y seven the next morning I was racing through the asphalt underbelly of Montreal. Above me, the city yawned and stretched to life. Around me, the Ville-Marie Tunnel looked as gray as my mood.

Quebec was in the grip of a rare spring heat wave. When I'd arrived home near midnight, my patio thermometer still topped eighty, and the temperature inside felt like nine hundred Celsius.

The AC was indifferent to my preference for sleeping cool. Ten minutes of clicking buttons, pounding, and swearing had done nothing to coax it to life. Sweating and angry, I'd finally opened every window and fallen into bed.

The street boys had been equally unconcerned about my comfort and need for sleep. A dozen were en fête on the back stoop of a pizza joint ten yards from my bedroom window. Yelling did not dampen their party mood. Neither did threats. Or curses.

I had slept badly, tossing and turning under limp sheets, awakened repeatedly by laughter, song, and angry outbursts. I had greeted the dawn with a pounding headache.

The Bureau du Coroner and the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale are located in a thirteen-story glass and concrete T in a neighborhood east of Centre-ville. In deference to its principal occupant, the provincial police, or Sûreté du Québec, over the decades the structure has been dubbed the SQ building.

Several years back, the Gouvernement du Quebec decided to pump millions into law enforcement and forensic science. The building was refurbished, and the LSJML was expanded and moved from the fifth to the twelfth and thirteenth floors, into space formerly occupied by a short-term jail. In an official ceremony, the tower was reborn as the Edifice Wilfrid-Derome.

Old habits die hard. To most it remains the SQ building.

Exiting the tunnel at the Molson brewery, I passed under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, shot across De Lorimier, turned right, and wound through a neighborhood where neither the streets nor the people are beautiful. Three-flats with postage-stamp yards and metal staircases spiraling up their faces. Gray stone churches with silver spires. Corner dépanneurs. Storefront businesses. The Wilfrid-Derome/SQ looming over all.

After ten minutes of searching, I located a spot that appeared, through some bureaucratic loophole, to be legal, without permit, during the precise period I planned to park. I rechecked the monthly, hourly, and daily restrictions, maneuvered into place, grabbed my laptop and briefcase, and headed up the block.

Children were dribbling toward a nearby school in twos and threes, like ants converging on a melting Popsicle. Early arrivals milled in the playground, kicking balls, jumping ropes, screaming, chasing. A small girl peered through the wrought-iron fence, fingers clutching the uprights like those of the child at Chupan Ya. She watched me pass, face expressionless. I did not envy her the next eight hours, trapped in a hot classroom, summer freedom still a month away.

Nor did I envy the day facing me.

I was not looking forward to a mummified head. I was not looking forward to a putrefied torso. I dreaded mediating the reunion between Chantale and her mother. It was one of those mornings I wished I'd taken a job with the telephone company.

Paid vacations. Great benefits. No corpses.

I was perspiring by the time I entered the lobby. The morning mix of smog, exhaust, and the cocktail emanating from the brewery had not helped my cranial vessels. My skull felt as though the contents had exceeded capacity and were pushing for a way out.

There'd been no coffee at the condo. As I displayed my building elevator, swiped my lab card, and exited on the twelfth floor, that single word formed on my lips.

Coffee!

One more swipe, glass doors swished open, and I entered the medico-legal wing.

Offices lined the right side of the corridor, labs lay to the left. Microbiologie. Histologie. Pathologie. Anthropologie-Odontologie. Windows ran from ceiling to mid-wall, designed to maximize visibility without compromising security. Through the glass I could see that every lab was empty.

I checked my watch. Seven thirty-five. Since most support, technical, and professional personnel began their day at eight, I would have almost thirty minutes to myself.

With the exception of Pierre LaManche. For the decade I'd worked at the LSJML, the director of the medico-legal section had arrived at seven and stayed long after his staff clocked out. The old man was as dependable as a Timex watch.

He was also an enigma. LaManche took three weeks off each July, one week during the Christmas holidays. During these breaks, he called in to work from home each day. He did not travel, camp, garden, fish, or golf. He had no hobbies, to anyone's knowledge. Though queried, LaManche politely refused to discuss his vacations. Friends and colleagues had quit asking.

My office is last in the row of six, directly across from the anthropology lab. This door requires a key.

A mountain of paper covered my desk. Ignoring it, I deposited my computer and case, grabbed my mug, and set off for the staff lounge.

As expected, LaManche's was the only other door open. I poked my head in on the way back.

LaManche looked up, half-moon glasses on the end of his nose. Long nose. Long ears. Long face, with long, vertical creases. Mr. Ed in reading specs.

'Temperance.' Only LaManche used my full name. In his proper, formal French, the last syllable rhymed with sconce. 'Comment ça va?'

I assured him I was well.

'Please, come in.' He flapped a huge, freckled hand at two chairs opposite his desk. 'Sit down.'

'Thanks.' I balanced my coffee on the armrest.

'How was Guatemala?'

'How do you summarize Chupan Ya?

'Difficult.'

'On many levels.'

'Yes.'

'The Guatemalan police were eager to have you.'

'Not everyone shared that enthusiasm.'

'Oh?'

'How much do you want to know?'

He removed the half-moons, tossed them onto the desktop, and leaned back.

I told him about the Paraiso investigation, and about Diaz's efforts to block my participation.

'Yet this man did not interfere with your participation in the Claudia de la Alda case?'

'Never saw him.'

'Are there any suspects in that murder?'

I shook my head.

'The ambassador's daughter and her friend are here, so only one young woman remains missing?'

'Patricia Eduardo.'

'And the septic tank victim.'

'Yes. Though that could be Patricia.'

Embarrassment must have shown on my face.

'You had no power to stop this Diaz.'

'I could have done a more thorough exam while I had the chance.'

We were silent for a moment.

'But I do have a couple of ideas.'

I told him about the cat hair sample.

'What do you hope to accomplish?'

'A profile might prove useful if a suspect is found.'

'Yes.' Noncommital.

'Dog hair nailed Wayne Williams for the Atlanta child murders.'

'Don't be defensive, Temperance. I am agreeing with you.'

I swirled my coffee.

'It's probably a dead end.'

'But if Monsieur Gagné is willing to profile the hair, why not?'

I told him my plans for the CT scans.

'That sounds more promising.'

I hoped so.

'Did you find the two requests I left on your desk?'

LaManche referred to the Demande d'Expertise en Anthropologie, the form I receive as entree into every case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it specifies the type of exam required, lists the personnel involved, and provides a brief overview of facts.

'The skull may not be human. In any case, it does not appear to be a recent death. The torso is another story. Please begin with that.'

'Any possibles? '

'Robert Clement is a small-time drug dealer in western Quebec who recently branched out on his own.

'Without paying kickback to the Angels.'

LaMarche nodded. 'Can't allow that.'

'Bad for business.'

'Clement came to Montreal in early May and vanished shortly thereafter. He was reported missing ten days ago.'

I raised my eyebrows. Bikers normally shunned the attention of law enforcement.

'An anonymous female caller.'

'I'll get to it right away.'

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back in my office, I phoned Susanne Jean. She was not in, so I left a message.

Next I took the Paraiso sample to the DNA section. Gagné listened to my request, absently clicking a ballpoint pen.

'Intriguing question.'

'Yes.'

'Never done a cat.'

'Could be a place to make your name.'

'King of the Feline Double Helix.'

'Open niche.'

'Could call it Project Felix Helix.' The name of the cartoon cat sounded strange in French.

Gagné reached for Minos's plastic container. 'Shall I hold back a subsample?'

'Run everything. The Guatemalan lab has more.'

'Mind if I play around a bit, test a few techniques?'

'Knock yourself out.'

We signed evidence transfer forms, and I hurried back to my office.

Before facing the head and torso, I spent several minutes sifting through the mound on my blotter. I located LaManche's request sheets, fished out the pink telephone slips, and shoved the rest aside. I was hoping for some sort of message from Ryan. Bienvenue. Welcome back. Glad you're here. There'd been nothing at home.

Detectives. Students. Journalists. One prosecutor had phoned four times.

Zip from Ryan.

Great. Ryan had his sources. I had no doubt Sherlock knew I was back.

The headache swirled behind my right eye.

Giving up on the desk, I grabbed the Demande d'Expertise forms, slipped into a lab coat, and headed for the door. I was halfway there when my phone rang.

It was Dominique Specter.

'Il fait chaud.'

'It's very hot,' I agreed, scanning one of LaManche's forms.

'They say we may set a record today.'

'Yes,' I said absently. The skull had been found in a trunk. LaManche noted badly chipped teeth, and a cord laced through the tongue.

'It always seems so much hotter in the city. I do hope you have air-conditioning.'

'Yes, ' I answered, my mind on something more macabre than the weather.

'You are busy?'

'I've been away almost three weeks.'

'Of course. I do apologize for intruding on your time.' She paused, indicating appropriate contrition. 'We can see Chantale at one o'clock.'

'Where is she?'

'At a police station on Guy near boulevard René Lévesque.'

Op South. It was just blocks from my condo.

'Shall we pick you up?'

'I'll meet you there.'

I'd hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. It was Susanne Jean. She would be with Volvo engineers all morning, had a lunch meeting at Bombardier, but could see me in the afternoon. We agreed to meet at three.

Crossing to the lab, I prepared folders for each case, and quickly scanned the torso request. Adult male. Arms, legs, and head missing. Advanced state of decomposition. Discovered in a culvert at Lac des Deux-Montagnes. Coroner: Leo Henry. Pathologist: Pierre LaManche. Investigating officer: Lieutenant-detective Andrew Ryan, Sûreté du Quebec.

Well, well.

The remains were downstairs, so I took the secure elevator, swiped my card, and punched the lowest of the three buttons: LSJML. Coroner. Morgue.

In the basement, I entered another restricted area. On the left, doors opened into autopsy rooms, three containing single tables, the largest containing two.

Through the small window in the door of the central suite, I spotted a woman in surgical scrubs. She had long, curly hair, secured with a barrette at the back of her head. Pretty and thirty-something, with a quick smile and 36Ds, Lisa was a perennial favorite with the homicide detectives.

She was a perennial favorite with me for preferring to speak English.

Hearing the door, she turned and did that.

'Good morning. I thought you were in Guatemala.'

'I'll be going back down.'

'R and R?'

'Not exactly. I'd like to look at LaManche's torso.'

She pulled a face.

'He's sixty-four, Dr. Brennan.'

'Everyone's a comedian.'

'Morgue number?'

I read it aloud from the request form.

'Room four?'

'Please.'

She disappeared through double doors. Beyond lay one of five morgue bays, each divided into fourteen refrigerated compartments secured by stainless steel doors. Small white cards announced the presence of occupants. Red stickers warned of HIV positive status. The morgue number would tell Lisa behind which door the torso lay.

I proceeded to suite four, a room specially outfitted for extra ventilation. The room for floaters and bloaters. The room for crispers. The room in which I usually worked.

I'd barely gloved and masked when Lisa rolled a gurney through swinging doors identical to those in the central suite. When I unzipped the body bag, a nauseating odor filled the air.

'I think he's done.'

'And then some.'

Lisa and I slid the torso onto the table. Though swollen and disfigured, the genitals were intact.

'It's a boy.' Lisa Lavigne, obstetrical nurse.

'Unquestionably.'

I made notes while Lisa retrieved the X rays ordered by LaManche. They revealed vertebral arthritis, and three to four inches of bone in each of the severed limbs.

Using a scalpel, I removed the soft tissue overlying the breastbone, and Lisa revved up a Stryker saw to buzz through the sternal ends of the third, fourth, and fifth ribs. We did the same for the pelvis, dissecting out then cutting free the frontal portions where the two halves meet along the midline.

All six ribs and the pubic symphyses showed porosity and lots of erratic bone. This guy looked like he was up there in years.

Sex was indicated by the genitalia. The rib ends and symphyses would allow me to estimate the man's age. Ancestry would be a tough call.

Skin color is meaningless, since a body can darken, blanch, or colorize, depending upon postmortem conditions. This gentleman had chosen a camouflage motif: mottled brown and green. I could take a few postcranial measurements, but with no head or limbs, racial assessment would be almost impossible.

Next, I detached the fifth cervical vertebra, the most superior of those remaining in the neck. I retracted soupy flesh from what was left of the arm and leg stumps, and Lisa cut a sample from the severed end of each humerus and femur.

A quick survey showed significant chipping, and deep L-shaped striations across every cut surface. I suspected I had a chain saw case.

Thanking Lisa, I took the samples to the twelfth floor and turned them over to the lab technician. Denis would soak the bones, then slowly tease off the remaining flesh and cartilage. In days I would have viewable specimens.

A McGill clock sits on my office windowsill, presented in appreciation for a guest lecture to the alumni association. Beside the clock is a framed snapshot of Katy and me, taken one summer at the Outer Banks. Entering the office my eyes fell on the photo. I felt the usual pain, followed by a rush of love so intense it hurt.

For the millionth time, I pondered why the photo triggered such emotion. Loneliness for my daughter? Guilt over being so often away? Grief for the friend with whose corpse it had lain?

I recalled finding the photo in my friend's grave, remembered the terror, the burning rage. I pictured her killer, wondered if he thought of me during his long prison days and nights.

Why did I keep the photo?

No explanation.

Why here?

I didn't have a clue.

Or did I? Didn't I understand, at some subconscious level? Amid the numbing madness of murder, mutilation, and self-destruction, the cracked and faded snapshot reminded me that I had feelings. It triggered emotions.

Year after year, the photo remained on my windowsill.

I shifted my gaze to the McGill clock. Twelve forty-five. I had to hurry.