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would not succumb to his charm.
    A folder lay on the desk in front of him. He placed his hand on it and looked at me. His face brought to mind a parrot. The features angled sharply from his ears to the midline, plunging forward into a beaklike nose. Along this apex his chin, his mouth, and the tip of his nose pointed downward in a series of V’s. When he smiled, which was rare, the V of his mouth sharpened, and the lips drew in, rather than back.
    He sighed. He was being very patient with me. I hadn’t worked with Claudel before, but knew his reputation. He thought himself an exceptionally intelligent man.
    “I have several names,” he said. “Possibles. They all disappeared within the last six months.”
    We’d already discussed the question of time since death. My morning’s work hadn’t changed my mind. I was certain she’d been dead less than three months. That would place the murder in March or later. Winters are cold in Quebec, hard on the living but kind to the dead. Frozen bodies do not decay. Nor do they attract bugs. Had she been dumped last fall, before the onset of winter, there would’ve been signs of insect infestation. The presence of casings or larvae would’ve indicated an aborted fall invasion. There were none. Given that it had been a warm spring, the abundance of maggots and the degree of deterioration were consistent with an interval of three months or less. The presence of connective tissue along with the virtual absence of viscera and brain matter also suggested a late winter, early spring death.
    I leaned back and looked at him expectantly. I could be cagey too. He opened the folder and thumbed through its contents. I waited.
    Selecting one of the forms, he read, “Myriam Weider.” There was a pause as he sifted through the information on the form. “Disappeared April 4, 1994.” Pause. “Female. White.” Long pause. “Date of birth 9/6/48.”
    We both calculated mentally—forty-five years old.
    “Possible,” I said, gesturing with my hand for him to go on.
    He laid the form on the desk and read from the next. “Solange Leger. Reported missing by the husband,” he paused, straining to make out the date, “May 2, 1994. Female. White. Date of birth 8/17/28.”
    “No.” I shook my head. “Too old.”
    He placed the form at the back of the folder and selected another. “Isabelle Gagnon. Last seen April 1, 1994. Female. White. Date of birth 1/15/71.”
    “Twenty-three. Yeah.” I nodded slowly. “Possible.” It went on the desk.
    “Suzanne St. Pierre. Female. Missing since March 9, 1994.” His lips moved as he read. “Failed to return from school.” He paused, calculating on his own. “Age sixteen. Jesus Christ.”
    Again I shook my head. “She’s too young. This isn’t a kid.”
    He frowned, pulling out the last form. “Evelyn Fontaine. Female. Age thirty-six. Last seen in Sept Îles on March 28. Oh yeah. She’s an Innu.”
    “Doubtful,” I said. I didn’t think the remains were those of an Indian.
    “That’s it,” he said. There were two forms on the desk. Myriam Weider, age forty-five, and Isabelle Gagnon, age twenty-three. Maybe one of them was lying downstairs in room 4. Claudel looked at me. His eyebrows rose in the middle forming yet another V, this one inverted.
    “How old
was
she?” he asked, emphasizing the verb and his long-suffering patience.
    “Let’s go downstairs and see.” That’ll bring a little sunshine into your day, I thought.
    It was petty but I couldn’t help it. I knew Claudel’s reputation for avoiding the autopsy room, and I wanted to discomfort him. For a moment he looked trapped. I enjoyed his unease. Grabbing a lab coat from the hook on the door, I hurried down the hall and inserted my key for the elevator. He was silent as we descended. He looked like a man on the way to a prostate exam. Claudel rarely rode this elevator. It stopped only at the morgue.
     
    The body lay undisturbed. I gloved and removed the white sheet. From