Page 34 of The Bone Code

“Think about this. The masks in Noel’s collection were divided into two categories: intellectuals versus criminals and suicides.”

“Speaks volumes about attitudes toward suicide at the time.”

“What if the woman in the mask was Beecroft’s great-aunt and she killed herself?”

I could think of no response.

“And here’s another interesting fact I picked up. Masks weren’t made only by phrenologists or as models for portraits. There was one other reason.”

She left me in suspense for a moment, then unveiled her discovery.

“Sometimes they were made on unidentified bodies.”

“So that relatives of missing persons could view the masks at the morgue.”

Anne nodded solemnly.

“Not bad, Annie.”

“I’ll stay on it.”

I didn’t doubt she would.

Like a hound on a sirloin.

Thirty minutes later, table cleared, dishes loaded into the Bosch, Birdie and I retreated to my room. As before, I opened the sliding glass door. Drawn by the call of the wild, the cat wandered out onto the balcony.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I booted my Mac. The Atlantic was feeling friskier tonight, so I worked to the sound of waves crashing and foam fizzing across the sand. To the cries of gulls sharing avian gossip. Perhaps complaining about the shortage of fish.

Ryan’s email had landed. I downloaded and peeked at its two attachments. One folder contained documents, the other photos.

I started with a quick inventory of the former. The items included the following: The scene report. Scores of witness interview summaries. Forms listing evidence and property recovered and analyzed. Notes made by Ryan, the lead detective, and two other members of the task force, both SQ. Ryan’s overview of the investigation. A report on a snail. A report on water hydraulics in the St. Lawrence River. Reports by the pathologist, myself, and the coroner.

Leaving the documents for later, I turned to the second folder, thinking pictures might kick-start my recall more vividly than text.

Ryan had scanned collections of photos from four separate packets. One set was produced by the SQ crime-scene unit that processed the scene. One came from Pierre LaManche, the LSJML pathologist who performed the autopsy. One came from me. The fourth series I wasn’t sure about. I left it for last.

I was sadly correct about the impact of visuals. Clicking through the images, the whole ugly mess came thundering back: The container gouged into a muddy beach. The algae-slimed wire and plastic sheeting. The mottled bones. The severed phalanges. The bullet holes, dark and round and lethal. The little fake emerald ring.

It was all too much to block out. I saw the woman and child down on their knees. Imagined the girl quickly palming her treasure into her mouth.

The usual wrenching questions pummeled my brain. Were the child and the woman shot together? Did they plead for their lives? Who was killed first? Did the child know she was going to die?

I thought of my daughter, Katy, at that age. Wondered. Did the child understand death? What does one know of mortality at age ten?

Banishing these unbearable thoughts, I turned to the final series. Those images were the most heartbreaking of all.

The desolate cemetery on rue Sherbrooke, Le Repos Saint-François d’Assise. The row of markers, none bearing a name. The forlorn inscriptions.

LSJML-41207 Os non identifiés d’une femme. LSJML-41208 Os non identifiés d’un enfant.

Unidentified bones of a woman. Unidentified bones of a child.

The pain felt as sharp as on the day I stood at that grave.

Brushing a tear from my cheek, I remembered Anne’s suggestion.

I made a decision.