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Monday mourning - Kathy Reichs Kathy Reichs - Temperance Brennan - 10 - Bones to Ashes Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 04 - Fatal Voyage. Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead · Read more Grave Secrets - Kathy Reichs · Read more Monday mourning - Kathy Reichs. Reichs. Bones Of The Lost Temperance Brennan 16 Kathy Reichs - [Free] Bones Of The Lost. Temperance Brennan 16 Kathy Reichs [PDF].

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Deja Dead: A Novel by Kathy Reichs - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. The raves are in -- from Edgar-winning authors. En este sentido, la novelística de Kathy Reichs no es Kathy Reichs, y que, así como en la primera 29//sppn.info?search=Breivik. The Temperence Brennan Series by Kathy Reichs. Deja Dead []. When the bones of a woman are discovered in the grounds of an abandoned monastery.

Simultaneously someone is trying to taint her reputation. The story alternated between her having been entombed alive to flashbacks to the above murders. She is still at odds with Ryan though working with him on the cases. Adaly Her story shines through the science. Early reads by Reichs, I sometimes felt lost in scientific detail. Each book she writes seems to be better balanced. As any CSI devotes will tell you the answer is in the forensic details and we know Ms Reichs an expert but the story must be the "meat" of the book.

Please keep them coming your loyal readers live in anticipation! Kabandis I had the opportunity to download the full Kathy Reichs collection all at once and started reading from the beginning with Deja Dead.

I would highly recommend doing it this way if at all possible. I just finished Bones. It has been interesting to experience Reichs' style develop and change.

The story unfolds as she tries to remember the prior events that got her to that place. This new approach worked well and added a little something different. As usual, great plot, page chapters, teasers at the end of most chapters luring you in to the next chapter, lots of technical terms and explanations, etc. I'm looking forward to reading Spider Bones. Lanadrta With the exception of 1 or 2, I have read every book that Kathy Reichs has put out.

And, as usual, this book is typical and excellent without exception. This book happens to be one of my favorite of the Tempe Brennan series. In this book she is accused of botching an autopsy, something that she seeks out to prove not true. In the end, Reichs crafts up one of the most exciting endings to a book that I have ever read. It made me physically cringe. Enjoy reading this novel; it is everything that you've come to expect from Kathy Reichs and her writing. I can get through a book and not have to worry about having to sit it down for a few weeks and not remembering what all happened.

Each book left me ready to read the next as this last one did I cant wait for her to have a new book come out in this series I can only say the same thing over and over. This Brennan is so different from the TV show. I love the show and its characters' personalities. The personalities in the books are boring and this Brennan has emotional difficulties of which I tire.

Probable decapitation. Y o u ' d better get recovery out here right away. N o one was finding this good news. There w o u l d be nothing for the archaeologists this time. I returned the mike to G r o u l x , w h o ' d been listening to every word.

I reminded h i m to get a full report from the two workers. H e looked like a man w h o ' d just been sentenced to ten to twenty. H e knew he wouldn't be going anywhere for some time. I wasn't terribly sympathetic. I wouldn't be sleeping i n Quebec C i t y this weekend. In fact, as I drove the few short blocks to m y condo, I suspected that no one w o u l d be sleeping much for a long time.

A s things turned out, I was right. What I couldn't k n o w then was the full extent of the horror we were about to face. I am a woman whose moods are influenced by the weather, m y outlook rising and falling with the barometer. But that day the weather would be irrelevant.

I was already i n autopsy r o o m 4, the smallest of the suites at the Laboratoire de Medecine Legale, and one that is specially outfitted for extra ventilation. I often w o r k here since most of m y cases are less than perfectly preserved. But it's never fully effective. The fans and disinfectants never quite w i n over the smell of ripened death.

The antiseptic gleam of the stainless steel never really eradicates the images of human carnage. The remains recovered at Le G r a n d Seminaire definitely qualified for r o o m 4.

After a quick dinner the previous evening, I'd gone back to the grounds and we'd processed the site. The bones were at the morgue by 9: N o w they lay i n a body bag on a gurney to m y right.

Case had been discussed at the morning staff meeting. Following standard procedure, the body had been assigned to one of the five pathologists w o r k i n g at the lab. Since the corpse was largely skeletonized, the little soft tissue that remained far too decomposed for standard autopsy, m y expertise was requested. O n e of the autopsy technicians had called i n sick this morning, leaving us shorthanded.

Bad timing. It'd been a busy night: F o u r autopsies. I'd offered to w o r k alone. I was dressed in green surgical scrubs, plastic goggles, and latex gloves.

F d already cleaned and photographed the head. It w o u l d be X-rayed this morning, then boiled to remove the putrefied flesh and brain tissue so that I could do a detailed examination of the cranial features. F d painstakingly examined the hair, searching for fibers or other trace evidence.

A s I separated the damp strands, I couldn't help imagining the last time the victim had combed it, wondering if she'd been pleased, frustrated, indifferent. Bad hair day. Dead hair day. Suppressing these thoughts, I bagged the sample and sent it up to biology for microscopic analysis.

The plunger and plastic bags had also been turned over to the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires where they'd be checked for prints, traces of bodily fluids, or other minuscule indicators of killer or victim.

Three hours on our hands and knees the previous night feeling through mud, combing through grass and leaves, and turning over rocks and logs had yielded nothing else. We'd searched until darkness closed us down, but came away empty. N o clothing. N o shoes. N o jewelry. N o personal effects. The crime scene recovery team w o u l d return to dig and sift today, but I doubted they'd find anything. I w o u l d have no manufacturer's tags or labels, no zippers or buckles, no jewelry, no weapons or bindings, no slashes or entrance holes in clothing to corroborate m y findings.

The body had been dumped, naked and mutilated, stripped of everything that linked it to a life. I returned to the body bag for the rest of its grisly contents, ready to start m y preliminary examination. Later, the limbs and torso w o u l d be cleaned, and I w o u l d do a complete analysis of all the bones. W e ' d recovered almost the whole skeleton.

The killer had made that task easier. A s w i t h the head and torso, he, or she, had placed the arms and legs in separate plastic bags. There were four i n all.

Very tidy. Packaged and discarded like last week's garbage. I filed the outrage in another place and forced myself to concentrate. I removed the dismembered segments and arranged them i n anatomical order on the stainless steel autopsy table in the middle of the room. First, I transferred the torso and centered it, breast side up.

It held together reasonably well. U n l i k e the bag holding the head, The torso was i n the worst shape, the bones held together only by leatherized bands of dried muscle and ligament. I noted that the uppermost vertebrae were missing, and hoped I'd find them attached to the head. Except for traces, the internal organs were long gone. N e x t , I placed the arms to the sides and the legs below. The limbs hadn't been exposed to sunlight, and weren't as desiccated as the chest and abdomen.

T h e y retained large portions of putrefied soft tissue. I tried to ignore the seething blanket of pale yellow that made a languid, wavelike retreat from the surface of each limb as I withdrew it from the body bag. Maggots will abandon a corpse when exposed to light.

T h e y were dropping from the body to the table, from the table to the floor, in a slow but steady drizzle. Pale yellow grains of rice lay writhing by m y feet. I avoided stepping on them. I'd never really gotten used to them. I reached for m y clipboard and began to fill i n the form. Date of autopsy: June 3, I added the police report number, the morgue number, and the L a b oratoire de Medecine Legale, or L M L , number and experienced m y usual wave of anger at the arrogant indifference of the system.

Violent death allows no privacy. It plunders one's dignity as surely as it has taken one's life.

The body is handled, scrutinized, and photographed, with a new series of digits allocated at each step. The victim becomes part of the evidence, an exhibit, on display for police, pathologists, forensic specialists, lawyers, and, eventually, jurors. Photograph it. Take samples. Tag the toe. While I am an active participant, I can never accept the impersonality of the system. It is like looting on the most personal level. A t least I w o u l d give this victim a name.

Death in anonymity w o u l d not be added to the list of violations he or she w o u l d suffer. I selected a form from those on the clipboard. I'd alter m y normal routine and leave the full skeletal inventory for later. F o r n o w the detectives wanted only the I D profile: Race was pretty straightforward. The hair was red, what skin remained appeared fair.

Decomposition, however, could do strange things. I'd check the skeletal details after cleaning.

F o r n o w Caucasoid seemed a safe bet. I already suspected the victim was female. The facial features were delicate, the overall body build slight. The long hair meant nothing. I looked at the pelvis. Turning it to the side I noted that the notch below the hip blade was broad and shallow. I repositioned it so that I could see the pubic bones, the region in front where the right and left halves of the pelvis meet. The curve formed by their lower borders was a wide arch.

Delicate raised ridges cut across the front of each pubic bone, creating distinct triangles i n the lower corners. Typical female features. Later I'd take measurements and run discriminant function analyses on the computer, but I had no doubt these were the remains of a woman. I was wrapping the pubic area in a wet rag when the sound of the phone startled me.

I hadn't realized h o w quiet it was. I walked to the desk, zigzagging through maggots like a child playing jacks. Brennan," I answered, pushing the goggles to the top of m y head and dropping into the chair. U s i n g m y pen, I flicked a maggot from the desktop. O n e of the two C U M detectives assigned to the case. I looked at the wall clockten-forty. Later than I realized. H e didn't go on. Obviously he assumed his name was message enough.

I could hear a metallic grating sound. I ' l l be there after lunch. It was a statement, not a request. Apparently it didn't matter if it was okay with me.

I hung up and returned to the lady on the table. Picking up the clipboard, I flipped to the next page o n the report form. This was an adult. Earlier, I'd checked her mouth. The w i s d o m teeth were fully erupted. I examined the arms where they'd been detached at the shoulders.

The end of each humerus was fully formed. I could see no line demarcating a separate cap on either side. The other ends were uselessthey had been cleanly severed just above the wrists. I'd have to find those fragments later. I looked at the legs. The head of the femur was also completely formed on both right and left.

Something about those severed joints disturbed me. It was a feeling apart from the normal reaction to depravity, but it was vague, i l l formed. A s I allowed the left leg to settle back onto the table m y guts felt like ice. The cloud of dread that first touched me i n the woods returned. I shook it off and forced myself to focus on the question at hand.

A correct age estimate can lead to a name. N o t h i n g else will matter until she has a name. I used a scalpel to peel back the flesh around the knee and elbow joints.

It came away easily. H e r e , too, the l o n g bones were fully mature. I'd verify this on X ray, but knew it meant bone growth had been completed. I saw no lipping or arthritic change in the joints. Adult, but young. It was consistent w i t h the lack of wear I'd observed on the teeth. But I wanted more precision.

Claudel w o u l d expect it. I looked at each collarbone where it met the sternum at the base of the throat. T h o u g h the one on the right was detached, the joint surface was encased in a hard knot of dried cartilage and ligament. U s i n g a scissors, I snipped away as much of the leathery tissue as I could, then wrapped the bone i n another wet rag.

I returned m y attention to the pelvis. I removed that rag and, again using a scalpel, began gently sawing through the cartilage connecting the two halves in front. Wetting it down had made it more pliable, easier to cut, but still the process was slow and tedious.

I didn't want to risk damaging the underlying surfaces. W h e n the pubic bones were finally separate, I cut the few strips of dried muscle uniting the pelvis to the lower end of the spine in back, freed it, carried it to the sink, and submerged the pubic portion i n water.

N e x t I returned to the body and unwrapped the collarbone. Again, I teased off as much tissue as possible. T h e n I filled a plastic specimen container w i t h water, positioned it against the rib cage, and stuck the end of the clavicle in it.

I glanced at the wall clock Stepping back from the table, I peeled off m y gloves and straightened. M y back felt like a Pop Warner league had been practicing on it.

Cross Bones

I placed m y hands on m y hips It didn't really relieve the pain, but it didn't hurt either. M y spine seemed to hurt a lot lately, and bending over an autopsy table for three hours tended to aggravate it. I refused to believe or admit it was age-related. M y newly discovered need for reading glasses and the seemingly permanent upgrade from to in m y weight were likewise not the result of aging.

I turned to see Daniel, one of the autopsy technicians, watching from the outer office. A tic pulled his upper lip, and his eyes pinched shut momentarily. W i t h a jerk he shifted, placing all his weight on one leg and cocking the other.

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H e looked like a sandpiper waiting out a wave. H i s glasses rode l o w on his nose and he seemed to peer over rather than through them.

I suddenly realized how hungry I was. M y morning coffee sat on the counter, cold and untouched. I'd completely forgotten it.

I flipped the goggles onto the counter, withdrew a white paper sheet from a drawer below the side counter, unfolded it, and covered the body. After washing m y hands I returned to m y office on the fifth floor, changed into street clothes, and went out for lunch. This was rare for me, but today I needed the sunshine.

Claudel was true to his word. W h e n I returned at one-thirty he was already in m y office. H e sat opposite m y desk, his attention focused on the reconstructed skull on m y worktable. H e turned his head when he heard me, but said nothing. I hung m y coat on the back of the door and moved past h i m and into m y chair.

I waited. I w o u l d not succumb to his charm. A folder lay on the desk in front of him. H e placed his hand on it and looked at me. H i s face brought to m i n d a parrot. The features angled A l o n g this apex his chin, his mouth, and the tip of his nose pointed downward i n a series of V s.

W h e n he smiled, which was rare, the V of his mouth sharpened, and the lips drew in, rather than back.

H e sighed. H e was being very patient with me. I hadn't worked with Claudel before, but knew his reputation. H e thought himself an exceptionally intelligent man. T h e y all disappeared within the last six months. I was certain she'd been dead less than three months. Winters are cold i n Quebec, hard on the living but k i n d to the dead. Frozen bodies do not decay. N o r do they attract bugs. H a d 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 h i m expectantly. I could be cagey too.

H e opened the folder and thumbed through its contents. Selecting one of the forms, he read, "Myriam Weider. H e laid the form on the desk and read from the next. Reported missing by the husband," he paused, straining to make out the date, " M a y 2, Last seen A p r i l 1, Jesus Christ. This isn't a kid. Age thirty-six. Last seen in Sept lies on M a r c h O h yeah. She's an Innu. I didn't think the remains were those of an. There were two forms on the desk.

M y r i a m Weider, age forty-five, and Isabelle Gagnon, age twenty-three. Maybe one of them was lying downstairs in r o o m 4. Claudel looked at me. H i s eyebrows rose in the middle forming yet another V, this one inverted. 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. F o r 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 m y key for the elevator.

H e was silent as we descended. H e 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.

F r o m the corner of m y eye I could see Claudel framed in the doorway. H e ' d entered the r o o m just far enough to be able to say he'd been there. H i s eyes wandered over the steel countertops, the glass-fronted cabinets with their stock of clear plastic containers, the hanging scale, everything but the body. I'd seen it before. Photographs were no threat.

The blood and gore were somewhere else. The murder scene was a clinical exercise. N o problem. Dissect it, study it, solve the puzzle.

But place a body on an autopsy table and it was a different matter. Claudel had put his face in neutral, hoping to look calm. I removed the pubic bones from the water and gently pried them apart.

U s i n g a probe, I teased around the edges of the gelatinous sheath that covered the right pubic face. Gradually it loosened its hold and came away. The underlying bone was marked w i t h deep furrows and A sliver of solid bone partially framed the outer margin, forming a delicate and incomplete rim around the pubic face.

I repeated the process on the left. It was identical. Claudel hadn't moved from the doorway. I carried the pelvis to the Luxolamp, pulled the extensor arm toward me, and pressed the switch.

Fluorescent light illuminated the bone. T h r o u g h the round magnifying glass, details appeared that hadn't been apparent to the naked eye. I looked at the uppermost curve of each hipbone and saw what I'd been expecting. I pointed to an irregularity on the upper border of the hip. The iliac crest was in the process of attaching itself when death had occurred. I set the pelvis down. H e continued looking at it, but didn't touch it.

Terminal (Virals #5) by Kathy Reichs, Brendan Reichs

I returned to the body to examine the clavicle, certain of what I'd find. I withdrew the sternal end from the water and began to tease away the tissue. W h e n I could sfee the joint surface I gestured for Claudel to join me. Wordlessly I pointed to the end of the bone. Its surface was billowy, like the pubic face. A small disk of bone clung to the center, its edges distinct and unfused. H e was hiding his nervousness with bravado.

Probably early twenties. Particles of cartilage clung to m y gloved hands, and I held them away from m y body, palms up, like a panhandler. Claudel kept the same distance he w o u l d w i t h an Ebola patient. H i s eyes stayed on me, but their focus shifted to thoughts inside his head as he ran through the data, l o o k i n g for a match. I nodded. Isabelle Gagnon. A g e twenty-three.

H e seemed to bring it out i n me. O r I may see something on the bones when they're cleaned. W i t h that he left. H e didn't say good-bye. I didn't expect it. H i s departure was mutually appreciated.

I stripped off m y gloves and tossed them. O n the way out I poked my head into the large autopsy suite and told Daniel I was finished w i t h this case for the day. I asked h i m to take full b o d y and cranial X rays, A - P and lateral views. Upstairs I stopped by the histology lab and told the head technician that the body was ready for boiling, warning h i m to take extra care since this was a dismemberment.

It was unnecessary. N o one could reduce a body like Denis. In two days a skeleton w o u l d appear, clean and undamaged. I spent the rest of the afternoon w i t h the glued-together skull. T h o u g h fragmentary, there was, indeed, enough detail to confirm the identity of its owner. H e wouldn't drive any more propane tankers. Returning home, I began to feel the sense of foreboding I'd experienced in the ravine. I'd banished the apprehension by centering m y m i n d fully o n identifying the victim and o n piecing together the late trucker.

A t lunch the park pigeons had been m y distraction. Unraveling the pecking order could be all-consuming. G r a y was alpha. B r o w n speckles seemed to be next. Blackfoot was clearly l o w on the list.

N o w I was free to relax. To think. To worry. It started as soon as I pulled into the garage and turned off the radio. M u s i c off, anxiety on. N o , I admonished myself. After dinner.

I entered the apartment and heard the reassuring beep of the security system. Leaving m y briefcase in the entry hall, I closed the door and walked to the Lebanese restaurant on the corner, where I ordered a Shish Taouk and Shawarma plate to go. It's what I love most about living downtownwithin a block of m y condo are representative samples of all the cuisines of the world.

C o u l d the weight gain. While I waited for the take-out I perused the buffet selections. Feuilles de vignes. Bless the global village. Lebanese gone French. A shelf to the left of the cash register held bottles of red wine. M y weapon of choice. A s I looked at them, for the thousandth time I felt the craving.

I remembered the taste, the smell, the dry, tangy feel of the wine on m y tongue. I remembered the warmth that w o u l d start i n m y The bonfires of control. O f vigor. O f invincibility. I could use that right now, I thought. W h o was I kidding? I wouldn't stop there. What were those stages? I'd move right on to bulletproof and then to invisible. O r was it the other way around? N o matter. I'd carry it too far, and then the crash w o u l d come. The comfort w o u l d be short term, the price heavy.

It'd been six years since I'd had a drink. I took m y food home and ate it w i t h Birdie and the Montreal Expos. H e slept, curled in m y lap, purring softly. Neither mentioned the murder. I appreciated that. I took a long, hot bath and fell into bed at ten-thirty Alone in the dark and quiet I could no longer suppress the thought. Like cells gone mad, it grew and gathered strength, finally forcing itself into my consciousness, insisting on recognition.

The other homicide. The other young woman who'd come to the morgue in pieces. I saw her in vivid detail, remembered m y feelings as I'd worked on her bones. Chantale Trottier. Strangled, beaten, decapitated, dismembered. Less than a year ago she'd arrived naked and packaged in plastic garbage bags. I was ready to end the day but m y m i n d refused to clock out.

I lay there as mountains formed and the continental plates shifted. Finally, I fell asleep, the phrase ricocheting i n m y skull. It w o u l d haunt me all weekend. Serial murder. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A n y resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright by Kathleen J.

Reichs A l l rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form whatsoever. Reichs, Kathleen J. ED4 '. Deja Dead: The raves are in -- from Edgar-winning authors and internationally acclaimed forensic experts: Rarely has a debut crime novel inspired such widespread excitement.

A born storyteller, Dr.I remembered the taste, the smell, the dry, tangy feel of the wine on m y tongue. Their mouths were open, their awe was complete — Tory was over it already, but tried not to show it… After organising with Tempe to meet after her book signing for lunch, Tory led her friends toward another display; but the screams of agony spun her head around — racing over in the direction of the noise, they found broken glass and chaos everywhere.

Claudel was true to his word. I needed a couple of days without skeletons, decomposed bodies, or corpses freshly dragged from the river. A folder lay on the desk in front of him. I wish I could read a book like the TV show.

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