Read Online Bones Are Forever by Kathy Reichs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kathy Reichs
Ads: Link
ceremonial.
A word about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP, or in French, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, GRC. The world calls them Mounties. Internally, they refer to themselves as the Force. Too many Star Wars movies, you say? Nope. The tradition goes back much further.
The RCMP is unique in that it functions at the national, provincial, and municipal levels, providing federal policing services to all of Canada and, under contract, to three territories, eight provinces,more than 190 municipalities, 184 aboriginal communities, and three international airports.
While the two most populous provinces, Ontario and Quebec, maintain their own provincial forces, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Sûreté du Québec, all the others rely on the RCMP to some extent. In the three territories, Yukon, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories, the Mounties are the only game in town.
Confusing? To complicate matters further, some large cities, such as Edmonton, Toronto, and Montreal, have their own municipal police departments.
Just think of the FBI, state troopers, the sheriff’s department, city cops. Same deal.
Ryan’s visitor was sitting with his back to me, elbow cocked over the arm of the chair. Graying temples suggested some mileage.
Hadn’t Ryan said the guy was a sergeant? So the Force wasn’t fast-tracking him into the OCDP, the Officer Candidate Development Program. I wondered if he’d plateaued in his career. If, like many NCOs, he’d grown resentful of the “white shirts,” as the noncommissioned called the commissioned officers.
Whatever. Though unimpressive if working at headquarters in Ottawa or at a divisional HQ, sergeant was a decent enough level for a member in the field.
So why was Ryan looking at the guy like he was barf on the sidewalk?
Drawing close, I took in more detail. Though of average height, the sergeant was powerfully built, with arms and a chest that stretched his shirt to the limit.
Ryan said something I didn’t catch. His visitor responded, tilting his head so that his chin went forward and up.
The odd mannerism jostled a gaggle of cells where a memory was stored.
I slowed. No way.
The sergeant reached out and placed a Styrofoam cup on Ryan’s desk. His left hand flashed into view for a moment.
My pulse went off the map.
F OR A MOMENT I CONSIDERED RETREAT. FLIGHT BACK UPSTAIRS to my lab. But my higher centers were already lobbing words like “professional” and “adult.”
Sergeant Oliver Isaac Hasty. Other than deeper laugh lines and the graying-temples thing, he hadn’t aged a bit. No loosening of the jaw. Not an extra ounce of fat.
Ollie had been a corporal back then, on temporary-duty assignment to the FBI Academy in Quantico. Behavioral science training or some such. I’d been teaching a body recovery workshop to special agents.
Ollie and I met over beers in the Boardroom. He was Canadian. I was considering an offer to consult to the LSJML in Montreal. All that week he’d provided insight into my strange neighbors to the north.
The chemistry was blistering, no denying that. But I found Ollie’s view of himself something of a put-off. No matter the topic, Corporal Hasty was an expert, and others knew little.
When the course ended, I headed home to North Carolina, libido frustrated but self-esteem intact. When his training concluded, Ollie drove to Charlotte to visit. No invitation. In Ollie’s world, rejection was not an option.
My marriage had just imploded, and I was still shattered by Pete’s betrayal. And living alone for the first time in two decades.Horny divorcée-to-be. Brawny Mountie. Eros can be denied only so long. Though I wasn’t nuts for Ollie, for a solid week our slap-and-tickle burned down the house.
So what happened? you ask.
Ollie was twenty-nine. I was, well, a wee bit older. I lived in Dixie. He lived in Alberta, damn far away. Neither he nor I wanted to go steady, so no future get-togethers were planned.
We exchanged brief
A word about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP, or in French, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, GRC. The world calls them Mounties. Internally, they refer to themselves as the Force. Too many Star Wars movies, you say? Nope. The tradition goes back much further.
The RCMP is unique in that it functions at the national, provincial, and municipal levels, providing federal policing services to all of Canada and, under contract, to three territories, eight provinces,more than 190 municipalities, 184 aboriginal communities, and three international airports.
While the two most populous provinces, Ontario and Quebec, maintain their own provincial forces, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Sûreté du Québec, all the others rely on the RCMP to some extent. In the three territories, Yukon, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories, the Mounties are the only game in town.
Confusing? To complicate matters further, some large cities, such as Edmonton, Toronto, and Montreal, have their own municipal police departments.
Just think of the FBI, state troopers, the sheriff’s department, city cops. Same deal.
Ryan’s visitor was sitting with his back to me, elbow cocked over the arm of the chair. Graying temples suggested some mileage.
Hadn’t Ryan said the guy was a sergeant? So the Force wasn’t fast-tracking him into the OCDP, the Officer Candidate Development Program. I wondered if he’d plateaued in his career. If, like many NCOs, he’d grown resentful of the “white shirts,” as the noncommissioned called the commissioned officers.
Whatever. Though unimpressive if working at headquarters in Ottawa or at a divisional HQ, sergeant was a decent enough level for a member in the field.
So why was Ryan looking at the guy like he was barf on the sidewalk?
Drawing close, I took in more detail. Though of average height, the sergeant was powerfully built, with arms and a chest that stretched his shirt to the limit.
Ryan said something I didn’t catch. His visitor responded, tilting his head so that his chin went forward and up.
The odd mannerism jostled a gaggle of cells where a memory was stored.
I slowed. No way.
The sergeant reached out and placed a Styrofoam cup on Ryan’s desk. His left hand flashed into view for a moment.
My pulse went off the map.
F OR A MOMENT I CONSIDERED RETREAT. FLIGHT BACK UPSTAIRS to my lab. But my higher centers were already lobbing words like “professional” and “adult.”
Sergeant Oliver Isaac Hasty. Other than deeper laugh lines and the graying-temples thing, he hadn’t aged a bit. No loosening of the jaw. Not an extra ounce of fat.
Ollie had been a corporal back then, on temporary-duty assignment to the FBI Academy in Quantico. Behavioral science training or some such. I’d been teaching a body recovery workshop to special agents.
Ollie and I met over beers in the Boardroom. He was Canadian. I was considering an offer to consult to the LSJML in Montreal. All that week he’d provided insight into my strange neighbors to the north.
The chemistry was blistering, no denying that. But I found Ollie’s view of himself something of a put-off. No matter the topic, Corporal Hasty was an expert, and others knew little.
When the course ended, I headed home to North Carolina, libido frustrated but self-esteem intact. When his training concluded, Ollie drove to Charlotte to visit. No invitation. In Ollie’s world, rejection was not an option.
My marriage had just imploded, and I was still shattered by Pete’s betrayal. And living alone for the first time in two decades.Horny divorcée-to-be. Brawny Mountie. Eros can be denied only so long. Though I wasn’t nuts for Ollie, for a solid week our slap-and-tickle burned down the house.
So what happened? you ask.
Ollie was twenty-nine. I was, well, a wee bit older. I lived in Dixie. He lived in Alberta, damn far away. Neither he nor I wanted to go steady, so no future get-togethers were planned.
We exchanged brief
Similar Books
