Déjà Dead (35 page)

At one-thirty Ryan came to my office. Bergeron had already given him the positive on the skull. I told him it was good for the skeleton as well.

“What do you know about her?” I asked.

“She was thirty-two. Three kids.”

“Christ.”

“Good mother. Faithful wife. Active in the church.” He glanced at his notes. “St. Demetrius, over on Hutchison. Near Avenue du Parc and Fairmont. Sent the kids off to school one day. Never seen again.”

“Husband?”

“Looks clean.”

“Boyfriend?”

He shrugged. “It’s a very traditional Greek family. If you don’t talk about it, those things can’t be true. She was a good girl. Lived for her husband. They’ve got a friggin’ shrine set up for her in the living room.” Another shrug. “Maybe she was a saint. Maybe she wasn’t. We’re not going to find out from Mama or Hubby. It’s like talking to barnacles. You mention hanky-panky, they pull in and slam shut.”

I told him about the cut marks.

“Same as Trottier. And Gagnon.”

“Hm.”

“Hands were cut off. Like Gagnon, and one each for Morisette-Champoux and Trottier.”

“Hm.”

When he’d gone I turned on the computer and pulled up my spreadsheet. I erased “
Inconnue
” from the name column and typed in Grace Damas, then entered the scanty information Ryan had given me. In a separate file I summarized what I knew about each of the women, arranging them by date of death.

Grace Damas had disappeared in February of 1992. She was thirty-two, married, the mother of three. She lived in the near northeast part of the city, in an area known as Parc Extension. Her body had been dismembered and buried in a shallow grave at the St. Bernard Monastery in St. Lambert, where it was found in June of 1994. Her head showed up in my garden several days later. Cause of death was unknown.

Francine Morisette-Champoux was beaten and shot in January of 1993. She was forty-seven. Her body was found less than two hours later, just south of Centre-ville, in the condo she shared with her husband. Her killer had slit her belly, cut off her right hand, and forced a knife into her vagina.

Chantale Trottier disappeared in October of 1993. She was sixteen. She lived with her mother off the island, in the lake community of Ste. Anne-de-Bellevue. She’d been beaten, strangled, and dismembered, her right hand partially severed, her left one completely detached. Her body was found two days later in St. Jerome.

Isabelle Gagnon disappeared in April of 1994. She’d lived with her brother in St. Édouard. In June of this year her dismembered body was found on the grounds of Le Grand Séminaire in Centre-ville. Though cause of death could not be determined, marks on her bones indicated she’d been dismembered, her belly slit. Her hands had been removed, and her killer had inserted a plunger in her vagina. She was twenty-three.

Margaret Adkins was killed on June 23, just over a week ago. She was twenty-four, had one son, and lived with her common-law husband. She’d been beaten to death. Her belly was slit and one breast had been sliced off and forced into her mouth. A metal statue had been rammed up her vagina.

Claudel was right. There was no pattern in MO. They were all beaten, but Morisette-Champoux was also shot. Trottier was strangled. Adkins was bludgeoned. Hell, we didn’t even have a cause for Damas and Gagnon.

I went over and over what had been done to each of them. There was variation, but there was also a theme. Sadistic cruelty and mutilation. It had to be one person. One monster. Damas, Gagnon, and Trottier were dismembered and dumped in plastic bags. Their bellies had been slit. Gagnon and Trottier had had their hands severed. Morisette-Champoux was slashed and had a hand cut off, but she wasn’t dismembered. Adkins, Gagnon, and Morisette-Champoux had suffered genital penetration with a foreign object. The others hadn’t. Adkins’s breast was mutilated. No one else was disfigured in that way. Or were they? There hadn’t been enough of Damas and Gagnon to say.

I stared at the screen. It has to be here, I told myself. Why can’t I see it? What’s the link? Why these women? Their ages are up and down the charts. It’s not that. They’re all white. Big deal, this is Canada. Francophone. Anglophone. Allophone. Married. Single. Common law. Choose another category. Let’s try geography.

I got out a map and plotted where each of the bodies had been found. It made even less sense than when I’d done it with Ryan. Now there were five points in the scatter. I tried plotting their homes. The pins looked like paint flung at a canvas by an abstract artist. There was no pattern.

What did you expect, Brennan, an arrow pointing to a flat on Sherbrooke? Forget place. Try time.

I looked at the dates. Damas was the first. In early 1992. I calculated in my head. Eleven months between Damas and Morisette-Champoux. Nine months later, Trottier. Six months to Gagnon. Two months between Gagnon and Adkins.

The intervals were decreasing. Either the killer was growing bolder, or his blood lust was growing stronger. My heart pounded hard against my ribs as I considered the implication. Over a week had passed since Margaret Adkins died.

I
FELT TRAPPED INSIDE MY SKIN
. A
NXIOUS AND FRUSTRATED
. T
HE
visions in my head annoyed me, but I couldn’t turn them off. I watched a candy wrapper dance on the wind outside my window, tossed by puffs of shifting air.

That piece of paper is you, Brennan, I chided myself. Can’t control your own fate, much less anyone else’s. There’s nothing on St. Jacques. No word on who put the skull in your yard. Gabby’s nut case is still out there. Claudel is probably lodging a complaint against you. Your daughter is about to drop out of school. And five dead women are living in your head, and likely to be joined by a sixth or seventh at the rate your investigation is going.

I looked at my watch—2:15
P.M
. I couldn’t stand my office another minute. I had to do something.

But what?

I glanced at Ryan’s incident report. An idea began to form.

They’ll be furious, I told myself.

Yes.

I checked the report. The address was there. I pulled up my spreadsheet on the computer screen. They were all there, along with the phone numbers.

You would do better to go to the gym and work off your frustration there.

Yes.

Solo sleuthing won’t help the situation with Claudel.

No.

You may lose Ryan’s support.

True.

Tough.

I printed the data from the screen, made a choice, and dialed. A man answered on the third ring. He was surprised but agreed to see me. Grabbing my purse, I fled into the summer sunshine.

It was hot again, the air so thick with humidity you could take your finger and write your initials in it. The haze refracted the sun’s glare and spread it all around like a cloak. I drove toward the home Francine Morisette-Champoux had shared with her husband. I’d chosen her case for no other reason than proximity. She had lived just below Centre-ville, not ten minutes from my condo. If I bombed, well, I was on my way home.

I found the address and pulled to a stop. The street was lined with brick town houses, each with its iron balcony, below-ground garage, and brightly colored door.

Unlike most communities in Montreal, this one had no name. Urban renewal had transformed what had been part of the Canadian National yards, replacing tracks and toolsheds with residences, barbecue grills, and tomato plants. The neighborhood was neat and middle class, but suffered from an identity crisis. It was too close to the city core to be truly suburban, but just a hair outside the arc defining trendy downtown. It wasn’t old and it wasn’t new. Functional and convenient, it lacked bouquet.

I rang the bell and waited. Fresh-cut grass and ripe garbage tinged the hot air. Two doors down a sprinkler arced water across a Chiclet-sized lawn. A central air compressor hummed to life, its sound challenging the sprinkler’s steady click.

When he opened the door I thought of the Gerber baby grown up. His hair was blond and receding, the center patch swirling into a curl on his forehead. His cheeks and chin were round and padded, his nose short and angled upward. He was a large man, not yet gone to fat, but moving down that road. Though it was ninety degrees, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Calgary Stampede—1985.

“Monsieur Champoux, I’m . . .”

He pulled the door wide and stepped back, ignoring the ID I held for his inspection. I followed him down a narrow hall to a narrow living room. Fish tanks lined one wall, tinting the room an eerie aquamarine. At the far end I could see a counter stacked with small nets, boxes of food, and other fish paraphernalia. Louvered doors opened onto the kitchen. I recognized the kitchen work island and looked away.

Monsieur Champoux cleared a spot on the sofa and indicated I should sit. He dropped into a recliner.

“Monsieur Champoux,” I began again, “I’m Dr. Brennan from the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale.”

I left it at that, hoping to avoid further explanations about my precise role in the investigation. I didn’t really have any.

“Have you found something? I . . . It’s been so long I don’t let myself think about it anymore.” He spoke to the parquet floor. “It’s been a year and a half since Francine died, and I haven’t heard from you people in over a year.”

I wondered where he thought I fit in with “you people.”

“I answered so many questions, talked to so many people. The coroner. The cops. The press. I even hired my own investigator. I really wanted to nail this guy. Didn’t do any good. They never found a clue. We can pinpoint the time he killed her to within an hour, you know. The coroner said she was still warm. This maniac kills my wife, walks out, and disappears without a trace.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Have you finally got something?”

His eyes held a mixture of anguish and hope. Guilt sliced to my core.

“No, Monsieur Champoux, not really.” Except four other women may have been killed by the same animal. “I just want to go over a few details, see if there’s anything we overlooked.”

The hope vanished and resignation surfaced. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

“Your wife was a nutritionist?”

He nodded.

“Where did she work?”

“All over, really. She was paid by the MAS, but on any given day she could have been anywhere.”

“The MAS?”

“Ministère des Affaires Sociales.”

“She moved around?”

“Her job was to advise food cooperatives, immigrant groups mostly, about how to buy stuff. She’d help them form these collective kitchens, then teach them how to make whatever it is they like to eat so it would be cheap, but still healthy. She’d help them get produce and meat and things. Usually in bulk. She was always visiting the kitchens to be sure they were running okay.”

“Where were these collectives?”

“All over the place. Parc Extension. Côte des Neiges. St. Henri. Little Burgundy.”

“How long had she been working for the MAS?”

“Maybe six, seven years. Before that she worked at the Montreal General. Had much better hours.”

“Did she enjoy her work?”

“Oh yeah. She loved it.” The words caught briefly in his throat.

“Were her hours irregular?”

“No, they were regular. She worked all the time. Mornings. Evenings. Weekends. There was always a problem and Francine was the one to fix it.” His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched.

“Had you and your wife disagreed about her work?”

He fell silent for a moment. Then, “I wanted to see more of her. I wished she was still at the hospital.”

“What do you do, Monsieur Champoux?”

“I’m an engineer. I build things. Only no one wants much built these days.” He gave a mirthless smile and tipped his head to one side. “I was downsized.” He used the English phrase.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you know where your wife was going the day she was killed?”

He shook his head. “We’d hardly seen each other that week. There was a fire in one of her kitchens and she’d been there day and night. She may have been going back there, or she may have been heading for another one. She didn’t keep any kind of journal or log that I know of. They never found one in her office and I never saw one here. She’d been talking about getting her hair cut. Hell, she may have been going to do that.”

He looked at me, his eyes tortured.

“Do you know what that feels like? I don’t even know what my wife was planning to do on the day she died.”

The circulating water of the tanks murmured softly in the background.

“Had she spoken about anything unusual? Odd phone calls? A stranger at the door?” I thought of Gabby. “Someone on the street?”

Another head shake.

“Would she have?”

“Probably, if we’d spoken. We really hadn’t had time those last few days.”

I tried a new tack.

“It was January. Cold. The doors and windows would have been closed. Was your wife in the habit of keeping them locked?”

“Yes. She never liked living here, didn’t like being right on the street. I talked her into buying this place, but she preferred high-rise buildings with security systems or guards. We get some pretty seedy characters down here, and she was always on edge. That’s why we were leaving. She liked the extra space, and the little yard out back, but she never really got used to being here. Her work took her to some rough areas, and when she came home she wanted to feel safe. Untouchable. That’s what she said. Untouchable. You know?”

Yes. Oh yes.

“When was the last time you saw your wife, Monsieur Champoux?”

He breathed deeply, exhaled. “She got killed on a Thursday. She’d worked late the night before, because of the fire, so I’d already gone to bed when she got home.”

He dropped his head and talked again to the parquet. A patch of tiny vessels colored each of his cheeks.

“She came to bed full of her day, trying to tell me where she’d been and what she’d been doing. I didn’t want to hear it.”

I saw his chest rise and fall under the sweatshirt.

“The next day I got up early and left. Didn’t even say good-bye.”