Though we talk less frequently now, the pattern has altered little in the decades since. Together or apart, we are there for each other?s highs and lows. It was Gabby who talked me through the AA days, when need for a drink colored my waking hours and brought me to at night, trembling and sweating. It is me whom Gabby dials, exhilarated and hopeful when love enters her life, lonely and despairing when, once again, it leaves.
When the coffee was ready I took it to the glass table in the dining room. Memories of Gabby were replaying in my mind. I always smiled when I thought of her. Gabby in grad seminar. Gabby at the Pit. Gabby at the dig, red kerchief askew, hennaed dreadlocks swinging as she scraped the dirt with her trowel. At six foot one she understood early that she?d never be a 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-Rivi #232;res, 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 S #251;ret #233; du Qu #233;bec. The Laboratoire de M #233;decine L #233;gale, 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, peculiar-looking. In his late fifties or early sixties, his long, bony frame was slightly stooped, bent forward at midchest as if perpetually ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. His hair started midway back on his scalp and exploded in a corona of white frizz. It brought him to well over six foot three. His wire-rimmed glasses were always greasy and speckled with dust, and he often squinted, as though reading the fine print on a rebate coupon. He looked more like a Tim Burton creation than a forensic dentist.
?Monsieur Claudel has the dental records for Gagnon,? I said, indicating the detective. Claudel raised the envelope, as if in proof.
Nothing clicked behind the smudged lenses. Bergeron regarded me blankly. He looked like a tall, confused dandelion, with his long, thin stem and puff of white hair. I realized he knew nothing about the case.
Bergeron was among the professionals employed part time by the LML, each a forensic specialist consulted for specific expertise. Neuropathology. Radiology. Microbiology. Odontology. He normally came to the lab once a week. The rest of the time he saw patients in private practice. He hadn?t been here last week.
I summarized. ?Last Thursday workers found some bones on the grounds of Le Grand S #233;minaire. Pierre LaManche thought it was another historic cemetery situation and sent me over. It wasn?t.?
He set down the briefcase and listened intently.
?I found parts of a dismembered body that had been bagged and dumped, probably within the last couple of months. It?s a female, white, probably in her early twenties.?
Claudel?s envelope tapping had become more rapid. It stopped momentarily as he looked pointedly at his watch. He cleared his throat.
Bergeron looked at him, then back at me. I continued.
?Monsieur Claudel and I narrowed the possibles to one we think is pretty good. The profile fits and the timing is reasonable. He drove the records in himself. A Dr. Nguyen over in Rosemont. Know him??
Bergeron shook his head and extended a long, skinny hand. ?Bon,? he said. ?Give them to me. I?ll have a look at them. Has Denis done X rays yet??
?Daniel did them,? I said. ?They should be on your desk.?
He unlocked the door to his office. Claudel followed. Through the open door I could see a small brown envelope lying on his desk. Ber-geron picked it up and checked the case number. From where I stood I could see Claudel charting the room, like a monarch, deciding on a place to light.
?You may call me in an hour, Monsieur Claudel,? Bergeron said.
The detective stopped in mid-chart. He started to speak, then pressed his lips into a thin, tight line, readjusted his cuffs, and left. For the second time in minutes I suppressed a smile. Bergeron would never tolerate an investigator peering over his shoulder as he worked. Claudel had just learned that.
Bergeron?s gaunt face reappeared. ?Coming in?? he asked.
?Sure,? I said. ?Coffee?? I still hadn?t had any since getting to work. We often got it for each other, taking turns making the trek to the kitchenette in the other wing.