“Fans of TV’s CSI: Crime Scene Investigation should be in heaven” (People ) stepping into the world of forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan, star of Kathy Reichs’s electrifyingly authentic bestsellers.
The secrets of the dead are in her hands.
The bones of three young women are unearthed in the basement of a Montreal pizza parlor, and forensic anthropologist Tempe Brennan has unsolved murder on her mind as she examines the shallowly buried remains. Coming up against a homicide cop who is convinced the dead have been entombed on the site for centuries, Tempe perseveres, even with her own relationship with Detective Andrew Ryan at a delicate turning point. In the lab, the clean, well-preserved bones offer few clues. But when carbon-14 dating confirms her hunch that these were recent deaths despite the antique buttons found near the bodies, Tempe’s probing must produce answers quickly to stop a killer whose grisly handiwork has seen the light of day.
“FANS OF PATRICIA CORNWELL WILL RELISH THE FORENSIC DETAIL . . . . FAST-PACED . . . SUSPENSEFUL.”
—Booklist
Includes a bonus epilogue: “FROM THE FORENSIC FILES OF DR. KATHY REICHS”
Includes an excerpt from Break No Bones—available now!
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AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY MARIE-REINE MATTERA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KATHY REICHS, like her fictional creation Temperance Brennan, is a board-certified forensic anthropologist for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale for the province of Quebec, a position she also held at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina. She is Vice President of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences and serves on the National Police Services Advisory Council in Canada. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, Dr. Reichs received her Ph.D. at Northwestern University. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal. Her debut novel, Déjà Dead, brought her fame when it became a New York Times bestseller, a #1 international bestseller, and winner of the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Bones to Ashes, her tenth Temperance Brennan novel, is forthcoming in hardcover from Scribner.
Her website is www.kathyreichs.com.
“TEMPERANCE BRENNAN IS THE REAL THING.”
—Newsday (New York)
“SUCH BLOODY GOOD BEACH READING!”
—USA Today
INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR KATHY REICHS
and her New York Times bestsellers featuring forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan
MONDAY MOURNING
“Breathtaking technical detail . . . .”
—Entertainment Weekly
“A sure winner . . . . Those not familiar with forensic anthropology mysteries just may become hooked.”
—Library Journal
“Tempe Brennan is a breath of fresh air . . . . Reichs [takes the] science of death and turns it into thrilling stuff.”
—Western Cape City Vision
“The science is downright snazzy, the mystery plenty devious, and both highly enjoyable.”
—Houston Chronicle
Also available from Simon & Schuster Audio
“Dr. Temperance Brennan is back in her seventh adventure, which is even better than the previous six . . . . Each book in the series has improved on the preceding one: better plots, more complex characters.”
—The Globe and Mail (Toronto)
BARE BONES
“Fascinating.”
—The New York Times
“Right up there with Patricia Cornwell’s early Kay Scarpetta mysteries . . . . [Tempe’s] dedication, intelligence, dry wit, and femininity really shine through.”
—Booklist
GRAVE SECRETS
“Tempe Brennan is the lab lady most likely to dethrone Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta.”
—USA Today
“Powerful . . . a page-turner.”
—The Hartford Courant (CT)
FATAL VOYAGE
“Buckle up and take this voyage.”
—People
“The plot moves with electric force . . . . Morbid yet captivating.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for her #1 International Bestsellers
DEADLY DÉCISIONS
“A high-octane forensic thriller.”
—People
“Reichs has brought the detective story into the twenty-first century.”
—The Toronto Sun
DEATH DU JOUR
“The writing is snappy, and the forensic detail gruesome—and riveting.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Another scary ride through evil past and present. Read it and creep.”
—Mademoiselle
DÉJÀ DEAD
WINNER OF THE CRIME WRITERS OF CANADA’S ARTHUR ELLIS AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL
“Déjà Dead can lie side-by-side with the works of Patricia Cornwell . . . . Both do a fine job of telling a good, sometimes scary tale.”
—The Washington Times
“Scary enough to keep the lights on and the dog inside. Reichs is that good.”
—Daily News (New York)
BOOKS BY KATHY REICHS
MONDAY MOURNING
BARE BONES
GRAVE SECRETS
FATAL VOYAGE
DEADLY DÉCISIONS
DEATH DU JOUR
DÉJÀ DEAD
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A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living 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 reproduce this 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
ISBN: 978-0-7432-7202-5 (eBook)
This Pocket Books Printing June 2005
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover design by Jae Song
“Monday, Monday” by John Phillips Copyright © 1965 Universal-MCA Music Publishing, Inc. (ASCAP) All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
r />
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
From the Forensic Files of Dr. Kathy Reichs
'Break No Bones' Excerpt
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 Finnegan, Department of Anthropology, Kansas State University, provided details on aging bone with UV light. Robert B. J. Dorion, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, supplied information on property research in Montreal. Sergeant Pierre Marineau, Special Constable, Securité Publique, guided me on a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, 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 manuscript were greatly appreciated.
My friend Michelle Phillips graciously allowed the use of the “Monday, Monday” lyrics.
Much gratitude to James Woodward, Chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, for his continued support. Merci to André Lauzon, Chef de service, and to all of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale.
My editor, Susanne Kirk, and my agent, Jennifer Walsh, were, as always, patient, understanding, and totally supportive.
For Deborah Miner
My baby sister.
My Harry.
Thanks for always being there.
Oh Monday mornin’ you gave me no warnin’ of what was to be . . .
—JOHN PHILLIPS,
The Mamas and the Papas
MONDAY MOURNING
1
Monday, Monday . . .
Can’t trust that day . . .
AS 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.
Still squatting, I swiveled.
“Assez!” Enough!
Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel’s brows plunged into a V. He lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter.
“Rats. They are the devil’s spawn.” Claudel’s French was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upriver 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 toll. My knees protested as I rose to a standing position.
“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. Le plombier.”
“What was a plumber doing in the cellar?”
“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 shallow pit where the south wall met the dirt floor. “Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. Together they checked out the local library’s anatomy collection 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 follow-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.
Claudel’s V narrowed and his parrot nose went a deeper red. “Tabarnac!”
Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled sideways.
Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the wooden railing. “Until SIJ returns, throw rocks.”
SIJ—Section d’Identité Judiciaire. The Quebec equivalent of Crime Scene Recovery.
I watched Claudel’s perfectly fitted buttocks disappear through the small 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.
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 illumination of the portable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A pelvis.
A human skull.
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 killing 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 cellar of a pizza-by-the-slice joint, my boss had told me. The owner had called the police. The police had called the coroner. The coroner had called the medicolegal lab.
LaManche wanted me to check it out.
“Today?”
“S’il vous plaît.”
“I’m on the stand tomorrow.”
“The Pétit trial?”
I nodded.
“The remains are probably those of animals,” LaManche said in his precise Parisian French. “It should not 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 morning’s first “damn.”
There are some small-town departments around the island city of Montreal, but the two main players in law enforcement are the SQ and the CUM. La Sûreté du Québec is the provincial force. The SQ rules in the boonies, and in towns lacking municipal departments. The Police de la Communauté Urbaine de Montréal, 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 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 morning’s second “damn.”
My next task had been to determine whether anyone else lay in repose beneath the surface of the cellar. 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 Pétit file.
When I’d rendered my opinion, Claudel and Charbonneau had contributed to “damn’s” three through five. A few Quebecois expletives had been added for emphasis.
SIJ had been called. 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 cellar. 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 SIJ 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 1-A.