Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 34

Predictably, Kit was sleeping when I left for work. This day, I attended the morning meeting.

When I returned to my office, Claudel was there.

"Figure out who killed Dorsey?" I asked as I threw the morning's case log on the desk.

He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava, then held out an envelope.

I sat, unlocked my desk drawer, and handed him the Myrtle Beach photo.

"Where did you say this came from?"

"I didn't." I gave him the lens. "Because I don't know."

"It just appeared?"

"Yes."

His eyes roved the print.

"I noticed it yesterday. I can't say for certain when it arrived on my desk."

After several seconds the lens froze and he drew closer to it. Then, "You're talking about the man next to Z. Z. Top?"

"Show me," I said, surprised at the musical reference. I would have pegged Claudel as strictly cla.s.sical.

He turned the photo and pointed.

"Yes. The girl next to him is Savannah Osprey."

Back to the lens.

"You're sure?"

I dug out the yearbook portrait Kate had given me. He studied it, then the picnic shot, going back and forth like a fan at Wimbledon.

"You're right."

"What about Buckle Boy?"

He indicated the envelope in my hand. "Desjardins was a large man before his illness."

I shook out the photos and Claudel circled the desk so we could view them together.

Large was an understatement. The partially headless form I'd seen in the chair was a feeble reminder of the body that once had housed Cherokee Desjardins. Before cancer had parched his innards, and drugs and chemo had done their magic, the man had been ma.s.sive, though in a spongy, gut-bulging sort of way.

The file photos spanned a period of years. Beards came and went and the hairline crept backward, but the belly and facial features changed little.

Until the cancer struck.

Six months before his death Cherokee was a shadow of his former self, bald and death-camp thin. Had the picture been unlabeled, I would not have recognized the subject as the same man.

As I studied the face from shot to shot I remembered an old Brando quote. I have eyes like those of dead pig, the aging actor had said of himself.

Not to worry, Marlon. They served you well. This guy looked merely baleful, and mean as a pack dog with a stolen flank steak.

But try as we might we could not determine for sure if our late but unlamented Cherokee was the one wearing the buckle at Myrtle Beach.

30.

I GATHERED THE GATHERED THE C CHEROKEE PHOTOS, AND WE MOVED DOWN THE hall to a section labeled Imagerie. We'd decided that I would manipulate the image using Adobe Photoshop, since I was familiar with the program. Should that prove inadequate, a technician would help us with more sophisticated graphics software. hall to a section labeled Imagerie. We'd decided that I would manipulate the image using Adobe Photoshop, since I was familiar with the program. Should that prove inadequate, a technician would help us with more sophisticated graphics software.

We were expected, and the equipment was immediately available. The technician clicked on the scanner, keyed the computer to the proper program, then left us to our task.

I placed the snapshot on the flatbed scanner, cropped to include the full scene, then digitized the image and saved it to the hard drive. Then I opened the file to the Myrtle Beach picnic.

I clicked on Buckle Boy's face and zoomed in until his features filled the screen. Then I cleaned up the "noise" of dust and cracks, modified the curves that control the contribution of red, green, and blue tones, adjusted the brightness and contrast, and sharpened the edges of the image.

Claudel watched as I worked the keys, silent at first, then making suggestions as his interest grew, despite his initial cynicism. Each correction morphed the highlights, shadows, and midtones, mutating the curves and planes of the face, and bringing out detail invisible in the original shot.

In less than an hour we sat back and studied our work. There could be no doubt. Buckle Boy was, in fact, Yves "Cherokee" Desjardins.

But what did that mean?

Claudel spoke first.

"So Cherokee knew the Osprey girl."

"Looks that way," I agreed.

"And Dorsey killed him." Claudel was thinking aloud. "What do you suppose Dorsey had to trade?"

"Maybe Cherokee killed Savannah and Dorsey knew that."

"Could she have traveled up here with him?" Again, it was verbalized thought, not conversation.

I pictured the puzzled little face, the wide eyes taking in the world through clock-face lenses. I shook my head.

"Not voluntarily."

"He could have killed her in Myrtle Beach then displaced the body to Quebec." This time he was addressing me.

"Why transport it all that way?"

"Less chance of discovery."

"Does that sound typical of these guys?"

"No." Behind his eyes I could see confusion. And anger.

"And where's the rest of her?" I pressed.

"Perhaps he cut off her head."

"And legs?"

"This is not a question for me." He flicked at an invisible speck on his sleeve, then straightened his tie.

"And how did she end up buried near Gately and Martineau?"

Claudel did not answer.

"And whose skeleton did they find in Myrtle Beach?"

"That's one for your SBI friends."

Since Claudel seemed willing to talk for once, I decided to up the ante. I switched direction.

"Maybe Cherokee's murder wasn't a revenge killing at all."

"I'm not clear where you're going."

"Maybe it was connected to the discovery of Savannah's grave."

"Maybe." He checked his watch, then stood. "And maybe I'll be invited to join the Dixie Chicks. But until then I had better collar some bad guys."

What was it with the pop music references?

When he'd gone I saved the original and modified versions of the Myrtle Beach snapshot to a compact disc. Then I scanned and added selections from Kate's collection, thinking maybe I'd play with the images at home.

Back in my office I called the DNA section, knowing the answer but unable to bear the thought of another stroll through a biker-happy alb.u.m.

I was right. Gagne was sorry, but the tests I'd requested had not been completed. An '84 case could not be given high priority, but they hoped to get to it soon.

Fair enough. You jumped the eyeball to the front of the line.

I hung up and reached for my lab coat. At least the slides should be ready.

I found Denis logging cases into the computer in the histology lab. I waited as he read the label on a plastic jar in which chunks of heart, kidney, spleen, lung, and other organs floated in formaldehyde. He made a few keystrokes, then returned the container to the collection on the cart.

When I made my request he went to his desk and brought me a small white plastic box. I thanked him and took it to the microscope in my lab.

Denis had prepared slides from the bone samples I'd brought from Raleigh. I placed a tibial section under the lens, adjusted the light, and squinted through the eyepiece. Two hours later I had my answer.

The samples I'd taken from the tibiae and fibulae in Kate's unidentified skeleton were indistinguishable histologically from those I'd cut from Savannah's femora. And each thin section yielded an estimate consistent with Savannah's age at the time of her disappearance.

Consistent. The favorite word of the expert witness.

Can you state with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that the bones recovered in Myrtle Beach belong to Savannah Claire Osprey?

No, I cannot.

I see. Can you state that the bones recovered in Myrtle Beach come from an individual of exactly the same age as Savannah Claire Osprey?

No, I cannot.

I see. What can you tell this court, Dr. Brennan?

The bones recovered in Myrtle Beach are consistent in histological age and microstructure with other bones identified as belonging to Savannah Claire Osprey.

I clicked off the light and placed the plastic hood over the scope.

It was a start.

After a lunch of vegetarian pizza and a Mr. Big ice cream bar, I reported to Carcajou headquarters. Morin had completed his autopsy and was releasing Dorsey's body. Jacques Roy had called a meeting to discuss security measures for the funeral, and had requested my presence.

Dorsey's roots were in a neighborhood just southeast of Centre-ville, an area of narrow streets and narrower alleys, of crowded flats trimmed with steep stairs and tiny balconies. To the west lies the Main, to the east Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, site of some of the fiercest battles in the current gang war. The district boasts the highest rate of car theft in the city. Unlike most in Montreal, it has no name.

But it has notoriety. The quarter is the heartland of the Rock Machine, and it is home to the Surete du Quebec. I often gaze onto its streets, its playgrounds, its riverfront, its bridge, for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale sits at its core.

Dorsey's funeral was to take place not six blocks from our door. Given that, and the fact that the streets would be crawling with local hoods, the police were taking no chances.

Roy used a map of the island to explain the deployment of personnel. The service was to begin at 8 A.M. A.M. Friday at the family parish at Fullum and Lariviere. Following Ma.s.s, the cortege would move north on Fullum to avenue Mont-Royal, then proceed west and up the mountain to the Cimetiere de Notre-Dame-des-Neiges. Friday at the family parish at Fullum and Lariviere. Following Ma.s.s, the cortege would move north on Fullum to avenue Mont-Royal, then proceed west and up the mountain to the Cimetiere de Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.

Roy outlined the positioning of barricades, cruisers, foot patrolmen, and surveillance personnel, and described the procedures to be followed for the event. The area around the church would be under tight security, side streets blocked at their intersections with Mont-Royal during the funeral procession. The entourage would be limited to the eastbound lanes of Mont-Royal and surrounded by a police escort. Security at the cemetery would also be maximal.

All leaves were canceled. Everyone would report for work on Friday.

The slide show opened to a chorus of "Sacre bleu!" "Sacre bleu!" and and "Tabernac!" "Tabernac!" but the complaints petered out as the screen filled with scenes of funerals past. Frame by frame we observed the cast of characters, smoking on church steps, riding in columns behind flower-laden hea.r.s.es, cl.u.s.tered at gravesides. but the complaints petered out as the screen filled with scenes of funerals past. Frame by frame we observed the cast of characters, smoking on church steps, riding in columns behind flower-laden hea.r.s.es, cl.u.s.tered at gravesides.

The faces around me shifted from rose to blue to yellow as each new slide dropped into place. The projector hummed and Roy droned on, giving the date and location of each event, and pointing out the relevant players.

The room was warm, and a good portion of my blood had deserted my brain to work on the Mr. Big. After a while I felt myself yielding to the monotony. My upper lids reached for my lower, and the weight of my head approached the carrying capacity of my neck muscles. I began to nod off.

Then the projector clicked again and I was wide awake.

The screen showed bikers at a police road check. Some straddled Harleys, others had dismounted and were milling about. Though all wore the skull and winged helmet of the h.e.l.ls Angels, I could read only two bottom rockers. One said Durham Durham, the other Lexington Lexington. The words Metro Police Metro Police were visible on a yellow van in the background, but the rest of the identifier was blocked by a bearded figure photographing the photographer. At his side, Cherokee Desjardins stared insolently into the lens. were visible on a yellow van in the background, but the rest of the identifier was blocked by a bearded figure photographing the photographer. At his side, Cherokee Desjardins stared insolently into the lens.

"Where was that taken?" I asked Roy.