Monday Mourning Read Free Page A

Black-robed attorneys and judges. Some waited. Others hurried. There seemed no in-between.
    Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the Café Vienne. Already wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.
    Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in small interrogation rooms lining the corridor. None looked happy.
    I took a seat outside 4.01 and pulled the Pétit file from my briefcase. Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom. With her long blonde hair and oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.
    “You’ll be my first witness.” Cloutier’s face was tense.
    “I’m ready,” I said.
    “Your testimony is going to be critical.”
    Cloutier’s fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip. She’d wanted to meet the previous day, but the pizza basement caper had nixed that. Our late-night phone conversation hadn’t provided the degree of preparation she’d wanted. I tried to reassure her.
    “I can’t tie the marks on the bones to Pétit’s specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool.”
    Cloutier nodded. “Consistent with.”
    “Consistent with,” I agreed.
    “Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Pétit claimed he never laid eyes on that saw. An analyst from your lab is going to testify that she removed the handle and found minute traces of blood in one of the screw grooves.” I knew all of this from the previous night’s discussion. Cloutier was verbalizing the case against Pétit as much for her sake as for mine.
    “A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Pétit’s. That ties him to the saw.”
    “And I tie the saw to the victim,” I said.
    Cloutier nodded. “This judge is a real pisser about qualifying experts.”
    “Aren’t they all?”
    Cloutier flicked a nervous smile. “The bailiff will call you in about five minutes.”
    It was closer to twenty.
    The courtroom was standard, nondescript modern. Gray-textured walls. Gray-textured carpet. Gray-textured fabric on long bolted benches. The only color was at center stage, inside the gates separating the spectators from the official players. Attorneys’ chairs upholstered in red, yellow, and brown. The blue, red, and white of the Quebec and Canadian flags.
    A dozen people occupied the public benches. Eyes followed as I walked up the center aisle and took the stand. The judge was ahead and to my left, the jury straight ahead, facing me. Monsieur Pétit was to my right.
    I have testified many times. I have faced men and women accused of monstrous crimes. Murder. Rape. Torture. Dismemberment. I am always underwhelmed by the accused.
    This time was no exception. Rejean Pétit looked ordinary. Timid, even. The man could have been my uncle Frank.
    The clerk swore me in. Cloutier rose and began questioning me from the prosecutor’s table.
    “Please state your full name.”
    “Temperance Deasee Brennan.”
    We spoke into microphones suspended from the ceiling, our voices the only sound in the room.
    “What is your profession?”
    “I am a forensic anthropologist.”
    “How long have you practiced that profession?”
    “Approximately twenty years.”
    “Where do you practice that profession?”
    “I am a full professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I am forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec through the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, in Montreal, and for the state of North Carolina through the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, headquartered in Chapel Hill.”
    “You are an American citizen?”
    “Yes. I have a Canadian work permit. I split my time between Montreal and Charlotte.”
    “Why