Déjà Dead (40 page)

I spread the crime scene photos, knowing beforehand the story they’d tell. Pitre: the yard, the bedroom, the body. Gautier: the station, the bushes, the body. Pitre’s head was almost severed. Gautier’s throat had also been slashed, her right eye stabbed into pulpy mush. The extreme savagery of the attacks had prompted their inclusion in our investigation.

I read the autopsy, toxicology, and police reports. I dissected each interview and investigator’s summary. I pulled out every detail of the victims’ comings and goings, every particular of their lives and deaths. All the minutiae I could suck from each folder went onto a crude spreadsheet. It wasn’t much.

I heard the others moving around, scraping chairs, exchanging banter, but I paid no attention. When I finally closed the files, it was past five. Only Ryan remained. I looked up to see him watching me.

“Wanna see the Gypsies?”

“What?”

“Heard you like jazz.”

“Yeah, but the festival is over, Ryan.” Heard from whom? How? Was this a social invitation?

“True. But the city isn’t. Les Gitanes are playing in the Old Port. Great group.”

“Ryan, I don’t think so.” But I
did
think. Had thought. That’s why I’d refuse. Not now. Not until the investigation was over. Not until the animal was netted.

“Good enough.” The electric eyes. “But you gotta eat.”

That was true. Another frozen dinner, solo, was decidedly unappealing. No. Don’t even give Claudel the appearance of impropriety.

“It’s probably not a g—”

“We could chew over some of your thoughts on this stuff while we put away a pizza.”

“Business meeting.”

“
Certainement
.”

Buzz.

Did I want to discuss the cases? Of course. Something about the added two didn’t ring true. Even more, I was curious about the task force. Ryan had given us the official version; what were the real dynamics? Were there threads in the web I should know about? Avoid?

Buzz.

Would the others think twice? Of course not.

“Sure, Ryan. Where do you want to go?”

Shrug. “Angela’s?”

Close to my condo. I thought of the 4
A.M
. call last month, the “friend” he’d been with. You’re paranoid, Brennan. The man wants a pizza. He knows you can park at home.

“Is that convenient for you?”

“Right on the way.”

To what? I didn’t ask.

“Fine. See you there in”—I looked at my watch—“thirty minutes?”

I stopped home, fed Birdie, barred myself from mirrors. No hair combing. No blusher. Business.

At six-fifteen Ryan sipped a cold beer, I a Diet Coke as we waited for a veggie supreme. No goat cheese on his half.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Rigid.”

“In touch with myself.”

We exchanged small talk for a while, then I switched lanes. “Tell me about these other cases. Why Pitre and Gautier?”

“Patineau had me pull all unsolved SQ homicides that fit a certain profile. Back to ‘85. Basically the pattern you’ve been hammering on. Females, overkill, mutilation. Claudel searched the CUM cases. Local PD’s were asked to do the same. So far, these two have come up.”

“Just the province?”

“Not exactly.”

We fell silent as the waitress arrived, sliced, and served the pizza. Ryan ordered another Belle Gueule. I passed, mildly resentful. Your own fault, Brennan.

“Don’t even think about touching my half.”

“Don’t like it.” He drained his glass. “Do you know what goes through goats?”

I did, but blocked it.

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“Initially, Patineau asked for a search of cases in and around Montreal. When the profile arrived from Quantico, he sent a composite description, our stuff and theirs, to the RCMP to see if the Mounties had similar cases in their files.”

“And?”

“Negative. Looks like we’ve got a homeboy.”

We ate in silence for a while.

Finally, “What’s your take?”

I took my time answering.

“I only spent three hours with the new files, but somehow they don’t seem to fit.”

“The hooker angle?”

“That. But something else. The killings are violent, no question about that, but they’re just too . . .”

I’d been trying to put a word to the feeling all afternoon, but hadn’t found one. I dropped a piece of pizza to my plate, watched tomato and artichoke ooze off the soggy dough.

“. . . messy.”

“Messy?”

“Messy.”

“Jesus, Brennan, what do you want? Did you see the Adkins apartment? Or Morisette-Champoux? Looked like Wounded Tree.”

“Knee.”

“What?”

“Knee. It was Wounded Knee.”

“The Indians?”

I nodded.

“I don’t mean blood. The Pitre and Gautier scenes looked, what . . . ?” Again, I groped for a word. “Disorganized. Unplanned. With the others, you get the sense this guy knew exactly what he was doing. Got into their homes. Brought his own weapon. Took it away with him. Never found one at the other scenes, right?”

He nodded.

“They recovered the knife with Gautier.”

“No prints. That could suggest planning.”

“It was winter. The guy probably wore gloves.”

I swirled my Coke.

“The bodies look like they were just left. Quickly. Gautier was facedown. Pitre was lying on her side, her clothes were torn, her pants were at her ankles. Take another look at the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins photos. The bodies almost look posed. They were both lying on their backs, their legs were spread, their arms were positioned. Like dolls. Or ballerinas. Christ, Adkins looked like she’d been laid down while doing a pirouette. Their clothing wasn’t torn, it was opened, neatly. It’s as if he wanted to display what he’d done to them.”

Ryan said nothing. The waitress appeared, wanting assurance we’d enjoyed our meal. Anything else? Just a check.

“I just get a different feeling with these other two cases. I could be dead wrong.”

“That’s what we’re supposed to figure out.”

Ryan took the check, raising a hand in a “don’t argue” gesture. “This one’s on me. Next one’s yours.”

He cut my protest short by reaching out to touch my upper lip. Slowly, he ran his index finger around the corner of my mouth, then held it up for my inspection.

“Goat,” he said.

Fire ants would have had less effect on my face.

I arrived home to an empty apartment. No surprise. But I was becoming anxious about Gabby, and hoped she would reappear. Mainly so I could send her packing.

I lay on the couch and turned on the Expos game. Martinez had just beaned one off the batter. The announcer was going crazy. Tough moving back up to starter.

I watched until the announcer’s voice faded to a hum and the noise in my head took over. How did Pitre and Gautier fit in? What did Khanawake mean? Pitre was Mohawk. The others had all been white. Four years ago the Indians had barricaded the Mercier Bridge, making life hell for commuters. Feelings between the reserve and its neighbors remained less then cordial. Was that significant?

Gautier and Pitre were hookers. Pitre had been busted several times. None of the other victims had police records. Did that mean anything? If victims had been selected at random, what would be the odds that two out of seven would be hookers?

Had the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins scenes really shown premeditation? Was I imagining the staging? Was it accidental?

Was there a religious angle? That was one I hadn’t really explored. If so, what did it mean?

Eventually, I drifted into uneasy sleep. I was on the Main. Gabby was beckoning to me from the upstairs window of a run-down hotel. The room behind her was dimly lit, and I could see figures moving about. I tried to cross the street to her, but women outside the hotel threw rocks when I moved. They were angry. A face appeared beside Gabby’s, backlit against the room. It was Constance Pitre. She tried to put something over Gabby’s head, a dress or gown of some sort. Gabby resisted, her gestures to me becoming more frantic.

A rock hit me in the gut, wrenching me hard into the present. Birdie stood on my stomach, tail in landing position, eyes fixed on my face.

“Thanks.”

I dislodged him and swung to a sitting position.

“What the hell did that mean, Bird?”

My dreams are not particularly disingenuous. My subconscious takes recent experience and throws it back at me, often in riddle form. Sometimes I feel like Arthur, frustrated with Merlin’s cryptic answers. Just tell me! Think, Arthur. Think!

The rock-throwing. Obvious: Martinez’s bean ball. Gabby. Obvious: She’s on my mind. The Main. The hookers. Pitre. Pitre trying to dress Gabby. Gabby beckoning for help. A tingle of fear began to form.

Hookers. Pitre and Gautier were hookers. Pitre and Gautier are dead. Gabby works with hookers. Gabby was being harassed. Gabby is gone. Could there be a connection? Could she be in trouble?

No. She used you, Brennan. She does it often. You always fall for it.

The fear would not recede.

What about the guy shadowing her? She seemed genuinely frightened.

She split. Not even a note. Thanks. Gotta go. Nothing.

Isn’t that a bit much, even for Gabby? The fear became stronger.

“Okay, Dr. Macaulay, let’s find out.”

I went to the guest room and looked around. Where to begin? I had already gathered her belongings and heaped them on the closet floor. I hated to go through them.

Trash. It seemed less invasive. I dumped the wastebasket onto the desk. Tissues. Candy wrappers. Tinfoil. A sales slip from Limité. An ATM receipt. Three balls of crumpled paper.

I opened a yellow ball. Gabby’s scrawl on lined paper:

“I’m sorry. I can’t deal with this. I would never forgive myself if . . .”

It broke off there. A note to me?

I opened the other yellow ball:

“I will not succumb to this harassment. You are an irritant that must . . .”

Again, she’d given up. Or been interrupted. What had she been trying to say? To whom?

The other ball was white and larger. When I unwadded it, runaway fear shot through me, vaporizing all the unkind thoughts I’d been nurturing. I flattened the paper with trembling hands and stared.

What I saw was a pencil drawing, the central figure clearly female, her breasts and genitalia depicted in minute detail. The torso, arms, and legs were crudely sketched, the face an oval with features vaguely shadowed in. The woman’s abdomen was open, the organs rising from it to circle the central figure. In the lower left-hand corner in a stranger’s hand was written:

“Every move you make. Every step you take. Don’t cut me.”

I
FELT COLD ALL OVER
. O
H
, G
OD
, G
ABBY
. W
HAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN
into? Where are you? I looked at the mess around me. Was it normal Gabby chaos, or the aftermath of panicky flight?

I reread the unfinished notes. For whom were they intended? Me? Her stalker? I would never forgive myself if
what
? An irritant that must be
what
? I looked at the drawing and sensed what I’d felt when viewing Margaret Adkins’s X rays. Foreboding. No. Not Gabby.

Calm down, Brennan. Think!

The phone. I tried Gabby’s apartment and office. Answering machine. Voice mail. Bless the electronic age.

Think.

Where did her parents live? Trois-Rivières? 411. Only one Macaulay. Neal. An old woman’s voice. French. So glad to hear from you. Been such a long time. How are you? No, they hadn’t talked to Gabrielle in several weeks. No, that wasn’t unusual. Young people, so busy. Is anything wrong? Assurances. Promises to visit soon.

Now what? I didn’t know any of Gabby’s current friends.

Ryan?

No. He’s not your guardian. Anyway, what would you tell him?

Slow down. Think. I got a Diet Coke. Was I overreacting? I returned to the guest room and reexamined the sketch. Overreacting? Hell, I was underreacting. I checked a number, reached for the phone, and dialed.

“Y’allo.”

“Hey, J.S. Tempe.” I struggled to keep my voice steady.

“My God. Two calls in one week. Admit it. You can’t stay away from me.”

“It’s been over a week.”

“Anything under a month I interpret as irresistible attraction. What’s up?”

“J.S., I . . .”

He caught the tremor in my voice and his demeanor changed, the flipness replaced by genuine concern.

“Are you okay, Tempe? What is it?”

“It’s these cases I talked to you about last week.”

“What’s happened? I profiled the guy right away. Hope they realize that was your influence. Did they get my report?”

“Yes. You made the difference, actually. They’ve decided to form a task force. That part’s moving right along.”

I wasn’t sure how to broach my anxiety about Gabby, didn’t want to abuse our friendship.

“Could I ask you a few more questions? There’s something else I’m concerned about, and I really don’t know wh—”

“Why do you even ask, Brennan? Fire away.”

Where to begin? I should have made a list. My head was like Gabby’s room, thoughts and images scattered haphazardly.

“This is something else.”

“Yes. You said that.”

“I guess I’m interested in what you call nuisance sexual offenders?”

“Okay.”

“Would that include things like following someone, calling her, but not doing anything overtly threatening?”

“It could.”

Start with the sketch.

“You told me last time that violent offenders often make records? Like tapes and drawings?”

“Right.”

“Do nuisance offenders?”

“Do they what?”

“Make sketches and things.”

“They might.”

“Can the content of a drawing indicate the level of violence someone is capable of?”

“Not necessarily. For one person drawing could be a release valve, a way of acting out without actually engaging in violence. For another, it could be the trigger that sets him off. Or a reenactment of what he’s already done.”