"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

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For Karl and Marta Reichs, the two kindest and most generous people I
know.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS In an attempt to create accurate fiction, I consulted
experts in many fields. I wish to thank Bernard Chapais for his
explanation of Canadian regulations pertaining to the housing and
maintenance of laboratory animals; Sylvain Roy, jean-Guy H6bert, and
Michel Hamel for their help on serology; Bernard Pommeville for his
detailed demonstration of X-ray microfluorescence; and Robert Dorion for
his advice on forensic dentistry, bite mark analysis, and proper use of
the French language. Last, but far from least, I wish to express my
gratitude to Steve Symes for his boundless patience in discussing saws
and their effects on bone.

I owe a debt of thanks to John Robinson and Marysue Ruccil without whom
De'ja' Dead may never have come to be. John brought the manuscript to
Marysue's attention, and she saw merit in it. My editors, Susanne Kirk,
Marysue Rucci, and Maria Rejt waded through the original version of
De'j'a' Dead, improving it greatly with their editorial suggestions. A
million thanks to my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh. She is amazing.

Finally, on a more personal note, I want to thank the members of my
family who read the embryonic work and made valuable comments. I
appreciate their support, and their patience with my long absences.


I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT THE MAN WHO'D BLOWN HIMSELF UP.

Earlier I had. Now I was putting him together. Two sections of skull lay
in front of me, and a third jutted from a sand-filled stainless steel
bowl, the glue still drying on its reassembled fragments. Enough bone to
confirm identity. The coroner would be pleased. It was late afternoon,
Thursday, June 2, 1994. While the glue set, my mind had gone truant. The
knock that would break my reverie, tip MY life off course, and alter my
comprehension of the bounds of human depravity wouldn't come for another
ten minutes. I was enjoying my view of the St. Lawrence, the sole
advantage of my cramped corner office. Somehow the sight of water has
always rejuvenated me, especially when it flows rhythmically. Forget
Golden Pond. I'm sure Freud could have run with that. My thoughts
meandered to the upcoming weekend. I had a trip to Quebec City in mind,
but my plans were vague. I thought of visiting the Plains of Abraham,
eating mussels and crepes, and buying trinkets from the street vendors.
Escape in tourism. I'd been in Montreal a full year, working as forensic
anthropologist for the province, but I hadn't been up there yet, so it
seemed like a good program. I needed a couple of days without skeletons,