Déjà Dead (17 page)

“Those are people they live with,” I said. “Look at Adkins. Husband. Son.”

“Yeah. Gagnon’s got Br and Bf. Brother, boyfriend,” said Charbonneau.

“Big fag,” added Claudel. “What’s Do mean?” he asked, referring to the last column. St. Jacques had written it behind some names, left no notation for others.

No one had an answer.

Charbonneau flipped back the first sheet and everyone fell silent reading the next set of notations. The page was divided in half with one name at the top and another halfway down. Below each was another set of columns. That on the left was headed “Date,” the next two were marked “In” and “Out.” The empty spaces were filled with dates and times.

“Jesus H. Christ, he stalked them. He picked them out and tracked them like goddamn quail or something,” exploded Charbonneau.

Claudel said nothing.

“This sick sonofabitch hunted women,” repeated Charbonneau, as if rephrasing it would somehow make it more believable. Or less.

“Some research project,” I said softly. “And he hasn’t turned it in yet.”

“What?” asked Claudel.

“Adkins and Gagnon are dead. These dates are recent. Who are the others?”

“Shit.”

“Where the fuck is recovery?” Claudel strode over to the door and disappeared into the corridor. I could hear him swearing at the patrolman.

My eyes wandered back to the wall. I didn’t want to think about the list anymore today. I was hot and exhausted and in pain, and there was no satisfaction in the realization that I was probably right, and that now we would work together. That even Claudel would come on board.

I looked at the map, searching for something to divert myself. It was a large one showing in rainbow detail the island, the river, and the jumble of communities comprising the CUM and surrounding areas. The pink municipalities were crisscrossed by small white streets, and linked by red arterial roads and large blue autoroutes. They were dotted by the green of parks, golf courses, and cemeteries, the orange of institutions, the lavender of shopping centers, and the gray of industrial areas.

I found Centre-ville and leaned closer to try to locate my own small street. It was only one block long and, as I searched for it, I began to understand why taxis had so much difficulty finding me. I vowed to be more patient in the future. Or at least more specific. I traced Sherbrooke west to intersect Guy, but found I’d gone too far. It was then I had my third shock of the afternoon.

My finger hovered above Atwater, just outside the orange polygon demarcating Le Grand Séminaire. My eye was drawn to a small symbol sketched in pen at its southwest corner, a circle enclosing an X. It lay close to the site where Isabelle Gagnon’s body had been discovered. With my heart pounding, I shifted to the east end and tried to find the Olympic Stadium.

“Monsieur Charbonneau, look at this,” I said, my voice strained and shaky.

He came closer.

“Where’s the stadium?”

He touched it with his pen and looked at me.

“Where’s Margaret Adkins’s condo?”

He hesitated a minute, leaned in, and started to point to a street running south from Parc Maisonneuve. His pen rested in midair as we both stared at the tiny figure. It was an X drawn and circled in pen.

“Where did Chantale Trottier live?”

“Ste. Anne-de-Bellevue. Too far out.”

We both stared at the map.

“Let’s search it systematically, sector by sector,” I suggested. “I’ll start in the upper left-hand corner and work down, you start with the lower right and work up.”

He found it first. The third X. The mark was on the south shore, near St. Lambert. He knew of no homicides in that district. Neither did Claudel. We looked for another ten minutes, but found no other X’s.

We were just starting a second search when the crime scene van pulled up in front.

“Where the fuck have you been?” asked Claudel as they came through the door with their metal cases.

“It’s like driving through Woodstock out there,” said Pierre Gilbert, “only less mud.” His round face was completely encircled by curly beard and curlier hair, reminding me of a Roman god. I could never remember which one. “What’ve we got here?”

“Girl killed over on Desjardins? Pussbag that lifted her card calls this little hole home,” said Claudel. “Maybe.”

He indicated the room with a sweep of his arm. “Put a lot of himself into it.”

“Well, we’ll take it out,” said Gilbert with a smile. His hair was clinging in circles to his wet forehead. “Let’s dust.”

“There’s a basement, too.”

“
Oui
.” Save for the inflection, dropping then rising, it sounded more like a question than an assent.
Whyyyy?

“Claude, why don’t you start down below? Marcie, take the counter back there.”

Marcie moved to the back of the room, removed a canister from her metal suitcase, and began brushing black powder on the Formica counter. The other technician headed downstairs. Pierre put on latex gloves and began removing sections of newspaper from the desktop and placing them in a large plastic sack. It was then I had my final shock of the day.

“
Qu’est-ce que c’est?
” he said, lifting a small square from what had been the middle of the stack. He studied it a long time. “
C’est toi?
”

I was surprised to see him look at me.

Wordlessly I walked over and glanced at what he had. I was unnerved to see my own familiar jeans, my “Absolutely Irish” T-shirt, my Bausch and Lomb aviator sunglasses. In his gloved hand he held the photo which had appeared in
Le Journal
that morning.

For the second time that day I saw myself locked at an exhumation two years in the past. The picture had been cut and trimmed with the same careful precision as those on the wall. It differed in only one respect. My image had been circled and recircled in pen, and the front of my chest was marked with a large X.

I
SLEPT A LOT OF THE WEEKEND
. S
ATURDAY MORNING
I
HAD TRIED
getting up, but that was short-lived. My legs trembled, and if I turned my head long fingers of pain shot up my neck and grabbed the base of my skull. My face had crusted over like crème brûlée, and my right eye looked like a purple plum gone bad. It was a weekend of soup, aspirin, and antiseptic. I spent the days dozing on the couch, keeping abreast of O. J. Simpson’s escapades. At night I was asleep by nine.

By Monday the jackhammer had stopped pounding inside my cranium. I could walk stiffly and rotate my head somewhat. I got up early, showered, and was in my office by eighty-thirty.

There were three requisitions on my desk. Ignoring them, I tried Gabby’s number, but got only her machine. I made myself a cup of instant coffee and uncurled the phone messages I’d taken from my slot. One was from a detective in Verdun, another from Andrew Ryan, the third a reporter. I threw the last away and set the others by the phone. Neither Charbonneau nor Claudel had called. Nor had Gabby.

I dialed the CUM squad room and asked for Charbonneau. After a pause I was told he wasn’t there. Neither was Claudel. I left a message, wondering if they were out on the street early or starting the day late.

I dialed Andrew Ryan but his line was busy. Since I was accomplishing nothing by phone, I decided to drop by in person. Maybe Ryan would discuss Trottier.

I rode the elevator to the first floor and wound my way back to the squad room. The scene was much livelier than during my last visit. As I crossed to Ryan’s desk I could feel eyes on my face. It made me vaguely uncomfortable. Obviously they knew about Friday.

“Dr. Brennan,” said Ryan in English, unfolding from his chair and extending a hand. His elongated face broke into a smile when he saw the scab that was my right cheek. “Trying out a new shade of blush?”

“Right. Crimson cement. I got a message you called?”

For a moment he looked blank.

“Oh yeah. I pulled the jacket on Trottier. You can take a look if you want.”

He leaned over and fiddled with some folders on his desk, spreading them out in a fan-shaped heap. He selected one and handed it to me just as his partner entered the room. Bertrand strode toward us wearing a light gray sports jacket monochromatically blended to darker gray pants, a black shirt, and a black-and-white floral tie. Save for the tan, he looked like an image from 1950s TV.

“Dr. Brennan, how goes it?”

“Great.”

“Wow, nice effect.”

“Pavement is impersonal,” I said, looking around for a place to spread the file. “May I . . .” I gestured to an empty desk.

“Sure, they’re out already.”

I sat down and began sorting the contents of the folder, leafing through incident reports, untangling interviews, and turning over photos. Chantale Trottier. It was like walking barefoot across hot asphalt. The pain came back as though it had happened yesterday, and I had to keep looking away, allowing my mind breaks from the surging sorrow.

On October 16, 1993, a sixteen-year-old girl rose reluctantly, ironed her blouse, and spent an hour shampooing and preening. She refused the breakfast her mother offered, and left her suburban home to join friends for the train ride to school. She wore a plaid uniform jumper and knee socks and carried her books in a backpack. She chatted and giggled, and ate lunch after math class. At the end of the day she vanished. Thirty hours later her butchered body was found in plastic garbage bags forty miles from her home.

A shadow fell across the desk and I looked up. Bertrand held two mugs of coffee. The one he offered me said “Monday I Start My Diet.” Gratefully, I reached out and took it.

“Anything interesting?”

“Not much.” I took a sip. “She was sixteen. Found in St. Jerome.”

“Yup.”

“Gagnon was twenty-three. Found in Centre-ville. Also in plastic bags,” I mused aloud.

He tipped his head.

“Adkins was twenty-four, found at home, over by the stadium.”

“She wasn’t dismembered.”

“No, but she was cut up and mutilated. Maybe the killer got interrupted. Had less time.”

He sipped his coffee, slurping loudly. When he lowered the mug, milky brown beads clung to his mustache.

“Gagnon and Adkins were both on St. Jacques’s list.” I assumed the story had spread by now. I was right.

“Yeah but the media went snake over those cases. The guy had clipped
Allo Police
and
Photo Police
articles on both of them. With pictures. He could just be a maggot that feeds on that kind of crap.”

“Could be.” I took another sip, not really believing it.

“Didn’t he have a whole dungheap of stuff?”

“Yeah,” said Ryan from behind us. “Dickhead had clippings on all kinds of weird shit. Francoeur, didn’t you catch some of those dummy cases when you were with property?” This to a short, fat man with a shiny brown head who was eating a Snickers bar four desks over.

Francoeur put down the candy, licking his fingers and nodding. His rimless glasses blinked as his head moved up and down.

“Um. Hum. Two.” Lick. “Damnedest thing.” Lick. “This squirrel creeps the place, rifles the bedroom, then makes a big doll with a nightgown or a sweat suit, something that belongs to the lady of the house. He stuffs it, dresses it up in her underwear, then lays it out on the bed and slashes it. Probably makes him harder than a math final.” Lick. Lick. “Then he gets his sorry ass out of there. Doesn’t even take anything.”

“Sperm?”

“Nope. Believes in safe sleaze, I guess.”

“What’s he use?”

“Probably a knife, but we never found it. He must bring it with him.”

Francoeur peeled back the wrapper and took another bite of Snickers.

“How’s he get in?”

“Bedroom window.” It came out through caramel and peanuts.

“When?”

“Night, usually.”

“Where’s he put on these little freak shows?”

Francoeur chewed slowly for a moment, then, using a thumbnail, removed a speck of peanut from his molar. He inspected and flicked it.

“One was in St. Calixte, and I think the other was St. Hubert. The one this guy clipped went down a couple of weeks ago in St. Paul-du-Nord.” His upper lip bulged as he ran his tongue over his incisors. “And I think one fell to the CUM. I sort of remember a call about a year ago from someone over there.”

Silence.

“They’ll pop him, but this squirrel isn’t exactly high priority. He doesn’t hurt anybody and he doesn’t take anything. He’s just got a twisted idea of a cheap date.”

Francoeur crumbled the Snickers wrapper and arced it into the wastebasket beside his desk.

“I hear the concerned citizen in St. Paul-du-Nord refused to follow up with a complaint.”

“Yeah,” said Ryan, “those cases are about as rewarding as a lobotomy with a Scout knife.”

“Our hero probably clipped the story because he gets a hard-on reading about busting someone’s bedroom. He had a story on that girl out in Senneville and we know he wasn’t the one grabbed her. Turned out the father had the kid stashed the whole time.” Francoeur leaned back in his chair. “Maybe he just identifies with a kindred pervert.”

I listened to this exchange without really looking at the participants. My eyes drifted over a large city map behind Francoeur’s head. It was similar to the one I’d seen in the Berger apartment, but drawn to a smaller scale, extending out to include the far eastern and western suburbs off the island of Montreal.

The discussion snaked around the squad room, scooping up anecdotes of Peeping Toms and other sexual perverts. As it meandered from desk to desk, I rose quietly and crossed to the map for a closer view, hoping to draw as little attention to myself as possible. I studied it, replaying the exercise Charbonneau and I had gone through on Friday, mentally plotting the location of the X’s. Ryan’s voice startled me.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

I took a container of pins from a ledge below the map. Each was topped by a large, brightly colored ball. Choosing a red one, I placed it at the southwest corner of Le Grand Séminaire.

“Gagnon,” I said.

Next I placed one below the Olympic Stadium.