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conventional beauty. She didn’t try to become thin or tan. She didn’t shave her legs or armpits. Gabby was Gabby. Gabrielle Macaulay from Trois-Rivières, Quebec. French mother, En-glish father.
    We’d been close in grad school. She’d hated physical anthropology, suffered through the courses I loved. I felt the same about her ethnology seminars. When we left Northwestern I’d gone to North Carolina and she’d returned to Quebec. We’d seen little of each other over the years, but the phone had kept us close. It was largely because of Gabby that I’d been offered a visiting professorship at McGill in 1990. During that year I’d begun working at the lab part time, and had continued the arrangement after returning to North Carolina, commuting North every six weeks as the caseload dictated. This year I had taken a leave of absence from UNC-Charlotte, and was in Montreal full time. I’d missed being with Gabby, and was enjoying the renewal of our friendship.
    The flashing light on the answering machine caught my eye. There must’ve been a call before Gabby. I had it set to answer after four rings unless the tape had already been triggered. Then it would pick up after one. Wondering how I could’ve slept through four rings and an entire message, I went over and pressed the button. The tape rewound, engaged, and played. Silence, then a click. A short beep followed, then Gabby’s voice. It was only a hang-up. Good. I hit rewind and went to dress for work.
     
    The medico-legal lab is located in what is known as the QPP or SQ building, depending on your linguistic preference. To anglophones, it is the Quebec Provincial Police—to francophones, La Sûreté du Québec. The Laboratoire de Médecine Légale, similar to a medical examiner’s office in the States, shares the fifth floor with the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires, the central crime lab for the province. Together the LML and the LSJ make up a unit known as La Direction de l’Expertise Judiciaire—DEJ. There is a jail on the fourth and top three floors of the building. The morgue and autopsy suites are in the basement. The provincial police occupy the remaining eight floors.
    This arrangement has its advantages. We’re all together. If I need an opinion on fibers, or a report on a soil sample, a walk down the corridor takes me directly to the source. It also has its drawbacks in that we are easily accessible. For an SQ investigator, or a city detective dropping off evidence or paperwork, it is a short elevator ride to our offices.
    Witness that morning. Claudel was waiting at my office door when I arrived. He was carrying a small brown envelope and repeatedly tapped its edge against the palm of his hand. To say he looked agitated would be like saying Gandhi looked hungry.
    “I have the dental records,” he said in way of greeting. He flourished the envelope like a presenter at the Academy Awards.
    “I picked them up myself.”
    He read a name scrawled on the outside. “Dr. Nguyen. He’s got an office over in Rosemont. I would have been here earlier but the guy’s got a real cretin of a secretary.”
    “Coffee?” I asked. Though I’d never met Dr. Nguyen’s secretary I felt empathy for her. I knew she hadn’t had a good morning.
    He opened his mouth to accept or decline. I don’t know which. At that moment Marc Bergeron rounded the corner. Seemingly unaware of our presence, he strode past the row of shiny black office doors, stopping one short of mine. Crooking a knee, he placed his briefcase on the upraised thigh. I thought of the crane maneuver in the
Karate Kid
. Thus poised, he clicked the case open, rummaged among its contents, and withdrew a set of keys.
    “Marc?”
    It startled him. He slammed the case shut and swung it down, all in one movement.
    “
Bien fait
,” I said, suppressing a smile.
    “
Merci
.” He looked at Claudel and me, the briefcase in his left hand, the keys in his right.
    Marc Bergeron was, by any standard,