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When an Orthodox Jewish man is found shot to death in Montreal, Temperance Brennan is called in to examine the body and to figure out the puzzling damage to the corpse. Unexpectedly, a stranger slips her a photograph of a skeleton and assures her it is the key to the victim's death. Before she knows it, Tempe is involved in an international mystery as old as Jesus, and one that could lead to the rewriting of two thousand years of religious history.
As Tempe investigates, she learns that the stranger's picture shows bones uncovered during an archaeological dig. She discovers the Montreal shooting victim ran an import business that just might have been a front for the trading of black market antiquities. Along with Detective Andrew Ryan and biblical archaeologist Jake Drum, Tempe travels to Israel to probe the origins of the skeleton and the ancient crypt in which it was found. Together they make a startling discovery that raises radical questions about Christ's death and places them squarely in the middle of a swirling controversy. Could one of the tombs really be Christ's last resting place? Are the bones in the ancient ossuary the last remnants of James, the brother of Jesus, as the inscription claims? Or has someone concocted an elaborate hoax?
Using her skills as a forensic scientist, Tempe plunges into the most controversial case of her career. The stakes have never been higher -- the more she learns, the greater the danger. And though Ryan is sexier and more engaging than ever, he may not be able to protect Tempe in this place where there seem to be so many foes.
Cross Bones, with its lightning pace, intricately plotted story, riveting and state-of-the-art forensic detail, is Kathy Reichs's most compelling and dramatic novel yet.
Reichs mulled over those experiences for about seven years before deciding to apply her ideas to fiction. Out came Déjà Dead in 1997, introducing mystery fans to a new but, more likely than not, recognizable heroine: forensics expert Temperance Brennan, a fortyish, recovering alcoholic on the run from a wobbling marriage. Brennan—a sort of mix between Nancy Drew and Quincy—is also something of a hothead, prone to marching off on her own when she runs afoul of a sexist male cop. This is the kind of woman who would sit down to brunch with Vic Warshawski, Kay Scarpetta, or Jane Tennison, if any of them did brunch.
As a forensic anthropologist for the state of North Carolina, as well as the province of Québec, Reichs draws heavily from her own experiences standing over the autopsy table. Her novels—Death du Jour, Deadly Decisions, Grave Secrets and the like—are packed with the kind of well informed clinical details that make critics take notice. "The doctor clearly knows a hawk from a handsaw," wrote The New York Times about one of her books.
She also built some parallels to her own biography when creating Tempe Brennan. Both women are forensic anthropologists with the unlikely dual addresses of North Carolina and Canada. But Reichs rolls her eyes when asked about the comparisons. "Personally, she's completely her own person," Reichs told USA Today in 1997. "She gets physically involved. She takes risks I've never been tempted to take."
Reichs was editing forensics textbooks when she began toying with writing a novel. The initial result, she said, was a dud: slow, boring, and in the third person. But it picked up steam when she came up with the Brennan character. Inspired by friend and medical examiner Bill Maples, author of Dead Men Do Tell Tales, she sat down to write, meticulously drafting an outline of her story and getting up early to write before teaching classes at the University of North Carolina. It took her two years.
The effort paid off when her manuscript made the rounds of the Frankfurt Book Fair. A heated auction won Reichs a million-dollar, two-book deal.
Critics and readers alike loved Tempe. Wrote the Library Journal, "Despite her ability to work among fetid, putrefying smells that 'leap out and grab' and her 'go-to-hell attitude' with seasoned cops, Tempe is as vulnerable as a soft Carolina morning." And People magazine said, "Reichs not only serves up a delicious plot, she also brings a new recipe to hard-boiled cop talk."
Over chicken salad lunches with newspaper reporters, Reichs will casually talk about dismembered bodies, maggots, and concerns for her children's security in light of some of the unsavory characters she'd testified against. But then she'll confess her true idea of a waking nightmare. "[My] idea of horror would be to sit in a little gray office all day and add up columns of numbers," she told USA Today. "I say to people, 'How do you do that?"'
One of the reasons she is Québec's forensics anthropologist is because she is one of the few in the profession who is fluent in French.
Among her favorite books are the science fiction series the Hitchhiker's Guide Douglas Adams. "It's one of the few things I re-read because it's just nothing to do with anything I do," she has said.
She avoided college literature courses to concentrate on science.
In 2005, Fox TV launched Bones, a forensics/police procedural inspired by Reichs's life and writing. In a neat twist, the main character, Temperance Brennan, is a forensic anthropologist who, as a sideline, writes thrillers about a fictional anthropologist named Kathy Reichs!
Kathy's daughter, Kerry Reichs, made her literary debut in 2008 with the romantic comedy The Best Day of Someone Else's Life.
Following an Easter dinner of ham, peas, and creamed potatoes, Charles "Le Cowboy" Bellemare pinched a twenty from his sister, drove to a crack house in Verdun, and vanished.
That summer the crack house was sold up-market. That winter the new homeowners grew frustrated with the draw in their fireplace. On Monday, February seventh, the man of the house opened the flue and thrust upward with a rake handle. A desiccated leg tumbled into the ash bed.
Papa called the cops. The cops called the fire department and the Bureau du coroner. The coroner called our forensics lab. Pelletier caught the case.
Pelletier and two morgue techs were standing on the lawn within an hour of the leg drop. To say the scene was confused would be like saying D-day was hectic. Outraged father. Hysterical mother. Overwrought kids. Mesmerized neighbors. Annoyed cops. Mystified firefighters.
Dr. Jean Pelletier is the most senior of the five pathologists at the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale, Quebec's central crime and medico-legal lab. He's got bad joints and bad dentures, and zero tolerance for anything or anyone that wastes his time. Pelletier took one look and ordered a wrecking ball.
The exterior wall of the chimney was pulverized. A well-smoked corpse was extracted, strapped to a gurney, and transported to our lab. The next day Pelletier eyeballed the remains and said, "ossements." Bones.
Enter I, Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist for North Carolina and Quebec. La Belle Province and Dixie? Long story, starting with a faculty swap between my home university, UNC-Charlotte, and McGill. When the exchange year ended, I headed south, but continued consulting for the lab in Montreal. A decade later, I'm still commuting, and lay claim to the mother lode of frequent flyer miles.
Pelletier's demande d'expertise en anthropologie was on my desk when I arrived in Montreal for my February rotation.
It was now Wednesday, February 16, and the chimney bones formed a complete skeleton on my worktable. Though the victim hadn't been a believer in regular checkups, eliminating dental records as an option, all skeletal indicators fit Bellemare. Age, sex, race, and height estimates, along with surgical pins in the right fibula and tibia, told me I was looking at the long-lost Cowboy.
Other than a hairline fracture of the cranial base, probably caused by the unplanned chimney dive, I'd found no evidence of trauma.
I was pondering how and why a man goes up on a roof and falls down the chimney, when the phone rang.
"It seems I need your assistance, Temperance." Only Pierre LaManche called me by my full name, hitting hard on the last syllable, and rhyming it with "sconce" instead of "fence." LaManche had assigned himself a cadaver that I suspected might present decomposition issues.
"Advanced putrefaction?"
"Oui." My boss paused. "And other complicating factors."
"Complicating factors?"
"Cats."
Oh, boy.
"I'll be right down."
After saving the Bellemare report on disk, I left my lab, passed through the glass doors separating the medico-legal section from the rest of the floor, turned into a side corridor, and pushed a button beside a solitary elevator. Accessible only through the two secure levels comprising the LSJML, and through the coroner's office below on eleven, this lift had a single destination: the morgue.
Descending to the basement, I reviewed what I'd learned at that morning's staff meeting.
Avram Ferris, a fifty-six-year-old Orthodox Jew, had gone missing a week earlier. Ferris's body had been discovered late yesterday in a storage closet on the upper floor of his place of business. No signs of a break-in. No signs of a struggle. Employee said he'd been acting odd. Death by self-inflicted gunshot wound was the on-scene assessment. The man's family was adamant in its rejection of suicide as an explanation.
The coroner had ordered an autopsy. Ferris's relatives and rabbi had objected. Negotiations had been heated.
I was about to see the compromise that had been reached.
And the handiwork of the cats.
From the elevator, I turned left, then right toward the morgue. Nearing the outer door to the autopsy wing, I heard sounds drifting from the family room, a forlorn little chamber reserved for those called upon to identify the dead.
Soft sobbing. A female voice.
I pictured the bleak little space with its plastic plants and plastic chairs and discreetly curtained window, and felt the usual ache. We did no hospital autopsies at the LSJML. No end-stage liver disease. No pancreatic cancer. We were scripted for murder, suicide, accidental and sudden and unexpected death. The family room held those just ambushed by the unthinkable and unforeseen. Their grief never failed to touch me.
Pulling open a bright blue door, I proceeded down a narrow corridor, passing computer stations, drying racks, and stainless steel carts on my right, more blue doors on my left, each labeled salle d'autopsie. At the fourth door, I took a deep breath and entered.
Along with the skeletal, I get the burned, the mummified, the mutilated, and the decomposed. My job is to restore the identity death has erased. I frequently use room four since it is outfitted with special ventilation. This morning the system was barely keeping up with the odor of decay.
Some autopsies play to an empty house. Some pack them in. Despite the stench, Avram Ferris's postmortem was standing room only.
LaManche. His autopsy tech, Lisa. A police photographer. Two uniforms. A Sûrété du Québec detective I didn't know. Tall guy, freckled, and paler than tofu.
An SQ detective I did know. Well. Andrew Ryan. Six-two. Sandy hair. Viking blue eyes.
We nodded to each other. Ryan the cop. Tempe the anthropologist.
If the official players weren't crowd enough, four outsiders formed a shoulder-to-shoulder wall of disapproval at the foot of the corpse.
I did a quick scan. All male. Two midfifties, two maybe closing out their sixties. Dark hair. Glasses. Beards. Black suits. Yarmulkes.
The wall regarded me with appraising eyes. Eight hands stayed clasped behind four rigid backs.
LaManche lowered his mask and introduced me to the quartet of observers.
"Given the condition of Mr. Ferris's body, an anthropologist is needed."
Four puzzled looks.
"Dr. Brennan's expertise is skeletal anatomy." LaManche spoke English. "She is fully aware of your special needs."
Other than careful collection of all blood and tissue, I hadn't a clue of their special needs.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," I said, pressing my clipboard to my chest.
Four somber nods.
Their loss lay at center stage, plastic sheeting stretched between his body and the stainless steel. More sheeting had been spread on the floor below and around the table. Empty tubs, jars, and vials sat ready on a rolling cart.
The body had been stripped and washed, but no incision had been made. Two paper bags lay flattened on the counter. I assumed LaManche had completed his external exam, including tests for gunpowder and other trace evidence on Ferris's hands.
Eight eyes tracked me as I crossed to the deceased. Observer number four reclasped his hands in front of his genitals.
Avram Ferris didn't look like he'd died last week. He looked like he'd died during the Clinton years. His eyes were black, his tongue purple, his skin mottled olive and eggplant. His gut was distended, his scrotum ballooned to the size of beach balls.
I looked to Ryan for an explanation.
"Temperature in the closet was pushing ninety-two," he said.
"Why so hot?"
"We figure one of the cats brushed the thermostat," Ryan said.
I did a quick calculation. Ninety-two Fahrenheit. About thirty-five Celsius. No wonder Ferris was setting a land record for decomposition.
But heat had been just one of this gentleman's problems.
When hungry, the most docile among us grow cranky. When starved, we grow desperate. Id overrides ethics. We eat. We survive. That common instinct drives herd animals, predators, wagon trains, and soccer teams.
Even Fido and Fluffy go vulture.
Avram Ferris had made the mistake of punching out while trapped with two domestic shorthairs and a Siamese.
And a short supply of Friskies.
I moved around the table.
Ferris's left temporal and parietal bones were oddly splayed. Though I couldn't see the occipital, it was obvious the back of his head had taken a hit.
Pulling on gloves, I wedged two fingers under the skull and palpated. The bone yielded like sludge. Only scalp tissue was keeping the flip side together.
I eased the head down and examined the face.
It was difficult to imagine what Ferris had looked like in life. His left cheek was macerated. Tooth marks scored the underlying bone, and fragments glistened opalescent in the angry red stew.
Though swollen and marbled, Ferris's face was largely intact on the right.
I straightened, considered the patterning of the mutilation. Despite the heat and the smell of putrefaction, the cats hadn't ventured to the right of Ferris's nose or south to the rest of the body.
I understood why LaManche needed me.
"There was an open wound on the left side of the face?" I asked him.
"Oui. And another at the back of the skull. The putrefaction and scavenging make it impossible to determine bullet trajectory."
"I'll need a full set of cranial X-rays," I said to Lisa.
"Orientation?"
"All angles. And I'll need the skull."
"Impossible." Observer four again came alive. "We have an agreement."
LaManche raised a gloved hand. "I have the responsibility to determine the truth in this matter."
"You gave your word there would be no retention of specimens." Though the man's face was the color of oatmeal, a pink bud was mushrooming on each of his cheeks.
"Unless absolutely unavoidable." LaManche was all reason.
Observer four turned to the man on his left. Observer three raised his chin and gazed down through lowered lids.
"Let him speak." Unruffled. The rabbi counseling patience.
LaManche turned to me.
"Dr. Brennan, proceed with your analysis, leaving the skull and all untraumatized bone in place."
"Dr. LaManche -- "
"If that proves unworkable, resume normal protocol."
I do not like being told how to do my job. I do not like working with less than the maximum available information, or employing less than optimum procedure.
I do like and respect Pierre LaManche. He is the finest pathologist I've ever known.
I looked at my boss. The old man nodded almost imperceptibly. Work with me, he was signaling.
I shifted my gaze to the faces hovering above Avram Ferris. In each I saw the age-old struggle of dogma versus pragmatics. The body as temple. The body as ducts and ganglia and piss and bile.
In each I saw the anguish of loss.
The same anguish I'd overheard just minutes before.
"Of course," I said quietly. "Call when you're ready to retract the scalp."
I looked at Ryan. He winked, Ryan the cop hinting at Ryan the lover.
The woman was still crying when I left the autopsy wing. Her companion, or companions, were now silent.
I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on personal sorrow.
Was that it? Or was that merely an excuse to shield myself?
I often witness grief. Time and again I am present for that head-on collision when survivors face the realization of their altered lives. Meals that will never be shared. Conversations that will never be spoken. Little Golden Books that will never be read aloud.
I see the pain, but have no help to offer. I am an outsider, a voyeur looking on after the crash, after the fire, after the shooting. I am part of the screaming sirens, the stretching of the yellow tape, the zipping of the body bag.
I cannot diminish the overwhelming sorrow. And I hate my impotence.
Feeling like a coward, I turned into the family room.
Two women sat side by side, together but not touching. The younger could have been thirty or fifty. She had pale skin, heavy brows, and curly dark hair tied back on her neck. She wore a black skirt and a long black sweater with a high cowl that brushed her jaw.
The older woman was so wrinkled she reminded me of the dried-apple dolls crafted in the Carolina mountains. She wore an ankle-length dress whose color fell somewhere between black and purple. Loose threads spiraled where the top three buttons should have been.
I cleared my throat.
Apple Granny glanced up, tears glistening on the face of ten thousand creases.
"Mrs. Ferris?"
The gnarled fingers bunched and rebunched a hanky.
"I'm Temperance Brennan. I'll be helping with Mr. Ferris's autopsy."
The old woman's head dropped to the right, jolting her wig to a suboptimal angle.
"Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult this is for you."
The younger woman raised two heart-stopping lilac eyes. "Do you?"
Good question.
Loss is difficult to understand. I know that. My understanding of loss is incomplete. I know that, too.
I lost my brother to leukemia when he was three. I lost my grandmother when she'd lived more than ninety years. Each time, the grief was like a living thing, invading my body and nesting deep in my marrow and nerve endings.
Kevin had been barely past baby. Gran was living in memories that didn't include me. I loved them. They loved me. But they were not the entire focus of my life, and both deaths were anticipated.
How did anyone deal with the sudden loss of a spouse? Of a child?
I didn't want to imagine.
The younger woman pressed her point. "You can't presume to understand the sorrow we feel."
Unnecessarily confrontational, I thought. Clumsy condolences are still condolences.
"Of course not," I said, looking from her to her companion and back. "That was presumptuous of me."
Neither woman spoke.
"I am very sorry for your loss."
The younger woman waited so long I thought she wasn't going to respond.
"I'm Miriam Ferris. Avram is . . . was my husband." Miriam's hand came up and paused, as if uncertain as to its mission. "Dora is Avram's mother."
The hand fluttered toward Dora, then dropped to rejoin its counterpart.
"I suppose our presence during the autopsy is irregular. There's nothing we can do." Miriam's voice sounded husky with grief. "This is all so . . ." Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed fixed on me.
I tried to think of something comforting, or uplifting, or even just calming to say. No words formed in my mind. I fell back on clichés.
"I do understand the pain of losing a loved one."
A twitch made Dora's right cheek jump. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
I moved to her, squatted, and placed my hand on hers.
"Why Avram?" Choked. "Why my only son? A mother should not bury her son."
Miriam said something in Hebrew or Yiddish.
"Who is this God? Why does he do this?"
Miriam spoke again, this time with quiet reprimand.
Dora's eyes rolled up to mine. "Why not take me? I'm old. I'm ready." The wrinkled lips trembled.
"I can't answer that, ma'am." My own voice sounded husky.
A tear dropped from Dora's chin to my thumb.
I looked down at that single drop of wetness.
I swallowed.
"May I make you some tea, Mrs. Ferris?"
"We'll be fine," Miriam said. "Thank you."
I squeezed Dora's hand. The skin felt dry, the bones brittle.
Feeling useless, I stood and handed Miriam a card. "I'll be upstairs for the next few hours. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hall.
As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.
"That was very kind." His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing "Lucille."
"A woman has lost her son. Another her husband."
"I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor."
Where was this going?
The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.
"This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead."
Copyright © 2005 by Temperance Brennan, L.P. he was signaling.
I shifted my gaze to the faces hovering above Avram Ferris. In each I saw the age-old struggle of dogma versus pragmatics. The body as temple. The body as ducts and ganglia and piss and bile.
In each I saw the anguish of loss.
The same anguish I'd overheard just minutes before.
"Of course," I said quietly. "Call when you're ready to retract the scalp."
I looked at Ryan. He winked, Ryan the cop hinting at Ryan the lover.
The woman was still crying when I left the autopsy wing. Her companion, or companions, were now silent.
I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on personal sorrow.
Was that it? Or was that merely an excuse to shield myself?
I often witness grief. Time and again I am present for that head-on collision when survivors face the realization of their altered lives. Meals that will never be shared. Conversations that will never be spoken. Little Golden Books that will never be read aloud.
I see the pain, but have no help to offer. I am an outsider, a voyeur looking on after the crash, after the fire, after the shooting. I am part of the screaming sirens, the stretching of the yellow tape, the zipping of the body bag.
I cannot diminish the overwhelming sorrow. And I hate my impotence.
Feeling like a coward, I turned into the family room.
Two women sat side by side, together but not touching. The younger could have been thirty or fifty. She had pale skin, heavy brows, and curly dark hair tied back on her neck. She wore a black skirt and a long black sweater with a high cowl that brushed her jaw.
The older woman was so wrinkled she reminded me of the dried-apple dolls crafted in the Carolina mountains. She wore an ankle-length dress whose color fell somewhere between black and purple. Loose threads spiraled where the top three buttons should have been.
I cleared my throat.
Apple Granny glanced up, tears glistening on the face of ten thousand creases.
"Mrs. Ferris?"
The gnarled fingers bunched and rebunched a hanky.
"I'm Temperance Brennan. I'll be helping with Mr. Ferris's autopsy."
The old woman's head dropped to the right, jolting her wig to a suboptimal angle.
"Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult this is for you."
The younger woman raised two heart-stopping lilac eyes. "Do you?"
Good question.
Loss is difficult to understand. I know that. My understanding of loss is incomplete. I know that, too.
I lost my brother to leukemia when he was three. I lost my grandmother when she'd lived more than ninety years. Each time, the grief was like a living thing, invading my body and nesting deep in my marrow and nerve endings.
Kevin had been barely past baby. Gran was living in memories that didn't include me. I loved them. They loved me. But they were not the entire focus of my life, and both deaths were anticipated.
How did anyone deal with the sudden loss of a spouse? Of a child?
I didn't want to imagine.
The younger woman pressed her point. "You can't presume to understand the sorrow we feel."
Unnecessarily confrontational, I thought. Clumsy condolences are still condolences.
"Of course not," I said, looking from her to her companion and back. "That was presumptuous of me."
Neither woman spoke.
"I am very sorry for your loss."
The younger woman waited so long I thought she wasn't going to respond.
"I'm Miriam Ferris. Avram is . . . was my husband." Miriam's hand came up and paused, as if uncertain as to its mission. "Dora is Avram's mother."
The hand fluttered toward Dora, then dropped to rejoin its counterpart.
"I suppose our presence during the autopsy is irregular. There's nothing we can do." Miriam's voice sounded husky with grief. "This is all so . . ." Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed fixed on me.
I tried to think of something comforting, or uplifting, or even just calming to say. No words formed in my mind. I fell back on cliches.
"I do understand the pain of losing a loved one."
A twitch made Dora's right cheek jump. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
I moved to her, squatted, and placed my hand on hers.
"Why Avram?" Choked. "Why my only son? A mother should not bury her son."
Miriam said something in Hebrew or Yiddish.
"Who is this God? Why does he do this?"
Miriam spoke again, this time with quiet reprimand.
Dora's eyes rolled up to mine. "Why not take me? I'm old. I'm ready." The wrinkled lips trembled.
"I can't answer that, ma'am." My own voice sounded husky.
A tear dropped from Dora's chin to my thumb.
I looked down at that single drop of wetness.
I swallowed.
"May I make you some tea, Mrs. Ferris?"
"We'll be fine," Miriam said. "Thank you."
I squeezed Dora's hand. The skin felt dry, the bones brittle.
Feeling useless, I stood and handed Miriam a card. "I'll be upstairs for the next few hours. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hall.
As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.
"That was very kind." His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing "Lucille."
"A woman has lost her son. Another her husband."
"I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor."
Where was this going?
The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.
"This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead."
Copyright © 2005 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.expertise en anthropologie was on my desk when I arrived in Montreal for my February rotation.
It was now Wednesday, February 16, and the chimney bones formed a complete skeleton on my worktable. Though the victim hadn't been a believer in regular checkups, eliminating dental records as an option, all skeletal indicators fit Bellemare. Age, sex, race, and height estimates, along with surgical pins in the right fibula and tibia, told me I was looking at the long-lost Cowboy.
Other than a hairline fracture of the cranial base, probably caused by the unplanned chimney dive, I'd found no evidence of trauma.
I was pondering how and why a man goes up on a roof and falls down the chimney, when the phone rang.
"It seems I need your assistance, Temperance." Only Pierre LaManche called me by my full name, hitting hard on the last syllable, and rhyming it with "sconce" instead of "fence." LaManche had assigned himself a cadaver that I suspected might present decomposition issues.
"Advanced putrefaction?"
"Oui." My boss paused. "And other complicating factors."
"Complicating factors?"
"Cats."
Oh, boy.
"I'll be right down."
After saving the Bellemare report on disk, I left my lab, passed through the glass doors separating the medico-legal section from the rest of the floor, turned into a side corridor, and pushed a button beside a solitary elevator. Accessible only through the two secure levels comprising the LSJML, and through the coroner's office below on eleven, this lift had a single destination: the morgue.
Descending to the basement, I reviewed what I'd learned at that morning's staff meeting.
Avram Ferris, a fifty-six-year-old Orthodox Jew, had gone missing a week earlier. Ferris's body had been discovered late yesterday in a storage closet on the upper floor of his place of business. No signs of a break-in. No signs of a struggle. Employee said he'd been acting odd. Death by self-inflicted gunshot wound was the on-scene assessment. The man's family was adamant in its rejection of suicide as an explanation.
The coroner had ordered an autopsy. Ferris's relatives and rabbi had objected. Negotiations had been heated.
I was about to see the compromise that had been reached.
And the handiwork of the cats.
From the elevator, I turned left, then right toward the morgue. Nearing the outer door to the autopsy wing, I heard sounds drifting from the family room, a forlorn little chamber reserved for those called upon to identify the dead.
Soft sobbing. A female voice.
I pictured the bleak little space with its plastic plants and plastic chairs and discreetly curtained window, and felt the usual ache. We did no hospital autopsies at the LSJML. No end-stage liver disease. No pancreatic cancer. We were scripted for murder, suicide, accidental and sudden and unexpected death. The family room held those just ambushed by the unthinkable and unforeseen. Their grief never failed to touch me.
Pulling open a bright blue door, I proceeded down a narrow corridor, passing computer stations, drying racks, and stainless steel carts on my right, more blue doors on my left, each labeled salle d'autopsie. At the fourth door, I took a deep breath and entered.
Along with the skeletal, I get the burned, the mummified, the mutilated, and the decomposed. My job is to restore the identity death has erased. I frequently use room four since it is outfitted with special ventilation. This morning the system was barely keeping up with the odor of decay.
Some autopsies play to an empty house. Some pack them in. Despite the stench, Avram Ferris's postmortem was standing room only.
LaManche. His autopsy tech, Lisa. A police photographer. Two uniforms. A Surété du Québec detective I didn't know. Tall guy, freckled, and paler than tofu.
An SQ detective I did know. Well. Andrew Ryan. Six-two. Sandy hair. Viking blue eyes.
We nodded to each other. Ryan the cop. Tempe the anthropologist.
If the official players weren't crowd enough, four outsiders formed a shoulder-to-shoulder wall of disapproval at the foot of the corpse.
I did a quick scan. All male. Two midfifties, two maybe closing out their sixties. Dark hair. Glasses. Beards. Black suits. Yarmulkes.
The wall regarded me with appraising eyes. Eight hands stayed clasped behind four rigid backs.
LaManche lowered his mask and introduced me to the quartet of observers.
"Given the condition of Mr. Ferris's body, an anthropologist is needed."
Four puzzled looks.
"Dr. Brennan's expertise is skeletal anatomy." LaManche spoke English. "She is fully aware of your special needs."
Other than careful collection of all blood and tissue, I hadn't a clue of their special needs.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," I said, pressing my clipboard to my chest.
Four somber nods.
Their loss lay at center stage, plastic sheeting stretched between his body and the stainless steel. More sheeting had been spread on the floor below and around the table. Empty tubs, jars, and vials sat ready on a rolling cart.
The body had been stripped and washed, but no incision had been made. Two paper bags lay flattened on the counter. I assumed LaManche had completed his external exam, including tests for gunpowder and other trace evidence on Ferris's hands.
Eight eyes tracked me as I crossed to the deceased. Observer number four reclasped his hands in front of his genitals.
Avram Ferris didn't look like he'd died last week. He looked like he'd died during the Clinton years. His eyes were black, his tongue purple, his skin mottled olive and eggplant. His gut was distended, his scrotum ballooned to the size of beach balls.
I looked to Ryan for an explanation.
"Temperature in the closet was pushing ninety-two," he said.
"Why so hot?"
"We figure one of the cats brushed the thermostat," Ryan said.
I did a quick calculation. Ninety-two Fahrenheit. About thirty-five Celsius. No wonder Ferris was setting a land record for decomposition.
But heat had been just one of this gentleman's problems.
When hungry, the most docile among us grow cranky. When starved, we grow desperate. Id overrides ethics. We eat. We survive. That common instinct drives herd animals, predators, wagon trains, and soccer teams.
Even Fido and Fluffy go vulture.
Avram Ferris had made the mistake of punching out while trapped with two domestic shorthairs and a Siamese.
And a short supply of Friskies.
I moved around the table.
Ferris's left temporal and parietal bones were oddly splayed. Though I couldn't see the occipital, it was obvious the back of his head had taken a hit.
Pulling on gloves, I wedged two fingers under the skull and palpated. The bone yielded like sludge. Only scalp tissue was keeping the flip side together.
I eased the head down and examined the face.
It was difficult to imagine what Ferris had looked like in life. His left cheek was macerated. Tooth marks scored the underlying bone, and fragments glistened opalescent in the angry red stew.
Though swollen and marbled, Ferris's face was largely intact on the right.
I straightened, considered the patterning of the mutilation. Despite the heat and the smell of putrefaction, the cats hadn't ventured to the right of Ferris's nose or south to the rest of the body.
I understood why LaManche needed me.
"There was an open wound on the left side of the face?" I asked him.
"Oui. And another at the back of the skull. The putrefaction and scavenging make it impossible to determine bullet trajectory."
"I'll need a full set of cranial X-rays," I said to Lisa.
"Orientation?"
"All angles. And I'll need the skull."
"Impossible." Observer four again came alive. "We have an agreement."
LaManche raised a gloved hand. "I have the responsibility to determine the truth in this matter."
"You gave your word there would be no retention of specimens." Though the man's face was the color of oatmeal, a pink bud was mushrooming on each of his cheeks.
"Unless absolutely unavoidable." LaManche was all reason.
Observer four turned to the man on his left. Observer three raised his chin and gazed down through lowered lids.
"Let him speak." Unruffled. The rabbi counseling patience.
LaManche turned to me.
"Dr. Brennan, proceed with your analysis, leaving the skull and all untraumatized bone in place."
"Dr. LaManche--"
"If that proves unworkable, resume normal protocol."
I do not like being told how to do my job. I do not like working with less than the maximum available information, or employing less than optimum procedure.
I do like and respect Pierre LaManche. He is the finest pathologist I've ever known.
I looked at my boss. The old man nodded almost imperceptibly. Work with me, he was signaling.
I shifted my gaze to the faces hovering above Avram Ferris. In each I saw the age-old struggle of dogma versus pragmatics. The body as temple. The body as ducts and ganglia and piss and bile.
In each I saw the anguish of loss.
The same anguish I'd overheard just minutes before.
"Of course," I said quietly. "Call when you're ready to retract the scalp."
I looked at Ryan. He winked, Ryan the cop hinting at Ryan the lover.
The woman was still crying when I left the autopsy wing. Her companion, or companions, were now silent.
I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on personal sorrow.
Was that it? Or was that merely an excuse to shield myself?
I often witness grief. Time and again I am present for that head-on collision when survivors face the realization of their altered lives. Meals that will never be shared. Conversations that will never be spoken. Little Golden Books that will never be read aloud.
I see the pain, but have no help to offer. I am an outsider, a voyeur looking on after the crash, after the fire, after the shooting. I am part of the screaming sirens, the stretching of the yellow tape, the zipping of the body bag.
I cannot diminish the overwhelming sorrow. And I hate my impotence.
Feeling like a coward, I turned into the family room.
Two women sat side by side, together but not touching. The younger could have been thirty or fifty. She had pale skin, heavy brows, and curly dark hair tied back on her neck. She wore a black skirt and a long black sweater with a high cowl that brushed her jaw.
The older woman was so wrinkled she reminded me of the dried-apple dolls crafted in the Carolina mountains. She wore an ankle-length dress whose color fell somewhere between black and purple. Loose threads spiraled where the top three buttons should have been.
I cleared my throat.
Apple Granny glanced up, tears glistening on the face of ten thousand creases.
"Mrs. Ferris?"
The gnarled fingers bunched and rebunched a hanky.
"I'm Temperance Brennan. I'll be helping with Mr. Ferris's autopsy."
The old woman's head dropped to the right, jolting her wig to a suboptimal angle.
"Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult this is for you."
The younger woman raised two heart-stopping lilac eyes. "Do you?"
Good question.
Loss is difficult to understand. I know that. My understanding of loss is incomplete. I know that, too.
I lost my brother to leukemia when he was three. I lost my grandmother when she'd lived more than ninety years. Each time, the grief was like a living thing, invading my body and nesting deep in my marrow and nerve endings.
Kevin had been barely past baby. Gran was living in memories that didn't include me. I loved them. They loved me. But they were not the entire focus of my life, and both deaths were anticipated.
How did anyone deal with the sudden loss of a spouse? Of a child?
I didn't want to imagine.
The younger woman pressed her point. "You can't presume to understand the sorrow we feel."
Unnecessarily confrontational, I thought. Clumsy condolences are still condolences.
"Of course not," I said, looking from her to her companion and back. "That was presumptuous of me."
Neither woman spoke.
"I am very sorry for your loss."
The younger woman waited so long I thought she wasn't going to respond.
"I'm Miriam Ferris. Avram is . . . was my husband." Miriam's hand came up and paused, as if uncertain as to its mission. "Dora is Avram's mother."
The hand fluttered toward Dora, then dropped to rejoin its counterpart.
"I suppose our presence during the autopsy is irregular. There's nothing we can do." Miriam's voice sounded husky with grief. "This is all so . . ." Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed fixed on me.
I tried to think of something comforting, or uplifting, or even just calming to say. No words formed in my mind. I fell back on clichés.
"I do understand the pain of losing a loved one."
A twitch made Dora's right cheek jump. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
I moved to her, squatted, and placed my hand on hers.
"Why Avram?" Choked. "Why my only son? A mother should not bury her son."
Miriam said something in Hebrew or Yiddish.
"Who is this God? Why does he do this?"
Miriam spoke again, this time with quiet reprimand.
Dora's eyes rolled up to mine. "Why not take me? I'm old. I'm ready." The wrinkled lips trembled.
"I can't answer that, ma'am." My own voice sounded husky.
A tear dropped from Dora's chin to my thumb.
I looked down at that single drop of wetness.
I swallowed.
"May I make you some tea, Mrs. Ferris?"
"We'll be fine," Miriam said. "Thank you."
I squeezed Dora's hand. The skin felt dry, the bones brittle.
Feeling useless, I stood and handed Miriam a card. "I'll be upstairs for the next few hours. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hall.
As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.
"That was very kind." His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing "Lucille."
"A woman has lost her son. Another her husband."
"I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor."
Where was this going?
The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.
"This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead."
Copyright © 2005 by Temperance Brennan, L.P. he was signaling.
I shifted my gaze to the faces hovering above Avram Ferris. In each I saw the age-old struggle of dogma versus pragmatics. The body as temple. The body as ducts and ganglia and piss and bile.
In each I saw the anguish of loss.
The same anguish I'd overheard just minutes before.
"Of course," I said quietly. "Call when you're ready to retract the scalp."
I looked at Ryan. He winked, Ryan the cop hinting at Ryan the lover.
The woman was still crying when I left the autopsy wing. Her companion, or companions, were now silent.
I hesitated, not wanting to intrude on personal sorrow.
Was that it? Or was that merely an excuse to shield myself?
I often witness grief. Time and again I am present for that head-on collision when survivors face the realization of their altered lives. Meals that will never be shared. Conversations that will never be spoken. Little Golden Books that will never be read aloud.
I see the pain, but have no help to offer. I am an outsider, a voyeur looking on after the crash, after the fire, after the shooting. I am part of the screaming sirens, the stretching of the yellow tape, the zipping of the body bag.
I cannot diminish the overwhelming sorrow. And I hate my impotence.
Feeling like a coward, I turned into the family room.
Two women sat side by side, together but not touching. The younger could have been thirty or fifty. She had pale skin, heavy brows, and curly dark hair tied back on her neck. She wore a black skirt and a long black sweater with a high cowl that brushed her jaw.
The older woman was so wrinkled she reminded me of the dried-apple dolls crafted in the Carolina mountains. She wore an ankle-length dress whose color fell somewhere between black and purple. Loose threads spiraled where the top three buttons should have been.
I cleared my throat.
Apple Granny glanced up, tears glistening on the face of ten thousand creases.
"Mrs. Ferris?"
The gnarled fingers bunched and rebunched a hanky.
"I'm Temperance Brennan. I'll be helping with Mr. Ferris's autopsy."
The old woman's head dropped to the right, jolting her wig to a suboptimal angle.
"Please accept my condolences. I know how difficult this is for you."
The younger woman raised two heart-stopping lilac eyes. "Do you?"
Good question.
Loss is difficult to understand. I know that. My understanding of loss is incomplete. I know that, too.
I lost my brother to leukemia when he was three. I lost my grandmother when she'd lived more than ninety years. Each time, the grief was like a living thing, invading my body and nesting deep in my marrow and nerve endings.
Kevin had been barely past baby. Gran was living in memories that didn't include me. I loved them. They loved me. But they were not the entire focus of my life, and both deaths were anticipated.
How did anyone deal with the sudden loss of a spouse? Of a child?
I didn't want to imagine.
The younger woman pressed her point. "You can't presume to understand the sorrow we feel."
Unnecessarily confrontational, I thought. Clumsy condolences are still condolences.
"Of course not," I said, looking from her to her companion and back. "That was presumptuous of me."
Neither woman spoke.
"I am very sorry for your loss."
The younger woman waited so long I thought she wasn't going to respond.
"I'm Miriam Ferris. Avram is . . . was my husband." Miriam's hand came up and paused, as if uncertain as to its mission. "Dora is Avram's mother."
The hand fluttered toward Dora, then dropped to rejoin its counterpart.
"I suppose our presence during the autopsy is irregular. There's nothing we can do." Miriam's voice sounded husky with grief. "This is all so . . ." Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed fixed on me.
I tried to think of something comforting, or uplifting, or even just calming to say. No words formed in my mind. I fell back on cliches.
"I do understand the pain of losing a loved one."
A twitch made Dora's right cheek jump. Her shoulders slumped and her head dropped.
I moved to her, squatted, and placed my hand on hers.
"Why Avram?" Choked. "Why my only son? A mother should not bury her son."
Miriam said something in Hebrew or Yiddish.
"Who is this God? Why does he do this?"
Miriam spoke again, this time with quiet reprimand.
Dora's eyes rolled up to mine. "Why not take me? I'm old. I'm ready." The wrinkled lips trembled.
"I can't answer that, ma'am." My own voice sounded husky.
A tear dropped from Dora's chin to my thumb.
I looked down at that single drop of wetness.
I swallowed.
"May I make you some tea, Mrs. Ferris?"
"We'll be fine," Miriam said. "Thank you."
I squeezed Dora's hand. The skin felt dry, the bones brittle.
Feeling useless, I stood and handed Miriam a card. "I'll be upstairs for the next few hours. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call."
Exiting the viewing room, I noticed one of the bearded observers watching from across the hall.
As I passed, the man stepped forward to block my path.
"That was very kind." His voice had a peculiar raspy quality, like Kenny Rogers singing "Lucille."
"A woman has lost her son. Another her husband."
"I saw you in there. It is obvious you are a person of compassion. A person of honor."
Where was this going?
The man hesitated, as though debating a few final points with himself. Then he reached into a pocket, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to me.
"This is the reason Avram Ferris is dead."
Copyright © 2005 by Temperance Brennan, L.P.
ds_sweet
Posted August 21, 2011
I recommend starting with Deja Dead and reading right on through! You won't regret it!
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Anonymous
Posted November 16, 2009
I Also Recommend:
Can't get enough. I have read all of Kathy Reichs books. And I think you will too.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.jonnyedwards
Posted July 25, 2009
Kathy Reich does it again She has you looking one way then broadsides you with the real plot line . I am a fan forever.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.GingerandRiley
Posted October 25, 2010
This was a gift from my mother-in-law for my birthday. I can say that it has a very interesting ending, not what you expect. This is something that I have seen in her books, they always have a twist that would turn everything. When I read the back of the book to see what it was about I thought it would be full of silly situations, but she proof me wrong.
I highly recommend her books, they are full of interesting details, humor and sarcasm. Pretty well written.
mathduster
Posted May 5, 2010
Good listen on a long road trip. A bit far fetched hitting all the current stereotypes of the Christian-Jewish-etc conflict.
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Posted February 20, 2010
I Also Recommend:
This book had a very good plot but it was a little boring throughout certain sections of the book. But then it was very exciting in other parts of the book and it had a very good ending. I recommend this book to people who like murder and mystery or even just those CSI TV shows.
Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.Amon
Posted October 27, 2009
I love this book! It is amazingly awesome! It might be hard to follow for people who get distracted fast. But this book is uber good!
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Posted July 17, 2008
I really do enjoy Kathy Reichs books, but this one...let's just say it's not really her best book, doesn't come anywhere close. It started out okay but by the time you got halfway through it, it was like cringing till the end. Don't worry Kathy Reichs fans, her next novel Break No Bones is SOOOO much better. This book, I'd skip it if I were you! Kathy Reichs is a great author and keeps writing Great novels, please don't let one fluke of a book, stop you from reading her books because they truly are Excellent Novels!
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Posted June 21, 2008
I read all of her books and am having a hard time finishing this one. Usually I finish in a few days even with a busy schedule. I am counting the pages til it's done. That is a first for any book Kathy Reichs has written. The character development wasn't what it should be. Had this been the first of her books, I doubt that I would have read any more. This plot was hard to follow and seemed constrained. I kept thinking, this is a stretch. I've already bought her next book. I hope it is better. After 7 winners, one dud isn't enough to make me quit reading her work.
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Posted December 19, 2006
After reading the reviews, I may give this author another try....this book was so poorly written!! The metaphores where silly (eggs the size of Mt. Rushmore.....PLEASE!!) And the scenes were boring....the scene with the flashlight and the jackel could have been written by a 10 year old! I will try her again because some fans think this book was a disappointment.....so I'll give her another shot!
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Posted July 19, 2006
I too was waiting anxiously for this book and I too had to force myself to finish it. Unfortunately she started mixing religion into this book. The relgious preaching in the last 2 pages were the final straw. I hope she sees the error of her ways and goes back to writing what she knows so much about.
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Posted June 10, 2006
I found this to be the worst of Reichs' books (I have read all of them). For some unknown reason Reichs decided to take on Dan Brown and the De Vinci Code -- my advice is, DON'T! I enjoy the standard murder/detective novels that Reichs does best, and urge her to return to that. Also, the incessant bantering and bickering between Tempe Brennan and Ryan is just irritating, and should be toned down. Bottom line, this book was simply confusing, with too many plot lines, and not enjoyable to read.
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Posted January 11, 2006
Temperance Brennan and Andrew Ryan are once again on the trail of a murderer. While on her Montreal tour of duty, Tempe is present at the autopsy of a Jewish man that has been shot to death. Also present are four members of the Jewish community. Just after the autopsy, a Jewish man gives Tempe a photo of a skeleton and tells her that the skeleton is the reason the man is dead. But, he was not one of the four that were at the autopsy. So who is he? Tempe calls a biblical archeologist friend, Jake Drum, and tells him about the photo. Jake is immediately interested and has her fax him a copy. This puts her right in the middle of a religious controversy that could turn the world upside down. Flying to Israel, Tempe is shown a cave that once was a burial chamber. In this chamber, she finds a shroud and a few bone fragments. Tempe then discovers that the shooting victim in Montreal dealt in black market antiquities, once of which is a full skeleton of someone who everyone wonders if it has ties to the Holy Family. Or is the skeleton simply one of the Masada defenders or simply someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time? So, the hunt begins to discover what is true and to who killed the dealer. Between the normal ¿who-done-it¿, Ms. Reichs writes about a religious controversy that could rewrite 2000 years of history. Has the tomb of the Jesus family been found? She keeps you on the edge of your seat wondering how it is all going to end. She does it splendidly but I won¿t give away the best part. You will have to listen to it for yourself. And, if listening/reading Ms. Reichs books are not enough ¿Brennan¿ for you, there is even a series on television called ¿Bones¿. I, for one, won¿t miss any of Ms. Reichs¿ books or one of the television shows.
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Posted August 23, 2005
Tedious, messy and confusing are not good words to describe a novel. Unfortunately, this was not a good novel and the words do apply. I have ready all of the past Kathy Reichs books and generally they were very good. I think she tried to stretch Tempe too much in this book. She had her delving into areas that were way over her head. I knew things were going to get overly complex when she had Tempe and Ryan go off to Israel together. If this had been a tightly written, fast paced novel, it would have helped the subject matter. But, it was rambling, confusing, and did not hold my interest. I found myself skimming through parts and finally I decided to check the last few pages to see if a rousing finale would prompt me to keep reading. What I read at the end was not encouraging, but I did plod through the book. I guess everyone can have a 'miss' in a long row of hits. I hope Kathy gets back to basics with good solid stories and mysteries with her next book
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Posted July 26, 2005
I was very excited to read this book being from the Charlotte area and hearing her on NPR. What a great topic! I found myself questioning her need to keep retelling the same story throughout. I have no doubt that she knows more than me about the topic, but I don't think she needed to cater to the lowest common denominator. I also thought the love story was boring and had no real place in this book. It was all too contrived. I am looking forward to reading her colleague's book The Jesus Dynasty when it is released next year and hope it is not dumbed down.
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Posted July 15, 2005
My love of Archaeology and Mystery combinations is very high (EX: Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody character). This book is by an author who not only knows her field but knows how to put together a super read. What Fun!
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Posted July 16, 2005
Loved all the other Tempe Brennan books, BUT if I had read this one first I would not have bothered with the others. Kathy Come Home.
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Posted September 14, 2005
I love Kathy Reich's work. I really liked this one until near the end. She had two great mysteries going, but seemed to have no valid conclusion, so to me the story just fizzled out at the end with a burning and a theft.
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Posted June 26, 2005
This one keeps you guessing and biting your nails all the way through. Wonderfully written. Kept me up late at night...reading when I should have been sleeping. It was worth it though.
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Posted August 3, 2005
I will admit that I waited for this book with much anticipation. However, I had to actually make myself finish it. I was very disappointed that Ms. Reich felt it necessary to drop to the level of researching religious issues rather than continuing with the venue of scrappy forensic anthropologist that has made her famous. Please, Kathy, come back to the old Tempe. I missed her this time!
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Overview
A gripping and explosive new thriller from internationally acclaimed forensic anthropologist and New York Times bestselling author Kathy Reichs, featuring Temperance Brennan and Detective Andrew Ryan on the trail of a modern murder and an ancient biblical mystery...
When an Orthodox Jewish man is found shot to death in Montreal, Temperance Brennan is called in to examine the body and to figure out the puzzling damage to the corpse. Unexpectedly, a stranger slips her a photograph of a skeleton and assures her it is the key to the victim's death. Before she knows it, Tempe is involved in an international mystery as old ...