The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel Read Free Book Online Page B

the background.
    â€œSoprano?” he asked.
    This was a game they played—opera trivia. If they’d kept score over the last couple of years, Father John figured he would have won hands down, but Gianelli never gave up. The man loved competition almost as much as he loved opera.
    Father John took the chair at the corner of the desk. He was on firm ground with Puccini. “You might have me,” he said, shaking his head deliberately. “Could it be Renata Tebaldi?”
    â€œOh, you’re good, John.” The agent pounded his fist on the desk. “Damn good. But you can’t know everything about opera. You’re not even Italian.” He opened the folder and lifted out a densely printed sheet of paper. “I take it you’re here about the buried skeleton.”
    â€œI met with some of the elders today,” Father John said. “They’re worried it’s one of the ancestors.”
    â€œOh, boy.” Gianelli dropped the sheet and tipped his chair back toward the window that gave out over snow blowing across the flat roofs on the other side of the street. Raising his hand, he loosened the knot of his tie. Wisps of black hair poked around the white cuffs of his shirt. “I was afraid of this. Tribes all over the country are raising a ruckus whenever bones are found on what they call their ancestral homelands, which could be anywhere. They’re stopping scientific investigations into ancient peoples on this continent.”
    â€œCan you blame them?”
    â€œPlease, John.” Gianelli ran a finger inside his collar. “Spare me the ‘how would you like it if they dissected your grandmother and paraded George Washington’s remains through the reservation?’ routine.” He picked up the sheet and started reading. “Shape of skull consistent with Caucasian female. Small supraorbital brow ridge and mastoid processes. Pelvic bones show no evidence of postpartum pits or a preauricular sulcus. Age, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Permanent dentition, including three molars, in occlusion. Basioccipital suture is fused, medial clavicles are fused, almost no fusion of endocranial sutures. Hiking boots at site manufactured between 1974 and 1979.” He raised his eyes, as if to emphasize the point, then looked back at the sheet. “Levi rivets from blue jeans, same time frame.”
    The agent slipped the sheet into the folder. “This is no ancestor. You found the body of a woman who was buried twenty, twenty-five years ago.”
    â€œHow did she die?”
    â€œI’m getting to that.” Gianelli removed another printed sheet. “Probable cause of death, perimortem fracture of the right temporal, with edges of a portion of the fracture bent. Also incomplete fracture of right zygomatic bone.” He glanced up. “That’s the cheekbone.” Reading again: “One horizontal fracture in the cranial vault radiating from point of impact above left ear. Another strike to the left supra-orbital and left zygomatic bone. Jaw fracture. Parry fractures of both arms and multiple rib fractures. Death consistent with traumatic fall or”—he paused—“homicide.” He dropped the sheet. “It’s homicide, John. People who fall down don’t end up in shallow graves down by the river.”
    Father John didn’t say anything. Outside the window, the snow was falling steadily. The music of Manon Lescaut softly enveloped the office: “In quelle trine morbide.” He said, “When will you have an ID?”
    Gianelli’s fingers tapped out a rhythm against the sheet. “You want the truth? Maybe never. These kinds of cases are the hardest to solve. We’re running a check on people reported missing in the late seventies, but the woman could be from anywhere. It’ll take a while to find possible matches. Even if we get lucky and come up with a lead, we may never track down the perpetrator