Книга Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

CPIC and NCIC, maintained by the RCMP and the FBI respectively, are computerized indexes of information, including criminal record histories, details on fugitives and stolen properties, and data on missing persons. The databases are available to law enforcement and to other criminal justice agencies twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

As we rose, LaManche laid a hand on my shoulder.

“We must apply ourselves, Temperance. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh yes,” I repeated with equal feeling.

Thirty seconds later I was in my office talking to Claudel.

“Not so quickly.”

“Three-eight-four-two-six,” I repeated at the pace a sloth might have employed if speaking French. “Female.” Pause. “White.” Pause. “Age sixteen to eighteen.” Pause. “Height fifty-eight to sixty-two inches.”

“Dentals?” You could have used Claudel’s voice to scythe wheat.

“No restorations. But of course I have postmortem X-rays.”

“These are the bones from the crate?”

“Yes.

“Next.”

“Three-eight-four-two-seven. Female. White. Age fifteen to seventeen. Height sixty-four to sixty-seven inches. No dental work.”

“The bones recovered from the first depression?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“Three-eight-four-two-eight. Female, white, age eighteen to twenty-two, sixty-five to sixty-eight inches in height. Healed Colles’ fracture of the distal right radius.”

“Meaning?”

“She fractured her right wrist several years before death. Colles’ fractures often occur when the hands are thrown out to break a fall.

“The bones from the second depression?”

“Yes.”

“There are no distinguishing features on any of these individuals?”

“One was quite short. One broke her arm.”

“If these people died in the fifties this is a waste of time.”

“Their families might disagree.”

“Any relatives will be scattered. Or dead.”

“These girls were stripped naked and buried in a basement.”

“If these girls were associated with Cataneo, they were probably hookers.”

Deep breath. The man is a troll.

“Yes, they may have been prostitutes, guilty of the sins of ignorance and need. They may have been runaways, guilty of the sins of poor judgment and bad luck. They may have been random innocents, yanked from their lives and guilty of nothing. Whoever they were, Monsieur Claudel, they deserve more than a forgotten grave in a moldy cellar. We could not help these girls when they died, but perhaps we can prevent others from joining them in the future.