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is female. LaManche thought he spotted some unusual patterning around the neck, wasn’t sure because of the severe bloating and discoloration. No signs of gunshot on the body or the X-rays. No hyoid fracture. LaManche has requested a tox screen.”
    “Has Bergeron charted the teeth?” Marc Bergeron is the lab’s consulting odontologist.
    Ryan nodded. “I entered her dental descriptors into CPIC, got zip. The odds may improve if you nail age and race.”
    “She’s next on the docket.”
    Ryan hesitated a beat. “We’re looking at some MP’s and DOA’s that may be connected.”
    “How many?”
    “Three missing persons. Two bodies, both unknown.”
    “You’re thinking serial?”
    “We’re considering the possibility.”
    “Time frame?”
    “Ten years.”
    “Vic profile?”
    “Female. Early to late teens.”
    I felt the usual anger and sadness. Fear? Could some predator be using Quebec as his killing field?
    “You suspect the Lac des Deux Montagnes woman could be vic number six?”
    “Maybe.”
    “First thing tomorrow?”
    “Thanks.”
    Ryan started to leave, turned back at the door.
    “How’s Pete?”
    “Recovering nicely. Thanks for asking. Lily?”
    “Good.”
    “Good.” God. We were doing it again. “I’ll pick Charlie up,” I said.
    “No need. I’ll deliver him.”
    “You don’t have to do that.”
    “Serve and protect.” Ryan snapped a salute. “I’ll give you a call.”
    “Thanks, Ryan.”
     
     
    After rewrapping the burned nonagenarian, and rolling his gurney into its bay, I cleaned up and headed home. Birdie met me at the door.
    While changing to shorts I explained that Charlie would be joining us soon. Bird was thrilled. Or bored. With cats it’s hard to be sure.
    Following dinner, Birdie and I watched a
Sopranos
rerun, the one in which Adriana gets whacked. Throughout, I kept picking up the land phone. Checking for a dial tone. Tossing the thing back onto the couch.
    Ryan didn’t phone. Nor did he appear at my condo that night.
    Though Birdie and I were in bed by eleven, sleep didn’t come for a very long time. Thinking back on our exchange in autopsy room four, I realized what was bothering me. Ryan had scarcely smiled or joked. It wasn’t like him.
    Don’t act like an insecure adolescent, I told myself. Ryan’s busy. Concerned about his daughter. About a serial killer. About ear wax buildup. About the mustard spot on his tie.
    I didn’t buy it.
     
6
     
    I USE A HOME-RIGGED SYSTEM FOR CLEANING CADAVERS. ORIGINALLY designed for institutional cooking, the apparatus consists of water intake and discharge pipes, grease filtration gear, a compartmentalized boiling tank, and submersion baskets, the kind used to deep-fry potatoes or fish.
    In the square baskets I simmer small body parts—dissected jaws, hands, feet, maybe a skull. In the large, rectangular ones I reduce the big stuff—long bones, rib cages, pelves—once defleshing has been done by morgue technicians. Heat water to just below boiling, add enzyme detergent to minimize grease, stir. The recipe’s a hit every time.
    Unless the bones are too fragile, of course. Then it’s hand laundry all the way.
    That morning the “cooker” was full to capacity. The Lac des Deux Montagnes corpse. Parts of Santangelo’s charred bed smoker. Geneviève Doucet.
    Putrid, sodden flesh means quicker turn-around time. And Ryan’s floater had gone in first. Denis was removing those bones when I arrived following the morning staff meeting.
    First, I opened the brown envelopes containing the Lac des Deux Montagnes scene and autopsy photos. One by one I worked from recovery through autopsy completion.
    It was obvious why LaManche needed help. When dragged from the river, the body looked like a marionette wrapped in moss-colored Spam. No hair. No features. Large areas of flesh devoured by crabs and fish. I noted that the woman wore only one red sock.
    I began constructing the requested portions of the biological profile. It took