Bergeron held out a hand. I placed the tiny brown envelope in it.
Clicking on a light box, Bergeron arranged the dental X-rays and leaned close. His hair haloed like a dandelion in the bright fluorescence.
Seconds pa.s.sed. A full minute.
"Mon Dieu, no question." A skeletal finger tapped the second and third right upper molars. "Look at these pulp chambers and ca.n.a.ls. This man was at least fifty. Probably older." no question." A skeletal finger tapped the second and third right upper molars. "Look at these pulp chambers and ca.n.a.ls. This man was at least fifty. Probably older."
The finger moved to the row"s first molar.
"There"s much less dentin deposition here. This tooth is unquestionably from a younger person."
"How much younger?"
Bergeron straightened, pooched air through his lips. "Thirty-five. Maybe forty. No more."
Bergeron returned to the skull.
"Minimal cusp wear. Probably the lower end of that range."
"Can you tell when the molar was reinserted?"
Bergeron looked at me as though I"d asked him to calculate quadratic equations in his head.
"A rough estimate?" I amended.
"The glue is yellowed and flaking."
"Wait." I raised a palm. "You"re saying the tooth"s glued in?"
"Yes."
"So it wasn"t reinserted two thousand years back?"
"Definitely not. Maybe a few decades back."
"In the sixties?"
"Very possible."
Option B or C, insertion during Yadin"s excavation, or at the Musee de l"Homme. My gut was still going with the former.
"Would you mind extracting those three upper molars?"
"Not at all."
Bergeron reboxed the skull and hurried from the office, his six-foot-three frame moving with all the grace of an ironing board.
I gathered the X-rays, wondering if I was making a big deal over nothing. The odd tooth came from a younger individual. Someone stuck the thing into the wrong jaw. Maybe a volunteer digger. Maybe Haas. Maybe an unskilled museum worker.
Down the hall, the whining continued.
There are myriad points at which errors of individuation can occur. Recovery. Transport. Sorting. Cleaning. Maybe the admixture took place in the cave. Maybe in Haas"s lab. Maybe later at the museum in Paris.
Bergeron returned and handed me the box and a ziplock bag.
"Anything else you can tell me?" I asked.
"Whoever replaced that molar was a dental jacka.s.s."
Le centre d"animaux Kaplan was a two-story gla.s.s-fronted store in a row of two- and three-story gla.s.s-fronted stores on rue Jean-Talon. Signs in the window offered Nutrience dog and cat foods, tropical fish, and a special on parakeets, cage included.
Two doors opened directly off the sidewalk, one wood, one gla.s.s. Chimes jangled as Ryan pushed through the latter.
The shop was crammed with odors and sounds. Tanks bubbled along one wall, birdcages lined another, their occupants ranging from the drab to the flamboyant. Beyond the fish I could see other representatives of the Linnaean hierarchy. Frogs. A coiled snake. A small furry thing curled into a ball.
Up front were rabbits, kittens, a lizard with a wattle to rival my great aunt Minnie"s. Puppies dozed in cages. One stood, tail wagging, front paws pressed to the wire mesh. One gnawed a red rubber duck.
Parallel shelves shot the center of the store. A kid of about seventeen was sliding collars onto hangers halfway down the side opposite the birds.
Hearing chimes, the kid turned, but didn"t speak.
"Bonjour," Ryan said. Ryan said.
"Yo," the kid said.
"Some help, please."
Dropping his carton, the kid slouched toward us.
Ryan badged him.
"Cops?"
Ryan nodded.
"Cool."
"Way cool. And you would be?"
"Bernie."
Bernie was scrupulously adhering to his interpretation of gangsta chic. Low-slung jeans with knee-level crotch, shirt unb.u.t.toned over a grungy T. He was way too skinny to make the look work. Everyone was.
"I"m Detective Ryan. This is Dr. Brennan."
Bernie"s eyes slid to me. They were small and dark and overset by brows that met in the middle. Bernie"d probably bought his share of Clearasil.
"We"re looking for Hershel Kaplan."
"He"s not here."
"Is Mr. Kaplan often away?"
Bernie raised one shoulder and c.o.c.ked his head.
"Do you know where the gentleman is today?"
Bernie shrugged both shoulders.
"Are these questions too tough for you, Bernie?"
Bernie sc.r.a.ped hair from his forehead.
"Shall I start over?" Ryan"s voice could have frozen margaritas.
"Don"t bust my a.s.s, man. I just work for the guy."
A puppy began yapping. It wanted out.
"Listen carefully. Has Mr. Kaplan been here today?"
"I opened up."
"Has he called?"
"No."
"Is Mr. Kaplan upstairs?"
"He"s on vacation, aw"right?" Bernie shifted weight from one leg to the other. There wasn"t much to shift.
"It would have been helpful if you"d said that at the outset, Bernie."
Bernie looked at the floor.
"Do you know where Mr. Kaplan has gone?"
Bernie shook his head.
"When he"ll be back?"
The head shake continued.
"There"s something wrong here, Bernie. I"m getting the feeling you don"t want to talk to me."
Bernie kept eyeing the mud on his sneakers.
"This going to mess up that bonus Kaplan promised?"
"Look, I don"t know." Bernie"s head came up. "Kaplan told me to keep the place running and not talk it up that he"d split."
"When was that?"
"Maybe a week ago."
"Do you have a key to Mr. Kaplan"s apartment?"
Bernie didn"t respond to that.
"You still live at home, Bernie?"
"Yeah." Wary.
"We could swing by, ask Mom to help clear this up."
"Man." Whiny.
"Bernie?"
"His key might be on the ring."
Ryan turned to me.
"Do you smell gas?"
"Maybe." I sniffed. I smelled many things. "Yes, you could be right."
"How about you, Bernie? You smell gas?"
"That"s the ferret."
"Smells like gas to me." Ryan moved a few feet to his left, then to his right, nose working the air. "Yeah. Gas. Dangerous stuff."
Ryan turned to Bernie.
"Would you like us to check it out?"
Bernie looked skeptical.
"Wouldn"t want to guess wrong with all these creatures depending on you," Ryan said, the essence of reasonableness.
"Yeah. Sure, man."
Bernie crossed to the counter and pulled keys from below the register.
Ryan took the keys and turned to me.