Monday Mourning читать онлайн

Again, I lifted him down."

"If I found evidence that the burials were old, I could relax and notify the archaeologists. On the other hand, if I found evidence that the deaths were recent, as I suspected, the coroner would insist on an investigation, and Claudel would have no choice. He and Charbonneau could start the legwork while I analyzed the third set of remains.

As I poured coffee, Birdie launched a third sortie. I relocated him again, somewhat less gently.

OK. I had no artifacts or bugs.

What options did that leave?

I knew that the elemental composition of bone changes over time. The amount of nitrogen decreases, the amount of fluoride increases. But these shifts are too slow to be of use in evaluating the age of modern remains.

I’d read studies that focused on radiography, histology, chemical reaction, and isotope content. I was aware of research that pointed to amino acids as useful in distinguishing recent from ancient bone.

But a myriad of factors influence biochemical and physical processes.

Temperature. Ground moisture. Oxygen tension. Microbial activity. Soil pH. No technique is reliably accurate. Once the flesh and bugs move on, PMI becomes the Bermuda Triangle of forensic anthropology.

I could think of only one test that might yield definitive results. But it would take time and cost money, and only a handful of labs performed it. Given the current financial climate, I knew it would be a hard sell to LaManche.

But it was worth a shot.

Placing my bowl on the floor, I gathered my purse and laptop and set off.

In my office, the message light remained obstinately dark.

The morning meeting was routine. A man dead of fumes from a malfunctioning space heater. An alcohol-related traffic death. An autoerotic with a faulty escape knot in his noose. A charred body in a burned-out motor home.

Pelletier caught the fire victim. Though the remains were thought to be those of the trailer’s owner, he asked that I be available in case things got dicey.

As the others filed out, I turned to LaManche.

“May I speak with you a moment?”

“Mais, oui.” LaManche folded back into his seat.

“I’ve examined two of the skeletons from the pizza parlor basement.”

When LaManche raised his brows, the lines in his flesh elongated and deepened. He seemed suddenly older, more worn than I remembered.