Monday Mourning читать онлайн

But to utilize dental or medical information it is first necessary to narrow the number of possibles to the smallest ascertainable sample. With the anthropological profile, an investigating officer can review missing persons reports, come up with names, and obtain individual records for comparison with the data associated with the discovered remains. We often provide the first level of analysis of a completely unknown set of remains.”

“How do you help with questions concerning manner of death?”

“By analyzing fracture patterns, forensic anthropologists are able to reconstruct events that caused particular traumas.

”

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

“Gunshot. Sharp instrument. Blunt instrument. Strangulation. But again, let me emphasize that this expertise would be requested only in situations in which the body was compromised to the point that those questions cannot be answered through soft tissue and organ examination 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 her mouth.

“Have you previously been qualified by the courts of Quebec Province and elsewhere to serve as an expert witness 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 mid-afternoon Cloutier had finished with me. As opposing counsel rose, I felt my stomach tighten.

Here comes rough water, I thought. Mischaracterization, incredulity, and general nastiness.

Pétit’s attorney was organized and civil.

And finished by five.

As things turned out, his cross-examination was nothing compared with the nastiness I would encounter in dealing with the pizza basement bones.

3

IT WAS DARK WHEN I EMERGED FROM THE COURTHOUSE. WHITE lights twinkled in the trees along rue Notre-Dame.

A calèche clopped by, horse sporting red-tasseled ear covers and a sprig of pine. Flakes floated around faux gas lanterns.

Bonne fête! Christmas in Quebec.

Traffic was again bumper-to-bumper. I nosed in and began creeping north on St-Laurent, still high on an après witness stand rush.

My fingers drummed the wheel. My thoughts ricocheted from topic to topic. My testimony. The pizza basement skeletons. My daughter.