Bones Never Lie Read Free Page A

ability to articulate clearly. “How did you make the connection to me?” I clarified.
    “The hit was in Canada, so it seemed logical to start there. I have a buddy at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He ran the name and found an Anique Pomerleau who fit the identifiers. Pomerleau is wanted by the Sûreté du Québec on a warrant dating to 2004.”
    “Hold on. You’re saying that five years after the Canadians are looking for this chick, she leaves DNA on a dead kid in Vermont?” Tinker, king of compassion.
    “The lead detective still works there, but apparently, he went AWOL recently.” Rodas gave a wry smile. “I got the feeling that was a story in itself.”
    I felt a soft pulsing in my wrist. Stared at the delicate blue vein worming under my skin.
    “No one remembered much about the perp or the case. But a coroner hooked me up with a pathologist who’s been around forever. Pierre LaManche.
    “LaManche told me Pomerleau was a suspect in the deaths of several young girls. Said her accomplice was a guy named Neal Wesley Catts. Back in ’04, Catts either shot himself or Pomerleau killed him. Then she vanished.
    “I told LaManche about the DNA found on Nellie Gower’s hand and about the VICAP match to your unsolved here in Charlotte. He advised me to contact Dr. Brennan.”
    Anique Pomerleau.
    The monster.
    The only one who ever got away.
    I kept my face blank. My eyes focused on the vessel snaking my flesh.
    “You’re thinking Pomerleau did both Gower and the Nance kid.” Tinker, again stating the obvious.
    “I think it’s a possibility.”
    “Where’s she been all this time?”
    “We sent out a BOLO.” Be on the lookout. “So did the SQ, though I didn’t feel a lot of love there. Can’t really blame them. It’s been ten years. Pomerleau’s maybe dead, maybe using an alias, and the only pic they have dates to 1989.”
    I remembered. It was the only photo we had. Taken when Pomerleau was around fifteen.
    “So. After Montreal, Pomerleau goes to ground for three years, then resurfaces and grabs a kid in Vermont.” From his tone, I knew Slidell was rolling the theory past his own ears.
    “Last I checked, North Carolina’s a few miles from the tundra,” Tinker said. “How’d Pomerleau end up here?” When no one responded, he pressed on. “DNA links this Pomerleau to the Gower kid. But what links Gower to Nance? I said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s sad, but kids are murdered every day. What makes you so sure we’re looking at one doer?”
    The pressure in my sinuses suddenly felt explosive. Discreetly, I pressed a hand to one cheek. My skin was fiery hot. Was the virus upping the ante? Or was it the shock of what I was hearing?
    As I reached for a tissue to blow my nose, Rodas ticked off points, beginning with his right thumb. “Both victims were female. Both were eleven to fourteen years of age. Both vanished during daylight from a public road—a highway, a city street. Both were left on the surface in an unprotected setting—a quarry, a field. Both bodies were lying faceup, with arms and legs straight, hair carefully arranged.”
    “Posed,” Barrow said.
    “Definitely.”
    Rodas shifted to his left hand. “Both victims were clothed. Both had remnants of tissue on their fingers. Neither showed evidence of trauma. Neither showed evidence of sexual assault.” He withdrew a plastic sleeve from his carton and put it on the table. Inside was a white-bordered five-by-seven color print.
    Barrow dug a similar print from the tub and placed it beside Rodas’s. As one, we leaned forward to view them.
    The photos were undoubtedly school portraits. The kind we all sat for as kids. The kind kids still take home every year. The backgrounds differed. A tree trunk versus rippled red velvet. But each subject looked straight at the camera with the same awkward smile.
    “I got to admit,” Tinker admitted, “they are of a type.”
    “Of a type?” Slidell pooched air through his lips.