OR BACK-TO-BACK DAYS NO PROVINCIAL DEAD REQUIRED A LOOK-SEE by the anthropologist. There were no boxcar decomps. No attic mummies. Not a single Popsicle body part.

Tuesday I tried calling a few more Ménards and Truongs, then caught up on case reports, e-mail, and correspondence. Anne slept until two, then listlessly watched soaps and reruns. She initiated very little conversation even though I’d taken the afternoon off from the lab to be with her. At dinner she drank three quarters of a bottle of Lindemans, professed great fatigue, then dragged off to bed at ten. How tired can one get being up only eight hours and doing nothing? I wondered.

Each December, artisans from across the province gather to sell their wares at the Salon des métiers d’art du Québec. On Wednesday I roused Anne at noon and suggested an arts and crafts Christmas-shopping blitz.

She declined.

I insisted.

Only a few million people were at place Bonaventure. I bought a ceramic bowl for Katy, a carved oak pipe stand for Pete, a lama wool scarf for Harry. Birdie and Boyd, Pete’s canine housemate in Charlotte, got spiffy suede collars. Apricot for the cat. Forest green for the chow.

A display featuring hand-painted silk jerked Ryan to mind. Necktie? No sale.

Anne dragged lethargically from booth to booth, showing the level of interest of a control group lab rat. I bought her fudge, tried on funny hats. Tried on the dog collar. She would attempt to show interest, then lapse into nonresponsiveness, almost as though I were not there. Nothing amused her. She made not a single purchase.

Anne’s depression had plunged to depths greater than the Marianas Trench.

All day, I gave her hugs and said soothing things. Otherwise, I had no idea what to do. She was not talkative, which for her is an unnatural state.

At dinner, Anne barely picked at her sushi, focused instead on more alcohol poisoning. Once home, she again pleaded weariness and withdrew to her room.

I’d never seen my friend so down, couldn’t judge the seriousness of her condition. I knew something was terribly wrong, but to what extent could I interfere? Maybe the mood slump would just play itself out.

I fell asleep troubled and dreamed of Anne on a dark, empty beach.

My Thursday morning e-mail contained the Carbon 14 results from Arthur Holliday.

I stared at the subject line, fingers frozen over the keyboard.

I’d been anxious for the report. Why the hesitation?

Easy one. I didn’t really want confirmation of yet more malignant brutality overtaking innocent young women.

I didn’t want to know that lives barely past childhood had again been taken by — what? Some freak with a head full of porn who can find sexual gratification only through physical submission? Some psycho-creep with a video camera who then needs to destroy the evidence? Or mutated macho-scum who view women as disposable items, to be discarded after perverse abuse? They were all out there.

I almost wanted Claudel to be right. I wanted the bones to belong to the past. To daughters laid to rest by grieving families in another era. But I knew better, and I knew I had to face the evidence if I was to help identify the victims.

Deep breath.

I hit the download command, then opened the Acrobat file.

The transmission consisted of five pages: a cover letter, the report of radiocarbon analyses, and three graphs calibrating the individual radiocarbon ages to calendar years.

I looked at the measured and conventional radiocarbon ages, then scrolled through the calibrations curves.

Images flooded my brain.

I printed the report, and headed for the lab.

LaManche was in his office. Since our last meeting either he or his secretary had added a ceramic Christmas tree to the chaos on his desk.

I tapped the door lightly with my knuckles.

LaManche looked up.

“Temperance. Please come in. You have heard the news?”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“The jury found Monsieur Pétit guilty on all counts.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“That was fast.”

“When she called, the crown prosecutor said she was certain your testimony was instrumental.” LaManche looked at the papers in my hand. “But that is obviously not why you are here.”

“I have the Carbon 14 results.”

“That, too, was fast.” Surprised.

“This lab is very efficient.” I didn’t mention the additional fee.

LaManche rose and joined me at the small oval table beside his desk. I spread the printout and we both bent over it.

“Two variables matter,” I began. “The radioactivity of a known standard, and the radioactivity of our unknown sample. We’ve already discussed the phenomenon of atmospheric nuclear testing and its effect on Carbon 14 levels, so, to simplify, just assume that the standard value for Carbon 14 in 1950 is one hundred percent. Any value over that represents ‘bomb,’ or modern carbon, and indicates a death date more recent than 1950.”

I pointed to the last figure in a column labeled “Measured Radiocarbon Age.”

“The pMC for LSJML-38428 is 120.5, plus or minus.5.”

“A percent modern carbon significantly higher than one hundred percent.”

“Yes.”

“Meaning this girl died since 1950?”

“Yes.”

“How long after 1950?”

“It’s tricky. By the time atmospheric testing was banned in 1963, pMC values had elevated to one hundred ninety percent. But what goes up must come down. So a pMC value of one hundred twenty percent could indicate a point on the upside of the curve, when levels were increasing, or a point on the downside, when levels were dropping.”

“Meaning?”

“Death could have occurred in the late fifties or in the mid to late eighties.”

LaManche’s face sagged visibly.

“It gets worse. The present pMC value is around one hundred seven percent.” I pointed to the figures for LSJML-38426 and LSJML-38427.

“Mon Dieu.”

“These girls died as long ago as the early fifties, or as recently as the early nineties.”

“You will inform Monsieur Claudel of these results?”

“Oh yes,” I said. With feeling.

LaManche steepled his fingers, tapped them against his lower lip.

“If these girls disappeared during the past twenty years, it is possible they will be in the system. Descriptors must be sent to CPIC.”

LaManche referred to the Canadian Police Information Centre, the equivalent of NCIC, the National Crime Information Center in the United States.

CPIC and NCIC, maintained by the RCMP and the FBI respectively, are computerized indexes of information, including criminal record histories, details on fugitives and stolen properties, and data on missing persons. The databases are available to law enforcement and to other criminal justice agencies twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

As we rose, LaManche laid a hand on my shoulder.

“We must apply ourselves, Temperance. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh yes,” I repeated with equal feeling.

Thirty seconds later I was in my office talking to Claudel. He was making only minor contribution to the dialogue.

“Not so quickly.”

“Three-eight-four-two-six,” I repeated at the pace a sloth might have employed if speaking French. “Female.” Pause. “White.” Pause. “Age sixteen to eighteen.” Pause. “Height fifty-eight to sixty-two inches.”

“Dentals?” You could have used Claudel’s voice to scythe wheat.

“No restorations. But of course I have postmortem X-rays.”

“These are the bones from the crate?”

“Yes.”

“Next.”

“Three-eight-four-two-seven. Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Height sixty-four to sixty-seven inches. No dental work.”

“The bones recovered from the first depression?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Three-eight-four-two-eight. Female, white, age eighteen to twenty-two, sixty-five to sixty-eight inches in height. Healed Colles’ fracture of the distal right radius.”

“Meaning?”

“She fractured her right wrist several years before death. Colles’ fractures often occur when the hands are thrown out to break a fall.”

“The bones from the second depression?”

“Yes.”

“There are no distinguishing features on any of these individuals?”

“One was quite short. One broke her arm.”

“If these people died in the fifties this is a waste of time.”

“Their families might disagree.”

“Any relatives will be scattered. Or dead.”

“These girls were stripped naked and buried in a basement.”

“If these girls were associated with Cataneo, they were probably hookers.”

Deep breath. The man is a troll.

“Yes, they may have been prostitutes, guilty of the sins of ignorance and need. They may have been runaways, guilty of the sins of poor judgment and bad luck. They may have been random innocents, yanked from their lives and guilty of nothing. Whoever they were, Monsieur Claudel, they deserve more than a forgotten grave in a moldy cellar. We could not help these girls when they died, but perhaps we can prevent others from joining them in the future.”

Now the pause was of Claudel’s making.

“You’ve said the skeletons show no signs of violence.”

I ignored this. “As we both discovered” — pause to let Claudel know that I knew of his visit — “that building presently belongs to Richard Cyr. As I discovered, the previous owner was Nick Cataneo, and Cataneo’s period of ownership comes damn close to one of the Carbon 14 ranges.”

The silence that followed was long and hostile.

“You do realize the number of hits this may produce?”

I did.

“I’ll reexamine the bones to see if there’s anything else I might possibly help you with.”

“That would be appropriate.”

Dial tone.

Over many years I’d come to think of Claudel as obstinate and rigid, rather than outright loathing his attitude. This case was threatening a reversal in that trend.

Quick trip downstairs for coffee.

Quick call to Anne suggesting lunch.

As feared, she begged off.

I told her about the Carbon 14 results.

“You have at it with your bones, Tempe. I’ll just hang here.”

“OK, but let me know if you change your mind. I’m flexible.”

When we’d disconnected, I cleared the two worktables and the side counter in the lab, and laid out each of the skeletons. I was examining the Dr. Energy girl’s tibia when Marc Bergeron appeared.

To say Bergeron is peculiar-looking is like saying fudge contains a wee bit of sugar. Standing six feet three, perpetually stooped, and weighing in on the downside of one sixty, Bergeron has all the grace and coordination of a wading stork.

Bergeron is Quebec’s forensic odontologist. For thirty years he has drilled and filled the living Monday through Thursday, and examined the teeth of the dead each Friday.

We exchanged greetings. I expressed surprise at seeing Bergeron at the lab on a Thursday.

“Family wedding. Tomorrow I must be in Ottawa.”

Bergeron walked to the closet, freed a lab coat from a hanger, and slipped into it. The coat hung on him like a bedsheet on an unstuffed scarecrow.

“Who are these folks?” Bergeron flapped a hand at the skeletons.

“Found in the basement of a pizzeria.”

“Reflection on the food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Old?”

“All I know is that they died after 1950. Ideas?”

Bergeron adjusted his collar and fluffed his hair. It is extraordinary hair, white and frizzy, starting a mile north of his brows. Against all fashion logic, Bergeron lets it grow long enough to halo wildly around his head.

“Carbon 14 dates suggest death occurred either during the fifties or during the eighties and nineties.”

Bergeron stick-walked to a drawer, withdrew a penlight, picked up the Dr. Energy skull, and peered at the dentition.

“Very poor hygiene. You pulled a molar for sampling?”

I nodded.

“I assume you’d first requested X-rays.”

I unclipped a brown envelope from the LSJML-38426 case file, and slid ten small films onto the light box. Bergeron studied them, the dandelion hair electrified by the fluorescence.

“Besides extensive decay, there’s little of note. A slightly rotated upper right canine.” He tapped one X-ray with a bony finger.

“Age estimate?” I asked.

“Sixteen, maybe as old as eighteen.”

“That was my thought.”

Bergeron had shifted to LSJML-38428.

“That one was buried wrapped in a leather shroud.”

“Was this body autopsied?”

“What do you mean?” His question threw me.

“These cuts on her temporal bone. Could they have been made during retraction of the scalp?”

“I hadn’t considered that.”

Carrying the skull to the dissecting scope, I viewed the marks under low, then higher-power magnification. Bergeron continued along his train of thought.

“Perhaps these are old biological specimens or teaching skeletons. Perhaps someone kept them as curiosities, later lost interest, or decided possession was risky.”

I had considered that. It was not an uncommon scenario.

“There are no drilled holes, no wire fragments, no signs of chemical treatment or mechanical modification. The bones were not assembled for display purposes.”

Magnified, the temporal marks looked like broad V-shaped valleys. Some ran parallel to the ear opening, others were scattered at angles around it. Micro-chipping along the edges suggested the damage had occurred when the bone was dry and defleshed.

“These marks weren’t made by a scalpel. They’re too wide in cross section. Also, the alignment is more random than I’d expect as a result of an autopsy. I think they’re postmortem artifacts.”

An ill-formed thought tapped gently on a mental shoulder.

Why the V-shape? That’s not typical of abrasion damage.

“This one had considerably fewer dental problems.”

I looked up. Bergeron was at the second worktable, examining the jaw fragments belonging to LSJML-38427.

“The apicals are in the file.” I pointed at a yellow folder beside the bones.

Bergeron spread the dental X-rays on the light box.

“Could be a bit younger, I’d say fifteen to seventeen.”

“Do you see anything at all distinctive?”

Bergeron shook his head. The frizz wobbled.

Replacing the mandibular fragments of 38427, Bergeron moved back to 38428, picked up the skull, and aimed his penlight.

“There was something on this one…” Bergeron’s voice trailed off.

“What?”

Bergeron swapped the skull for the jaw, and aimed his beam at the lower dentition.

“Yes.”

Abandoning the scope, I joined him.

“What?”

“This should clarify the uncertainty on your dates.”

Bergeron handed me the skull and penlight.