“Shakespearean,” I agreed.

“When I tinkered around, whatdid pop out was a guy named Hershel Kaplan.”

I was stumped. What follows thrice. Frice? Quatrice?

“Kaplan’s a small-time hustler. Did a couple of bumps for white-collar stuff. Credit card fraud. Check forgery. Also goes by the names Hershel Cantor and Harry Kester.”

“Let me guess. Kessler was also one of Kaplan’s aliases.”

“Hirsch Kessler.” Ryan dug a photocopy from his back pocket. “That your boy?”

I studied the photo. Glasses. Dark hair. This guy was clean-shaven.

“Maybe.” They all look alike? I felt like a moron.

I closed my eyes and conjured Kessler.

I opened my eyes and stared at the mug shot.

Subconscious ring-a-ding. What?

The craning neck. The drooping lids. A word when Kessler ambushed me outside the family room. Turtle. I’d forgotten. The same word had again flashed into my mind.

“Kessler had a beard. But I think it’s the same man.” I handed the paper back. “Sorry. It’s the best I can do.”

“It’s a start.”

“Where’s Kessler now? Kaplan?”

“I’m looking into that.”

Back home, Ryan talked with Charlie while I showered. I was standing naked by my dresser when he entered the bedroom.

“Freeze.”

I turned, a lace baby doll nightie in one hand, a satin charmeuse slip in the other.

“I’m going to have to know what you’re doing, ma’am.”

“You a cop?”

“That’s why I ask the tough questions.”

I raised the lingerie and a questioning brow.

“Put down the nighties and step away from the dresser.”

I did.

It was a typical Monday morning madhouse at the lab. Four dead in a house fire. One shooting. One hanging. Two stabbings. A crib death.

Only one case for me.

Objects had been found in the basement sink of an apartment high-rise in Côte Saint-Luc. Police suspected they were the skull bones of an infant or toddler.

After the morning meeting, I asked LaManche to follow me to my lab. I showed him Morissonneau’s skeleton, filled him in on its history and possible provenance, and explained how it had come into my possession.

As expected, LaManche assigned the remains an LSJML number, and told me to treat them as a coroner case. Final resolution would be my call. Should I declare the bones ancient, I was free to release them to the appropriate archaeologists.

When LaManche had gone, I asked my lab technician, Denis, to X-ray the skeleton’s dentition. Then I got down to the baby.

I had to admit the specimens looked like two very young and incomplete parietal bones. The concave surfaces showed the vascular patterning produced by close association with the brain’s outer surface.

Cleaning resolved the issue.

The “bones” were fragments of coconut shell. The venous patterning was the result of water action on caked mud.

When I’d delivered my report to the secretary’s office, Denis handed me a small brown envelope. I dumped the contents onto my light box.

One look strengthened my suspicion that the first maxillary molar had been reinserted into the skeleton’s jaw. And not too skillfully. On X-ray, I could see that the tooth’s angle was slightly wrong, and that the roots didn’t conform properly to their sockets.

And something else.

As a tooth ages, its cusps grind down. Okay. I’d spotted the discrepancy in wear. But other features also change with time. The older a tooth, the more secondary dentin in its pulp chamber and canal.

I’m no dentist, but the right first maxillary molar looked less radio-opaque than the other molars.

I phoned Marc Bergeron. His receptionist put me on hold. I listened to a Thousand Strings play something resembling “Sweet Caroline.” In my mind’s eye I saw a patient, reclined, agape, tubing sucking at his mouth. I was glad it wasn’t me.

Marc picked up during a mind-numbing version of “Uptown Girl.” He’d squeeze me in that afternoon.

Jake called as I was packaging the skull.

“Did you get my messages?” I asked.

“I checked out Saturday and took the midnight flight to Tel Aviv.”

“You’re in Israel?”

“ Jerusalem. What’s up?”

I told him about the inconsistency between the skeleton in the photo and the skeleton in my lab, and described the seemingly aberrant molar.

“What does it mean?”

“I’m seeing our odontologist this afternoon.”

There was a long, long pause. Then, “I want you to pull that molar and one or two others.”

“Why?”

“For DNA testing. I also want you to cut femoral segments. Is that a problem?”

“If Ferris and Lerner are right, these bones are almost two thousand years old.”

“It’s possible to extract mitochondrial DNA from old bone, right?”

“It’s possible. But then what? Forensic analysis is based on comparison, either to the victim’s own DNA, or to that of a family member. If mtDNAcould be extracted and amplified, to what would you compare it?”

Long Jake pause. Then, “New finds are unearthed every day. You never know what will turn up, or what will be relevant down the road. And I’ve got grant money specifically earmarked for this type of thing. What about race?”

“What about it?”

“Wasn’t there a recent case where profilers said the perp was white and some lab predicted, correctly, that the guy was black?”

“You’re thinking of the Derrick Todd Lee case in Baton Rouge. That test relies on nuclear DNA.”

“Can’t nuclear DNA be extracted from ancient bone?”

“Some claim to have done it. There’s a growing field of study on aDNA.”

“aDNA?”

“Ancient DNA. Folks at Cambridge and Oxford are working on getting nuclear DNA from archaeological material. Here in Canada, there’s an institute called the Paleo-DNA Laboratory in Thunder Bay.”

I remembered a recent article inThe American Journal of Human Genetics.

“A French group reported on nuclear and mitochondrial DNA from skeletons dug from a two-thousand-year-old necropolis in Mongolia. But Jake, even if you could get nuclear DNA, racial prediction is very limited.”

“How limited?”

“There’s a Florida company that offers a test that translates genetic markers into a prediction of likely racial mix. They claim they can predict the percentage present of Indo-European, Native American, East Asian, and sub-Saharan-African ancestry.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

“Not much help with the bones of an ancient Palestinian.”

“No,” I agreed.

I listened to another of Jake’s pauses.

“But either mito or nuclear DNA analysis might show whether that odd molar belonged to a different individual.”

“It’s a long shot.”

“But it might.”

“It might,” I conceded.

“Who does these tests?”

I told him.

“Visit your dentist, see what he says about the odd tooth. Then take samples. And cut enough bone for radiocarbon analysis, too.”

“The coroner’s not going to foot the bill,” I said.

“I’ll use my grant money.”

I was zipping my parka when Ryan came through the door.

What he told me sent my thoughts winging a one-eighty.