Monday Mourning читать онлайн

Each made a soft thunk in the stillness."

"After masking, I plugged in and revved a Stryker saw. White powder coned on the stainless steel as I bisected each femoral shaft. A hot, acrid odor filled the air.

I wondered again about the young women whose bones I was cutting. Had they died surrounded by family? Probably not. Alone and frightened? More likely. Hopeful of rescue? Desperate? Angry? Relieved? All possible. They never get to say.

When I’d finished sawing, I gathered the femoral segments and the UV light, and carried them to a storage closet at the end of the hall.

Come on. Let this work.

Entering the closet, I located an outlet and plugged in the UV. Then I set the femoral halves on a shelf with their freshly sawn surfaces facing outward.

When I closed the door, it was pitch-black.

Barely breathing, I pointed the UV and thumbed the switch.

8

“YES!” MY FREE HAND PUMPED THE AIR.

Limb bones of up to a century in age may fluoresce when viewed under UV light.

This fluorescence diminishes over time, the dead zone progressing outward from the marrow cavity and inward from the external surface. A century postmortem, the yellow-green glow is absent altogether.

These babies were smoking like neon doughnuts.

OK, Claudel. That’s step one.

Returning the femora to their respective body bags, I went in search of my boss.

LaManche was slicing a brain in the histo lab. He looked up when I entered, knife in one hand, plastic apron tied behind his neck and waist.

I explained what I’d done.

“And?”

“The cut surfaces lit up like novas.”

“Indicating?”

“The presence of organic constituents.”

LaManche laid his knife on the corkboard. “So these are not native burials.”

“These girls died after 1900.”

“Definitely?”

“Probably.” Less vehement.

“The building was constructed around the turn of the century.”

I did not reply.

“Do you recall the remains found near le Cathédral Marie-Reine-du-Monde?”

LaManche was referring to a time he’d sent me downtown to investigate “bodies” discovered by a water main crew.

I’d arrived to find backhoes, dump trucks, and an enormous hole in boulevard René-Lévesque. Skull, rib, and long-bone fragments lined the pavement and lay at the bottom of the freshly dug trench. Mingled with the human bits I could see wood slivers and corroded nails.

Easy one. Coffin burials.

Archaeologists later confirmed my opinion.