Also by Kathy Reichs
BARE BONES
GRAVE SECRETS
FATAL VOYAGE
DEADLY DÉCISIONS
DEATH DU JOUR
DÉJÀ DEAD
SCRIBNER
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2004 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
“Monday, Monday” by John Phillips
Copyright © 1965 Universal-MCA Music Publishing, Inc. (ASCAP)
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work.
DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING
Text set in Stempel Garamond
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reichs, Kathy.
Monday mourning/Kathy Reichs.
p. cm.
1. Brennan, Temperance (Fictitious character)—Fiction.
2. Women forensic anthropologists—Fiction.
3. Montréal (Québec)—Fiction. 4. Pizza industry—Fiction.
5. Restaurants—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.E476345M66 2004
813’.54—dc22
2004045263
ISBN 0-7432-7202-1
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to Darden Hood, Director, Beta Analytic Inc., for advice on radiocarbon dating. W. Alan Gorman and James K. W. Lee, Department of Geological Sciences, Queens University, Kingston, Ontario, and Brian Beard, Department of Geology, University of Wisconsin, shared their knowledge of bedrock geology and strontium isotope analysis.
Michael Finnegan, Department of Anthropology, Kansas State University, provided details on aging bone with UV light. Robert B. J. Dorion, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, supplied information on property research in Montreal. Sergeant Pierre Marineau, Special Constable, Securité Publique, guided me on a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, answered questions pertaining to pathology and autopsies. Michael Abel shared his knowledge of all things Jewish. Jim Junot double-checked countless details.
Paul Reichs offered advice on the qualification of an expert witness. As usual, his comments on the manuscript were greatly appreciated.
My friend Michelle Phillips graciously allowed the use of the “Monday, Monday” lyrics.
Much gratitude to James Woodward, Chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, for his continued support.
My editor, Susanne Kirk, and my agent, Jennifer Walsh, were, as always, patient, understanding, and totally supportive.
For Deborah Miner
My baby sister.
My Harry.
Thanks for always being there.
Oh Monday mornin’ you gave me no warnin’ of what was to be…
—JOHN PHILLIPS, The Mamas and the Papas
1
AS THE TUNE PLAYED INSIDE MY HEAD, GUNFIRE EXPLODED IN the cramped underground space around me.
My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splattered against rock just three feet from me.
The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward, leaving a smear of blood and hair.
I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved hand.
Still squatting, I swiveled.
Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel’s brows plunged into a V. He lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter.
“Rats. They are the devil’s spawn.” Claudel’s French was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upriver roots.
“Throw rocks,” I snapped.
“That bastard was big enough to throw them back.”
Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a December Monday in Montreal had taken a toll. My knees protested as I rose to a standing position.
“Where is Charbonneau?” I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the other.
“Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea soup.”
“The owner discovered this?” I flapped a hand at the ground behind me.
“What was a plumber doing in the cellar?”
“Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipes.”
Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I wondered why anyone would take the risk.
“The bones were lying on the surface?”
“Says he tripped on something sticking out of the ground. There.” Claudel cocked his chin at a shallow pit where the south wall met the dirt floor. “Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. Together they checked out the local library’s anatomy collection to see if the bone was human. Picked a book with nice color pictures since they probably can’t read.”
I was about to ask a follow-up question when something clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner.
