Bones Are Forever Read Free

Bédard. His eyes were small and dark behind wire-rimmed glasses. His face was blotchy with excitement. Or exertion. I guessed his age to be mid-forties.
    LaManche, Pomier, and I watched Ryan cross to the newcomers. Words were exchanged, then Gioretti and Demers began opening their kits and camera cases.
    Face tense, LaManche shot a cuff and checked his watch.
    “Busy day?” I asked.
    “Five autopsies. Dr. Ayers is away.”
    “If you prefer to get back to the lab, I’m happy to stay.”
    “Perhaps that is best.”
    In case more bodies are found . It didn’t need saying.
    Experience told me it would be a long morning. When LaManche was gone, I glanced around for a place to settle.
    Two days earlier I’d read an article on the diversity of fauna inhabiting couches. Head lice. Bedbugs. Fleas. Mites. The ratty sofa and its vermin held no appeal. I opted for the window bench.
    Twenty minutes later, I’d finished jotting my observations. When I looked up, Demers was brushing black powder onto the kitchen stove. An intermittent flash told me Gioretti was shooting photos in the bathroom. Ryan and Bédard were nowhere to be seen.
    I glanced out the window. Pomier was leaning against a tree, smoking. Ryan’s Jeep had joined my Mazda and the crime scene truck at the curb. So had two sedans. One had a CTV logo on its driver’s-side door. The other said Le Courrier de Saint-Hyacinthe .
    The media were sniffing blood.
    As I swiveled back, the plank under my bum wobbled slightly. Leaning close, I spotted a crack paralleling the window wall.
    Did the middle section of the bench function as a storage cabinet? I pushed off and squatted to check underneath.
    The front of the horizontal plank overhung the frame of the structure. Using my pen, I pushed up from below. The plank lifted and flopped back against the windowsill.
    The smell of dust and mold floated from the dark interior.
    I peered into the shadows.
    And saw what I’d been dreading.

T HE SECOND BABY WAS WRAPPED IN A TOWEL. BLOOD OR decompositional fluids had spread brown blossoms across the yellow terry cloth.
    The shrouded little corpse lay in a back corner of the window seat, surrounded by a cracked and sun-bleached catcher’s mitt, a broken tennis racket, a plastic truck, a deflated basketball, and several pairs of worn-out sneakers. Dust and dead insects completed the assemblage.
    The crown of a tiny head was visible at one end of the bundle, the squiggly sutures newborn-wide. The membrane-thin bone was dusted with soft downy hair.
    I closed my eyes. Saw another infantile face. Dark flesh circling startling blue eyes. Pudgy cheeks shrunk tight to delicate bones.
    “Oh, no,” someone said.
    I raised my lids and looked out toward the street. A hearse had joined the vehicles lining the curb. The reporters stood talking outside their cars.
    A puff of breeze through the screen felt warm on my face. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline-pumped blood flaming my cheeks.
    “Avez-vous quelque chose?” Do you have something?
    I turned.
    Demers was looking in my direction, brush poised in midair. I realized the “oh, no” had come from my own lips.
    I nodded, not trusting my voice.
    Demers called to Gioretti, then crossed to me. After staring at the baby a very long time, he yanked a mobile from his belt and began punching keys. “I’ll see if we can get a dog.”
    Shortly, Gioretti joined us. His gaze took in the window seat. “Tabarnouche.”
    Positioning a case identifier, Gioretti began shooting pictures from different angles and distances.
    I stepped off a few paces to phone LaManche. He issued the instructions I expected. Disturb the remains as little as possible. Keep looking.
    Twenty minutes later, Gioretti had finished with video and stills. Demers had dusted the window box and its contents.
    As I snapped on latex gloves, Demers spread a body bag on the floor beside the displaced shoes and sports paraphernalia. His jaw muscles bulged as he opened the zipper.
    Reaching