THE REST OF THAT DAY WAS DEVOTED TO THE OKA WOMAN.

Four hours with the bones revealed no further indignities to her person. No cut marks. No stab wounds. No bullet holes. No postcranial trauma of any kind.

The skull fracture, however, was a doozy.

When I surfaced at five, it had been dark for an hour. No new Demande d’expertise en anthropologie form lay on my desk. There were no urgent phone messages from cops or prosecutors. No update from Ryan.

Zipped, mufflered, booted, and gloved, I headed out.

The snow mounding curbs and sidewalks had already turned black. Along my route to the metro, aggravated drivers herniated themselves disinterring their cars. Exhaust fumes glowed red against a backdrop of traffic-stalled taillights. Salt crunching underfoot, I congratulated myself on my choice of mass transit.

Without Birdie or Charlie, my condo seemed dark and empty. For company, I popped in a Dorothée Berryman CD. Singing duets with Dorothée as she covered tunes by Mercer, Vaughan, and Fitzgerald, I whipped up a concoction of linguini, pine nuts, tomatoes, and feta. It wasn’t bad.

After supper, I logged onto the Net.

Few things have improved my life more in recent years than the reinstatement of US Airway’s incredibly fabulous direct nonstop service between La Belle Ville and the Queen City.

Good-bye, connection in Philadelphia! Hello, luggage in Charlotte!

Within minutes, I’d booked a seat on Thursday morning’s flight. As I closed the laptop, my face wore a smile with the wingspan of a 747.

“Going home, going home, I’m a-going home.”

Dorothée did not begrudge me my solo.

Tuesday I was up at seven, in the lab by eight.

The morning’s autopsies included a worker crushed in a microbrewery and a bookkeeper who’d used timers and wrist leads to electrocute herself. Conscientious even in death, the lady had pinned a note to her sweater warning of potential hazard.

By ten, I’d drawn and photographed the Oka woman’s cranial trauma and composed my report. Then I photocopied my diagram and printed superior, lateral, and interior views of the skull.

After downing a mug of very bad coffee, I hiked downstairs to the Bureau du coroner.

Hubert was in his office. The day’s shirt was lavender, the tie still red and green. Candy canes and holly had replaced Monday’s tree and banner motif.

“She was struck once from behind, once after she was down.”

Hubert laid aside his pen.

Circling the desk, I placed the prints and diagram on his blotter. On each, I’d labeled the fractures alphabetically.

Using my finger, I traced a jagged break running from right to left across the back of the Oka skull.

“Letter A marks a radiating fracture caused by a blow to the right posterior parietal.”

I indicated an indentation beside the sagittal suture at the top of the vault. A starburst of cracks spread from its center.

“Letter B marks a crush fracture.”

“Caused by a blow to the crown.”

“Yes.”

A pudgy finger came down on an in-bending paralleling one side of the crush fracture. “Bonjour.”

“I’ll come back to that. The letters C mark radiating and concentric fractures associated with B. Notice that every C terminates at A.”

Hubert made a noise in his throat.

“Once formed, a crack will propagate until its energy is dissipated. In other words, when it hits an opening, it’s done. So fracture A preexisted fracture B, and all its progeny, the Cs.”

Hubert got it. “The crown was hit after the parietal.”

“Exactly. The first blow may have been lethal, but the killer was taking no chances. After she fell, he blasted her again to make certain she wasn’t getting up.”

“With what?”

I indicated the edge of the depression fracture that had caught Hubert’s attention.

“The shape of the in-bending suggests a cylindrical object that widens into a flat surface with a raised central ridge.”

Hubert studied the image. The phone rang. He ignored it.

Finally, “Une pelle?” A shovel?

“That’s my take.”

Selecting the interior view, I pointed to dark staining adjacent to both fracture sites.

“Hemorrhage.” Taut. “Her heart was still pumping.”

I nodded agreement.

Hubert did not raise his eyes to mine.

“A helpless old woman is forced to walk naked and barefoot through the woods. To watch her grave dug. Then she’s bludgeoned with a shovel.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Câlice.”

Despite Hubert’s pessimism, I returned to the lab, cut a bone plug from the Oka woman’s femur, and delivered it to the DNA section. Then, with that case in limbo, I was free to focus on sniffing out Jurmain’s informant.

Since I was currently not topping Hubert’s hit parade, I decided to start with the case file. Perhaps somewhere in the minutiae of the investigation I’d find a clue to the identity of my accuser.

Dossiers are kept five years at the LSJML, then sent to a mountaintop in Mogadishu for permanent storage. Fortunately, Rose had disappeared only three years earlier.

After dropping my report in the secretarial office, I continued down the same side corridor to the library. Félicité Hernandez, a large woman with a penchant for Gypsy fashion and hair like Cher’s after the bleach job, greeted me. We exchanged pleasantries, accompanied by much clacking. Félicité likes her accessories large and dangly.

I requested the master file for LSJML-44893, then took a seat. Five minutes passed. Ten. Though pleasant and thorough, Félicité is not speedy.

Finally, a corrugated binder hit the counter. Saying merci, I lugged the thing to my office.

For the next two hours I returned to Sainte-Marguerite, L’Auberge des Neiges, the yellow-taped mound in the pines. I reviewed the findings of pathology, toxicology, odontology, and fiber experts. Police incident reports. Witness statements. Information provided by family members.

I jotted names. Wondered with each. Did this person hint at professional dissatisfaction? At personal offense?

When finished I was as frustrated as when I’d begun. No answer had emerged. No theory as to motive had formed in my head.

Call the chief?

No way. I wouldn’t interrupt LaManche’s convalescence by drawing him back into the world of death.

I talked to Ayers, then Morin, then Santangelo.

Each laughed, said the allegation of wrongdoing on my part was ridiculous. Forget it, they counseled. The Jurmain case is closed. The old man is dead.

True.

Still.

I knew myself. Until I learned the identity of my accuser, the thing would keep eating at me. I’d never feel settled. Never be able to fully shut the door. And have no assurance that something similar wouldn’t arise again.

Without mentioning specifics, I floated questions in the Service de l’identité judiciaire. In the morgue. In admin. In the secretarial office. No one had overheard or received complaints about me. No ruffled feathers. No bruised egos. No gripes.

Out of ideas and out of sorts, I went home.

The next morning, I flew to Charlotte.

On December 26, while Katy and I were diving off Ambergris Caye, Ryan sent a text message to my BlackBerry.

Break in Keiser. Call.

That evening, as Katy showered, I went out to the terrace and phoned. Ryan told me the following:

On Christmas Eve, a homeless man found a purse in a Dumpster behind a Pharmaprix drugstore on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. The contents included a comb, a hanky, and a nail file with the logo of a Hollywood, Florida, hotel.

Since the purse was found in Montreal, the SPVM caught the call. Hearing about it, and hoping for a Keiser connection, Claudel, the lead investigator on the case, went right to work. And scored.