The elevator door finally creaked open to reveal an elegant lobby area. In the center of the room was a marble scallop-edged table bearing an enormous floral arrangement of pink and white silk camellias. Fifty or sixty Vidocq members mingled about the area, awaiting the signal to move into the dining room for lunch. It was about average attendance for a Vidocq meeting, and Nick immediately began to search the room for his old friend—but before he could find him another familiar face appeared.
“Nick,” she called out as she approached. “Is it true? Please, tell me it is—tell me miracles really can happen.”
Kegan Alexander was a forensic anthropologist and professor of physical anthropology at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. She was a small woman, with the lean build of a marathoner or cyclist—and in fact she was both. Her straight brown hair was cut off even shorter than usual, an indication that she was probably training for an upcoming event. Somehow she always managed to keep her short hair tucked back behind her ears, which made her ears appear a little larger than they really were and made her slender neck stand out like a porcelain pedestal. Nick had worked with Kegan several times in the past and he respected her; she brought a marathoner’s endurance and discipline to her work, which was why Nick had nominated her for membership in Vidocq—a gesture that had further cemented their friendship.
Nick greeted her with a roll of his eyes. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Go ahead and what?”
“Laugh, cry, projectile-vomit—I get all kinds of reactions when people hear I’m getting married.”
“Well, here’s
my
reaction,” she said, stretching up on her tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek.
“You’re too late,” he said. “I’m already taken.”
“Congratulations, Nick—I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Then you don’t believe it’s all just a hoax? Or some kind of perverse crime against nature?”
“Does she?”
“She bought a dress.”
“Then I say go for it. When’s the big day?”
“Saturday.”
Kegan blinked. “
This
Saturday?”
“That’s right.”
“Then what in the world are you doing here?”
Nick frowned. “That’s what she asked me.”
“She did? Oh, Nick—that’s bad.”
“There was nothing for me to do there—all the arrangements were already taken care of. What was I supposed to do, just sit around and hold her hand?”
“Nick, this is marriage we’re talking about. There’s a lot of hand-holding involved—more if you’re lucky.”
“Never mind,” he said. “My mother already had this talk with me.”
Kegan’s expression suddenly changed. “Hey, wait a minute—how come I didn’t get a wedding invitation?”
Nick shrugged. “Because I didn’t think of you.”
“Well, thanks a lot. How’s that supposed to make me feel?”
“Uninvited?”
“Nick.”
“Would you really have come? Be honest.”
“Are you kidding? To see the Bug Man marry the Dog Woman? I love the circus.”
“See, that’s just the kind of attitude that kept you off the guest list.”
“I want you to know my feelings are hurt,” she said with a pout. “I may never forgive you.”
“Well, if it makes you feel more included, you can still send a gift.” Nick glanced around the room, then leaned closer to Kegan and whispered, “Does anybody else know?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Want me to make an announcement?”
“Not unless you want to be our next murder victim.”
Just then a deep voice rose from the center of the crowded room—it was Bill Fleisher, one of the founding members and the society’s commissioner, the man responsible for conducting the monthly meetings. “May I have everyone’s attention, please? As you all know, it’s our custom here at Vidocq to enjoy lunch before the presentation of cases. But we’re doing things a little differently today; I’m afraid we have a case to solve
before
we can have our lunch. Nick Polchak, where are you? Would you step forward, please?”
Nick groaned as every head in the room turned to look at him. He glared at Kegan: “Liar.”
“Should have invited me,” she said.
The group slowly parted, opening a pathway to the center of the room. There, on the floor, was the outline of a human body marked off in masking tape. Taped in letters below the outline were the words
Nick Polchak, Bachelor
.
Fleisher motioned Nick forward. “Dr. Polchak, we seem to have a bit of a mystery here, and I understand you possess information that might help the rest of us solve the case. Is there anything you’d like to say to your fellow members?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “I’m hungry—let’s eat.”
“Nick’s getting married!” Kegan shouted.
The group erupted in laughter and applause, patting Nick on the back and congratulating him as they all moved into the dining room; soon Nick and Kegan were the only ones left in the lobby.
“Well, that was humiliating,” Nick said.
“You’re welcome.”
Nick and Kegan stepped to the dining room doorway and looked over the group as they took their seats around a halfdozen circular tables draped in white. “Have you seen Pete?” Nick asked.
“Pete Boudreau? I haven’t seen him today.”
“That’s odd. Pete would never miss one of these meetings— he practically lives for these things.”
“Maybe he’s sick.”
“If he was, he would have called me. He wrote and invited me to meet him here today. He said there’s a case he’s been consulting on—something he needs my help with. Any idea what he’s been working on lately?”
“Not me—I’ve missed the last few meetings myself. Have you tried his phone?”
“Several times. No luck.”
Nick and Kegan found open seats at a back table and the luncheon ensued. The menu was Mediterranean today, a Greek-style penne with fresh tomatoes—at least, that’s what Kegan told him. To Nick it was just food, and his favorite kind of food—the kind he didn’t have to prepare himself.
“Anybody seen Pete Boudreau today?” he kept asking around the table during breaks in the conversation. But no one had seen him, and no one wanted to talk about Pete Boudreau—they just wanted to rib Nick about his upcoming wedding. Everyone had a joke or a remark or some spurious piece of advice about the wedding ceremony or the challenges of adjusting to married life—or even his wedding night. And the more they talked, the more irritated Nick became. When he was at Vidocq he was a professional among colleagues, but they were treating him like some kind of . . .
person
. He didn’t understand; he was exactly the same person he had been at the last meeting—Dr. Nick Polchak, forensic entomologist, member of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, diplomate of the American Board of Forensic Entomology—but somehow his upcoming change in marital status had overshadowed all that. It made him feel naked and exposed; it made him feel disrespected and demeaned.
It made him feel like getting out of there—but he wasn’t sure where he would go.
After lunch, as the waitresses served coffee, the first of the presenters stepped up to the podium—a homicide detective from some little town outside San Antonio. The Vidocq members had heard more than three hundred cases since the society’s inception, and on average they now considered two new cases per month. The lights dimmed and the homicide detective began his PowerPoint presentation: crime scene photos of a woman’s body sprawled awkwardly at the foot of a bed; a close-up of the face with that familiar vacant stare; more close-ups of the hands and entry wounds and blood spatter on the floor and the foot of the bed; and there was a wooden ruler in each photo to provide scale and perspective.
In half an hour the detective concluded his presentation and the floor was opened to questions and comments. That was the time when each Vidocq member began to contribute from his area of specialization, asking questions and challenging ungrounded assumptions and offering suggestions for possible new avenues of investigation. That was the part of the meeting Nick loved, when his mind took on a razor edge as he searched with his colleagues for missing connections and overlooked details . . . but today he was having trouble concentrating.
Nick wasn’t the only one who loved these meetings; Pete Boudreau practically lived for them. When Pete made the decision to retire from teaching at Penn State, Nick thought it was a mistake; when Pete and Lila moved back to Philadelphia to set up shop as a private forensic consultant, Nick knew it wouldn’t work—there was barely enough work out there for a forensic entomologist, and forensic botany was an even more obscure trade. And when Pete lost Lila to ovarian cancer six years ago—well, he lost just about everything he had left. A brilliant palynologist, a true forensic pioneer, with nothing to do and no one in need of his services . . . Vidocq was all Pete had left. Pete lived for these monthly Vidocq meetings, a place where someone actually had need of his knowledge and experience. He spent countless hours between meetings consulting with presenters, offering his services free of charge whenever he was asked. Vidocq was where Pete belonged; Vidocq was where Pete came alive—and Pete had specifically asked Nick to meet him here today.
So where was Pete Boudreau?
When the presentations concluded, the meeting broke up; some members left while some remained behind to offer their business cards or further suggestions to the presenters.
Kegan turned to Nick. “Where to now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “I was supposed to meet Pete and catch up, so . . . I’m not sure.”
“Well, good luck with the wedding,” Kegan said. “Let me know what it’s like to be married.”
Nick turned and looked at her. “You’re not married?”
“Nick—after all the times we’ve worked together, you don’t even know if I’m married?”
“I never asked.”
“All those late hours working together, all those weekends— you think I would have put in that much time if I was married?”
“I would have.”
“That’s what you say
now
,” she said.
Nick didn’t like the sound of that. He cocked his head to one side and studied her for a moment. “I don’t get it,” he said.
“What?”
“How come you’re not married?”
“Nick—what kind of a question is that?”
“I just mean—you know—you’re such an attractive woman and all.”
“Nice save,” she said drily. “I don’t know . . . I guess it depends on who you ask. My dad says it’s because I’m too intimidating . . . He says not a lot of men can handle a woman with a PhD. My mom thinks it’s because I’m too much of a tomboy, or maybe it’s the job—you know, the bones and all. Me, I think it’s because I’m running all the time—usually in the wrong direction.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Sort of like you’re doing right now—if you know what I mean.”
“It’s deep—I’ll try to figure it out.”
“So you think I’m an attractive woman?” she asked.
“I suppose so,” he said with a shrug.
“You never said so.”
“It didn’t come up.”
“If you thought I was attractive, how come you never tried to hit on me?”
“This could get ugly,” Nick said. “Would you excuse me? I’m going to see if I can find Pete Boudreau.”
N
ick followed the Schuylkill Expressway along the river, then crossed over on Roosevelt Boulevard and headed northwest toward the neighborhood of Upper Roxborough. Nick had briefly considered leaving his car downtown and taking Septa’s regional rail to Manayunk, but the parking rates in Center City were abominable and he still would have had to take a cab from the station to Upper Roxborough. He decided to take his car instead, winding along Henry Avenue with the beautiful trees of Fairmount Park on his right.
It had been a long time since Nick had visited Pete Boudreau at his home in Upper Roxborough—back before Lila passed away. Prior to Lila’s death Nick had been invited out to the house for dinner after almost every monthly Vidocq meeting; since then his meetings with Pete had been consigned to the paneled luncheon rooms of the Downtown Club. Lila was a charming woman who had always joined seamlessly into their conversations, despite the bizarre and repugnant peculiarities of their respective forensic specialties. But Lila’s death left a yawning chasm in Pete’s life, and Nick suspected that the reason he was no longer invited to the house was that his presence would only serve as a painful reminder of the past.