Monday Mourning: A Novel By Kathy Reichs

7/31/2019 Monday Mourning: A Novel By Kathy Reichs

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BOOKS BYKATHY REICHS

Monday mourning

Bare Bones

Grave Secrets

Fatal Voyage

Deadly Dcisions

Death du Jour

Dj Dead


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KATHYREICHSMONDAY MOURNING

POCKETSTAR BOOKS

NEW YORK LONDON TORONTO SYDNEY


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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, sharedtheir knowledge of bedrock geology and strontium iso-tope analysis.

Michael Finnegan, Department of Anthropology,Kansas State University, provided details on aging bonewith UV light. Robert B. J. Dorion, Laboratoire de Sci-

ences Judiciaires et de Mdecine Lgale, supplied infor-mation on property research in Montreal. Sergeant PierreMarineau, Special Constable, Securit Publique, guided meon a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel,Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Mdecine Lgale,answered questions pertaining to pathology and autopsies.Michael Abel shared his knowledge of all 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 manu-script were greatly appreciated.

My friend Michelle Phillips graciously allowed theuse of the Monday, Monday lyrics.


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Much gratitude to James Woodward, Chancellor ofthe University of North Carolina at Charlotte, for his

continued support.Merci to Andr Lauzon, Chef de ser-vice, and to all of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sci-ences Judiciaires et de Mdecine Lgale.

My editor, Susanne Kirk, and my agent, JenniferWalsh, were, as always, patient, understanding, andtotally supportive.

a c k n o w l e d g m e n t s x


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For Deborah Miner

My baby sister.

My Harry.

Thanks for always being there.


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Oh Monday mornin you gave me nowarnin of what was to be . . .

JOHN PHILLIPS,The Mamas and the Papas


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1

Monday, Monday . . .Cant trust that day . . .

AS THE TUNE PLAYED INSIDE MY HEAD, GUNFIREexploded in the cramped underground space around me.

My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splatteredagainst rock just three feet from me.

The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, thenslid downward, leaving a smear of blood and hair.

I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded themwith a gloved hand.

Still squatting, I swiveled.Assez! Enough!Sergeant-dtective Luc Claudels brows plunged into

a V. He lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter.Rats. They are the devils spawn. Claudels French

was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upriver roots.

Throw rocks, I snapped.That bastard was big enough to throw them back.


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Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a Decem-ber Monday in Montreal had taken a toll. My knees

protested as I rose to a standing position.Where is Charbonneau? I asked, rotating onebooted foot, then the other.

Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron hasthe IQ of pea soup.

The owner discovered this? I flapped a hand at the

ground behind me.Non. Le plombier.What was a plumber doing in the cellar?Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode,

decided to do some underground exploration to acquainthimself with the sewage pipes.

Remembering my own descent down the ricketystaircase, 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 shallow pit where thesouth wall met the dirt floor. Pulled it loose. Showed the

owner. Together they checked out the local librarys anatomycollection to see if the bone was human. Picked a bookwith nice color pictures since they probably cant read.

I was about to ask a follow-up question when some-thing clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expect-ing his partner.

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

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

Claudels V narrowed and his parrot nose went adeeper red. Tabarnac!

K a t h y R e i c h s 2


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Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled side-ways.

Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the woodenrailing. Until SIJ returns, throw rocks.SIJSection dIdentit Judiciaire. The Quebec equiv-

alent of Crime Scene Recovery.I watched Claudels perfectly fitted buttocks disap-

pear through the small rectangular opening. Though

tempted, I pegged not a single rock.Upstairs, muted voices, the clump of boots. Down-stairs, just the hum of the generator for the portablelights.

Breath suspended, I listened to the shadows aroundme.

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 Claudels approach to the

problem, I was with him on one thing: I could do with-out the rodents.

Satisfied that I was alone for the moment, I refocusedon the moldy crate at my feet.Dr. Energys Power Tonic.

Dead tired? Dr. Energys makes your bones want to get upand dance.

Not these bones, Doc.I gazed at the crates grisly contents.Though most of the skeleton remained caked, dirt had

been brushed from some bones. Their outer surfaceslooked chestnut under the harsh illumination of theportable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A pelvis.

A human skull.Damn.

M o n d a y M o u r n i n g 3


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Though Id said it a half dozen times, reiterationcouldnt hurt. Id come from Charlotte to Montreal a

day early to prepare for court on Tuesday. A man hadbeen accused of killing and dismembering his wife. Id betestifying on the saw mark analysis Id done on her skele-ton. It was complicated material and Id wanted to reviewmy case file. Instead, I was freezing my ass digging up thebasement of a pizza parlor.

Pierre LaManche had visited my office early thismorning. Id recognized the look, correctly guessed whatwas coming as soon as I saw him.

Bones had been found in the cellar of a pizza-by-the-slice joint, my boss had told me. The owner had calledthe police. The police had called the coroner. The coro-

ner had called the medicolegal lab.LaManche wanted me to check it out.Today?Sil vous plat.Im on the stand tomorrow.The Ptit trial?

I nodded.The remains are probably those of animals,

LaManche said in his precise Parisian French. It shouldnot take you long.

Where? I reached for a tablet.LaManche read the address from a paper in his hand.

Rue Ste-Catherine, a few blocks east of Centre-ville.CUM turf.Claudel.The thought of working with Claudel had triggered

the mornings first damn.There are some small-town departments around the

island city of Montreal, but the two main players in law



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enforcement are the SQ and the CUM. La Sret duQubec is the provincial force. The SQ rules in the

boonies, and in towns lacking municipal departments.The Police de la Communaut Urbaine de Montral, orCUM, are the city cops. The island belongs to the CUM.

Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau are detectiveswith the Major Crimes Division of the CUM. As foren-sic anthropologist for the province of Quebec, Ive

worked with both over the years. With Charbonneau, theexperience is always a pleasure. With his partner, theexperience is always an experience. Though a good cop,Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensi-tivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persistent skepticism asto the value of forensic anthropology.

Snappy dresser, though.Dr. Energys crate had already been loaded with loose

bones when Id arrived in the basement two hours earlier.Though Claudel had yet to provide many details, Iassumed the bone collecting 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 mornings second

damn.My next task had been to determine whether anyone

else lay in repose beneath the surface of the cellar. Id

started with three exploratory techniques.Side lighting the floor with a flashlight beam had

shown depressions in the dirt. Probing had located resis-tance below each depression, suggesting the presence ofsubsurface objects. Test trenching had produced humanbones.

Bad news for a leisurely review of the Ptit file.



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When Id rendered my opinion, Claudel and Char-bonneau had contributed to damns three through five.

A few Quebecois expletives had been added for emphasis.SIJ had been called. The crime scene unit routine hadbegun. Lights had been set up. Pictures had been taken.

While Claudel and Charbonneau questioned the ownerand his assistant, a ground-penetrating radar unit hadbeen dragged around the cellar. The GPR showed sub-

surface disturbances beginning four inches down in eachdepression. Otherwise, the basement was clean.Claudel and his semiautomatic manned rat patrol

while the SIJ techs took a break and I laid out two simplefour-square grids. I was attaching the last string to thelast 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

1-A.As I dug, I felt the usual crime scene rush. The quick-

ened senses. The intense curiosity. What if its nothing?What if its something?

The anxiety.What if I smash a critically important section to hell?

I thought of other excavations. Other deaths. Awannabe saint in a burned-out church. A decapitatedteen at a biker crib. Bullet-riddled dopers in a streamsidegrave.

I dont know how long Id been digging when the SIJteam returned, the taller of the two carrying a Styro-

foam cup. I searched my memory for his name.



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Root.Racine. Tall and thin like a root. The mnemonicworked.

Ren Racine. New guy. Wed processed a handful ofscenes. His shorter counterpart was Pierre Gilbert. Idknown him a decade.

Sipping tepid coffee, I explained what Id done intheir absence. Then I asked Gilbert to film and haul dirt,Racine to screen.

Back to the grid.When Id taken square 1-A down three inches, Imoved 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.

I kept digging.My fingers and toes numbed. My bone marrow

chilled. 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 all of grid one was down a level three inches, I

went back to square 1-A. At a depth of six inches Ishifted squares as I had before.

Id taken two swipes at square 1-B when I noticed achange 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 dirts darker, Racine observed.Staining indicates decomposition, I explained.

Both techs looked at me.



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I pointed to squares 1-C and 1-D. Someone or some-things going south under there.

Alert Claudel? Gilbert asked.Make his day.

Four hours later all my digits were ice. ThoughId tuqued my head and scarved my neck, I was

shivering inside my one-hundred-percent-microporous-polyurethane-polymerized-coated-nylon-guaranteed-to-forty-below-Celsius Kanuk parka.

Gilbert was moving around the cellar, snapping andfilming from various angles. Racine was watching, glovedhands 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 oftheir genitals. Each wore a black woolen overcoat andblack leather gloves. Neither wore a happy face.

Eight dead rats adorned the base of the walls.

The plumbers pit and the two depressions were opento a depth of two feet. The former had yielded a few scat-tered bones left behind by the plumber and owner. Thedepression trenches were a different story.

The skeleton under grid one lay in a fetal curl. It wasunclothed, 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 fully skeletal.Flicking the last particles of dirt from the second bur-

ial, I set aside my paintbrush, stood, and stomped myfeet to warm them.

That a blanket? Charbonneaus voice soundedhusky from the cold.



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Looks more like leather, I said.He jabbed a thumb at Dr. Energys crate.

This the rest of the dude in the box?Sergeant-dtective Michel Charbonneau was born inChicoutimi, six hours up the St. Lawrence from Mon-treal, in a region known as the Saguenay. Before enteringthe CUM, hed spent several years working in the WestTexas oil fields. Proud of his cowboy youth, Charbonneau

always addressed me in my mother tongue. His Englishwas good, though des replaced thes, syllables wereoften inappropriately accented, and his phrasing usedenough slang to fill a ten-gallon hat.

Lets hope so.You hope so? A small vapor cloud puffed from

Claudels mouth.Yes, Monsieur Claudel. I hope so.Claudels lips tucked in, but he said nothing.

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

Changing from my warm woolies to surgical gloves, Ileaned in and began teasing free an edge, gingerly separat-ing, lifting, then rolling the leather backward onto itself.

With the outer layer fully peeled to the left, I began onthe inner. At places, fibers adhered to the skeleton.Hands shaking from cold and nervousness, I scalpeled

rotten leather from underlying bone.Whats that white stuff? Racine asked.Adipocere.Adipocere, he repeated.Grave wax, I said, not in the mood for a chemistry

lesson. Fatty acids and calcium soaps from muscle or fat

undergoing chemical changes, usually after long burial orimmersion in water.



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Whys it not on the other skeleton?I dont know.

I heard Claudel puff air through his lips. I ignoredhim.Fifteen minutes later Id detached the inner layer and

laid back the shroud, fully exposing the skeleton.Though damaged, the skull was clearly present.Three heads, three people. Charbonneau stated the

obvious.Tabarnouche, Claudel said.Damn, I said.Gilbert and Racine remained mute.Any idea what weve got here, Doc? Charbonneau

asked.

I creaked to my feet. Eight eyes followed me to Dr.Energys crate.

One by one I removed and observed the two pelvichalves, then the skull.

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

Dear God.Replacing those bones, I crawled to the second

trench, leaned in, and studied the skull fragments.No. Not again. The universal victims.I teased free the right demi-pelvis.Breath billowed in front of five faces.

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

And felt something go cold in my chest.Three women. Barely past girl.



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2

WAKING TO THE TU ES DAY MO RNING WEATHER report, I knew I was in for killer cold. Not the occa-sional mid-forties damp we whine about in January inNorth Carolina. I mean subzero cold. Arctic cold. If-I-stop-moving-Ill-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, theGay Village, the steel and glass skyscrapers of Centre-ville, the tangled neighborhoods with their alleys andgray stones and impossible staircases.

Montreal is a schizoid scrapper, continually fighting

with herself. Anglophone-Francophone. Separatist-Federalist. Catholic-Protestant. Old-New. I find it fas-cinating. I delight in the whole empanada, falafel,poutine,Kong Pao multiculturalism of the place. Hurleys IrishPub. Katsura. LExpress. Fairmont Bagel. TrattoriaTrestevere.

I partake in the citys never-ending round of festivals:Le Festival International de Jazz, Les Ftes Gourmandes


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Internationales, Le Festival des Films du Monde, thebug-tasting festival at the Insectarium. I frequent the

stores on Ste-Catherine, the outdoor markets at Jean-Talon and Atwater, the antique shops along Notre-Dame. I visit the museums, picnic in the parks, bike thepaths along the Lachine Canal. I relish it all.

I do not relish the climate from November to May.I admit it. I have lived too long in the South. I hate

feeling chilled. I have no patience with snow and ice.Keep your boots and ChapStick and ice hotels. Give meshorts and sandals and a thirty-blocker.

My cat, Birdie, shares this view. When I sat up herose, arched, then tunneled back under the covers. Smil-ing, I watched his body compact into a tight round lump.

Birdie. My sole and loyal roommate.Im 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, coffeeat my elbow, Petit file spread before me.

Marie-Reine Petit was a forty-two-year-old mother ofthree who worked at a boulangerie selling bread. Twoyears earlier shed gone missing. Four months laterMarie-Reines decomposed torso had been discovered

in a hockey bag in a storage shed behind the Petit home.Marie-Reines head and limbs had been stashed nearby inmatching luggage.

A search of the Petit basement uncovered coping,hack, and carpenters saws. I had analyzed the cut markson Marie-Reines bones to determine if a tool similar to

one of hubbys had made them. Bingo on the hacksaw.Rjean Petit was now on trial for the murder of his wife.



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Two hours and three coffees later, I gathered my pho-tos and papers and rechecked the subpoena.

De comparatre personnellement devant la Cour du

Qubec, Chambre criminelle et pnale, au Palais de Justice

de Montral, 09:00 heures, le 3 dcembre

Hot diggety. Personally 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 thegarage. Birdie had yet to uncurl. Apparently my cat hadenjoyed 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.

Rush hour. The streets were clogged, every vehiclespinning up slush. The early-morning sun turned my

salt-spattered windshield opaque. Though I applied mywipers and sprayers repeatedly, for stretches I foundmyself driving blind. Within blocks, I regretted not tak-ing a taxi.

In the late sixteenth century a group of LaurentianIroquois lived in a village they called Hochelaga, situated

between a small mountain and a major river, just belowthe last stretch of serious rapids. In 1642, French mis-sionaries and adventurers dropped in and stayed. TheFrench called their outpost Ville-Marie.

Over the years, the residents of Ville-Marie prosperedand built and paved. The village took on the name of the

mountain behind it, Mont-Royal. The river was chris-tened the St. Lawrence.



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Hello, Europeans. Good-bye, First Nations.Today the former HochelagaVille-Marie turf is

known as Vieux-Montral. Tourists love it.Stretching uphill from the river, Old Montreal oozesquaint. Gaslights. Horse-drawn carriages. Sidewalk ven-dors. Outdoor cafs. The solid stone buildings that wereonce home to colonists, stables, workshops, and ware-houses now house museums, boutiques, galleries, and

restaurants. The streets are narrow and cobbled.And offer not a chance of parking.Wishing, once again, Id taken a taxi, I left the car in a

pay lot, then hurried up boulevard St-Laurent to thePalais de Justice, located at 1 rue Notre-Dame est, on thenorthern perimeter of the historic district. Salt crunched

underfoot. Breath froze on my scarf. Pigeons remainedhuddled when I passed, preferring collective bodywarmth to the safety of flight.

As I walked, I thought of the pizza basement skele-tons. Would the bones really prove to be those of deadgirls? I hoped not, but deep down I already knew.

I also thought of Marie-Reine Ptit, and felt sorrow fora life cut short by unspeakable malice. I wondered aboutthe Ptit children. Father jailed for murdering mother.Could these kids ever recover, or were they irreparablydamaged by the horror that had been thrust upon them?

Passing, I glanced at the McDonalds franchise across

St-Laurent from the Palais de Justice. The owners hadmade a stab at colonial. Theyd lost the arches andthrown up blue awnings. It didnt really work, but theyhad tried.

The designers of Montreals main courthouse didntbother with architectural harmony. The lower stories

consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars



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overhanging a smaller, glass-fronted box beneath. Theupper stories shoot skyward as a featureless monolith.

The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hum-mer 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 toaccommodate armies. Men in suits. Black-robed attor-neys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There

seemed no in-between.Winding among large planters and uprights bearingstarburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at theback of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the CafVienne. Already wired, I considered but passed up afourth cup.

Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favorof the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metalbenches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing inhushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in smallinterrogation rooms lining the corridor. None lookedhappy.

I took a seat outside 4.01 and pulled the Ptit filefrom my briefcase. Ten minutes later Louise Cloutieremerged from the courtroom. With her long blonde hairand oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor lookedabout seventeen.

Youll be my first witness. Cloutiers face was tense.

Im ready, I said.Your testimony is going to be critical.Cloutiers fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip.

Shed wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizzabasement caper had nixed that. Our late-night phoneconversation hadnt provided the degree of preparation

shed wanted. I tried to reassure her.



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I cant tie the marks on the bones to Ptits specifichacksaw, 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 Ptit claimed he never laid eyes onthat saw. An analyst from your lab is going to testify that

she removed the handle and found minute traces ofblood in one of the screw grooves. I knew all of thisfrom the previous nights discussion. Cloutier was ver-balizing the case against Ptit as much for her sake as formine.

A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is

Ptits. 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.Arent they all?Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. The bailiff will call

you in about five minutes.It was closer to twenty.The courtroom was standard, nondescript modern.

Gray-textured walls. Gray-textured carpet. Gray-texturedfabric on long bolted benches. The only color was at cen-ter stage, inside the gates separating the spectators from

the official players. Attorneys chairs upholstered in red,yellow, and brown. The blue, red, and white of the Quebecand Canadian flags.

A dozen people occupied the public benches. Eyes fol-lowed as I walked up the center aisle and took the stand.The judge was ahead and to my left, the jury straight

ahead, facing me. Monsieur Ptit was to my right.



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I have testified many times. I have faced men andwomen accused of monstrous crimes. Murder. Rape.

Torture. Dismemberment. I am always underwhelmed bythe accused.This time was no exception. Rejean Ptit looked ordi-

nary. Timid, even. The man could have been my uncleFrank.

The clerk swore me in. Cloutier rose and began ques-

tioning me from the prosecutors table.Please state your full name.Temperance Deasee Brennan.

We spoke into microphones suspended from the ceil-ing, our voices the only sound in the room.

What is your profession?

I am a forensic anthropologist.How long have you practiced that profession?Approximately twenty years.Where do you practice that profession?I am a full professor at the University of North Car-

olina at Charlotte. I am forensic anthropologist for the

province of Quebec through the Laboratoire de SciencesJudiciaires et de Mdecine Lgale, in Montreal, and forthe state of North Carolina through the Office of theChief Medical Examiner, headquartered in Chapel Hill.

You are an American citizen?Yes. I have a Canadian work permit. I split my time

between Montreal and Charlotte.Why is it that an American serves as forensic anthro-

pologist for a Canadian province?There is no Canadian citizen who is both board-

certified in this field and fluent in French.Well return to the question of board certification.

Please describe your educational qualifications.



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I hold a Bachelor of Arts degree in anthropologyfrom the American University in Washington, D.C. I

hold MA and PhD degrees in biological anthropologyfrom Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois.Next followed an endless series of questions on my

graduate studies, my thesis and doctoral topics, myresearch, my grants, my publications. Where? When?

With whom? What journals? I thought she was going to

ask the color of my panties the day I defended my dis-sertation.Have you authored any books, Dr. Brennan?I listed them.Do you belong to any professional associations?I listed them.

Have you held office in any of those associations?I listed them.Are you certified by any regulatory body?I am certified by the American Board of Forensic

Anthropology.Please tell the court what that means.

I described the process of application, the examina-tion, the ethics review, and explained the importance ofcertifying boards in assessing the competence of thoseoffering themselves as experts.

In addition to the medicolegal labs in Quebec andNorth Carolina, is there any other context in which you

practice your profession?I have worked for the United Nations, for the

United States Military Central Identification Labora-tory in Honolulu, Hawaii, as an instructor at the FBIAcademy in Quantico, Virginia, and as an instructor atthe Royal Canadian Mounted Police Training Academy

in Ottawa, Ontario. I am a member of a United States



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National Disaster Mortuary Response Team. On occa-sion I consult for private clients.

The jury sat motionless, either fascinated orcomatose. Ptits lawyer was taking no notes.Please tell us, Dr. Brennan. What does a forensic

anthropologist do?I spoke directly to the jury.Forensic anthropologists are specialists in the human

skeleton. We are brought into cases, usually, though notalways, by pathologists. Our expertise is sought when anormal autopsy, focusing on organs and soft tissue,either is not possible or is severely limited and the bonesmust be examined for answers to crucial questions.

What types of questions?

The questions usually focus on identity, manner ofdeath, and postmortem mutilation or other damage.

How do you help with questions of identity?By examining skeletal remains I am able to provide a

biological profile, including the age, sex, race, and heightof the deceased. In certain cases I am able to compare

anatomical landmarks observed on an unknown individ-ual with similar landmarks visible on the antemortemX-rays of a known individual.

Arent most identifications accomplished using fin-gerprints, dental records, or DNA?

Yes. But to utilize dental or medical information it is

first necessary to narrow the number of possibles to thesmallest ascertainable sample. With the anthropologicalprofile, an investigating officer can review missing per-sons reports, come up with names, and obtain individualrecords for comparison with the data associated withthe discovered remains. We often provide the first level

of analysis of a completely unknown set of remains.



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How do you help with questions concerning mannerof death?

By analyzing fracture patterns, forensic anthropolo-gists are able to reconstruct events that caused particulartraumas.

What types of trauma do you typically examine, Dr.Brennan?

Gunshot. Sharp instrument. Blunt instrument. Stran-

gulation. But again, let me emphasize that this expertisewould be requested only in situations in which the bodywas compromised to the point that those questions can-not be answered through soft tissue and organ examina-tion solely.

What do you mean by compromised?

A body that is decomposed, burned, mummified,skeletal

Dismembered?Yes.Thank you.The jury had definitely perked up. Three stared wide-

eyed. A woman in the back row held a hand to hermouth.

Have you previously been qualified by the courts ofQuebec Province and elsewhere to serve as an expertwitness in criminal trials?

Yes. Many times.

Cloutier turned to the judge.Your Honor, we tender Dr. Temperance Brennan as

an expert in the field of forensic anthropology.The defense raised no objection.

We were off.By midafternoon Cloutier had finished with me. As

opposing counsel rose, I felt my stomach tighten.



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Here comes rough water, I thought. Mischaracteriza-tion, incredulity, and general nastiness.

Ptits attorney was organized and civil.And finished by five.As things turned out, his cross-examination was noth-

ing compared with the nastiness I would encounter indealing with the pizza basement bones.



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A Pocket Star Book published byPOCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places andincidents are products of the authors imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or personsliving or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2004 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.

Originally published in hardcover in 2004 by Scribner

All rights reserved, including the right to reproducethis book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.For information address Scribner, 1230 Avenue of the

Americas, New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-5301-8

This Pocket Books Printing June 2005

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POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarksof Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Cover design by Jae Song

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Monday, Monday by John Phillips

Copyright 1965 Universal-MCA Music Publishing Inc (ASCAP)All i h d U d b i i

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchasedthis book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported tothe publisher as unsold and destroyed. Neither the author nor thepublisher has received payment for the sale of this stripped book.

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