Alfred Tituslooked uncomfortable sitting in Fletcher’s study at Mabou Point on Cape Breton. A bald man, he wore a black suit, white shirt with a dark blue tie, and black shoes — positively funereal. He sat with his hands folded on top of a large, black attaché case. “Mr. MacDonald,” he said, opening up the case, “this may be another clue to the disappearances, yet we can’t connect it.” With some difficulty he wrested a two-foot bone from the case and extended it to Fletcher.
“This is the femur of a child, probably ten years of age. It was found on the doorstep to the main police station in Grenada a few months ago. You will see that it has the name Enrique carved into it. DNA testing has not revealed a connection to any known missing person. The scientists have determined that the child was alive within the last two years, maybe less. You’ll notice that it is, well, fresh for a bone.”
Fletcher was holding a glass of chardonnay. He arched his eyebrows, put down his glass, and rather reluctantly took the bone from Alfred. He turned it in his hands and examined the carved name. He slowly traced each letter with his index finger. Holding it delicately by both ends, he handed it to me. “Max, what do you say about the carved letters?”
I felt squeamish about even holding the specimen since the crime it suggested was so ghoulish. I could almost feel the life of the child in the bone. Still, I peered at it closely. “Looks like the work of a pen-knife.”
Fletcher smiled indulgently. “Ah, Max, you do not go far enough. The tool is crude, but notice the style. The height and spacing of the letters is nearly identical. A printer would say that the font is consistent. This carving is the work of a perfectionist, albeit using a poor tool, as you say. This was the work of someone who values excellence.”
