the tray.
“Merci, Sister Bernard. This is very kind. Very kind.”
The nun nodded and shuffled out, not bothering to clear her lenses. I watched her as I helped myself to coffee. Her shoulders were about as broad as my wrist.
“How old is Sister Bernard?” I asked, reaching for a croissant. Salmon salad and wilted lettuce.
“We’re not exactly sure. She was at the convent when I first started coming here as a child, before the war. World War II, that is. Then she went to teach in the foreign missions. She was in Japan for a long time, then Cameroon. We think she’s in her nineties.” He sipped his coffee. A slurper.
“She was born in a small village in the Saguenay, says she joined the order when she was twelve.” Slurp. “Twelve. Records weren’t so good in those days in rural Quebec. Not so good.”
I took a bite of sandwich then rewrapped my fingers around the coffee mug. Delicious warmth.
“Father, are there any other records? Old letters, documents, anything we haven’t looked at?” I wriggled my toes. No sensation.
He gestured to the papers littering the desk, shrugged. “This is everything Sister Julienne gave me. She is the convent archivist, you know.”
“Yes.”
Sister Julienne and I had spoken and corresponded at length. It was she who had initially contacted me about the project. I was intrigued from the outset. This case was very different from my usual forensic work involving the recently dead who end up with the coroner. The archdiocese wanted me to exhume and analyze the remains of a saint. Well, she wasn’t really a saint. But that was the point. Élisabeth Nicolet had been proposed for beatification. I was to find her grave and verify that the bones were hers. The saint part was up to the Vatican.
Sister Julienne had assured me that there were good records. All graves in the old church were cataloged and mapped. The last burial had taken place in 1911. The church was abandoned and sealed in 1914 following a fire. A larger one was built to replace it, and the old building was never used again. Closed site. Good documentation. Piece of cake.
So where was Élisabeth Nicolet?
“It might not hurt to ask. Perhaps there’s something Sister Julienne didn’t give you because she thought it unimportant.”
He started to say something, changed his mind. “I’m quite sure she’s given me everything, but I’ll ask. Sister Julienne has spent a great deal of time researching this. A great deal.”
I watched him out the door, finished my croissant, then another. I crossed my legs, tucked my feet under me, and rubbed my toes. Good. Feeling was returning. Sipping my coffee, I lifted a letter from the desk.
I’d read it before. August 4, 1885. Smallpox was out of control in Montreal. Élisabeth Nicolet had written to Bishop Édouard Fabre, pleading that he order vaccinations for parishioners who were well, and use of the civic hospital by those who were infected. The handwriting was precise, the French quaint and outdated.
The Convent Notre-Dame de l’Immaculée-Conception was absolutely silent. My mind drifted. I thought of other exhumations. The policeman in St-Gabriel. In that cemetery the coffins had been stacked three deep. We’d finally found Monsieur Beaupré four graves from his recorded location, bottom position, not top. And there was the man in Winston-Salem who wasn’t in his own coffin. The occupant was a woman in a long floral dress. That had left the cemetery with a double problem. Where was the deceased? And who was the body in the coffin? The family never was able to rebury Grandpa in Poland, and the lawyers were girding for war when I left.
Far off, I heard a bell toll, then, in the corridor, shuffling. The old nun was heading my way.
“Serviettes,” she screeched. I jumped, rocketing coffee onto my sleeve. How could so much volume come from so small a person?
“Merci.” I reached for
the napkins.
She ignored me, closed in, and began scrubbing my sleeve. A tiny hearing aid peeked from her right ear. I could feel her breath and see fine white hairs ringing her chin. She smelled of wool and rose water.
“Eh, voilà. Wash it when you get home. Cold water.”
“Yes, Sister.” Reflex.
Her eyes fell on the letter in my hand. Fortunately, it was coffee-free. She bent close.
“Élisabeth Nicolet was a great woman. A woman of God. Such purity. Such austerity.” Pureté. Austérité. Her French sounded as I imagined Élisabeth’s letters would if spoken.
“Yes, Sister.” I was nine years old again.
“She will be a saint.”
“Yes, Sister. That’s why we’re trying to find her bones. So they can receive proper treatment.” I wasn’t sure just what proper treatment was for a saint, but it sounded right.
I pulled out the diagram and showed it to her. “This is the old church.” I traced the row along the north wall, and pointed to a rectangle. “This is her grave.”
The old nun studied the grid for a very long time, lenses millimeters from the page.
“She’s not there,” she boomed.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s not there.” A knobby finger tapped the rectangle. “That’s the wrong place.”
Father Ménard returned at that moment. With him was a tall nun with heavy black eyebrows that angled together above her nose. The priest introduced Sister Julienne, who raised clasped hands and smiled.
It wasn’t necessary to explain what Sister Bernard had said. Undoubtedly they’d heard the old woman while in the corridor. They’d probably heard her in Ottawa.
“That’s the wrong place. You’re looking in the wrong place,” she repeated.
“What do you mean?” asked Sister Julienne.