Deja Dead Part 12

"Holy f.u.c.k," breathed Charbonneau, as he grasped the theme of the stories.

"Doesn't mean he's Charlie Manson," scoffed Claudel.

"No. He's probably working on his senior thesis."

For the first time I thought I detected a note of annoyance in Charbonneau's voice.

"The guy could have delusions of grandeur," Claudel went on. "Maybe he watched the Menendez brothers and thought they were keen. Maybe he thinks he's Dudley DoRight and wants to fight evil. Maybe he's practicing his French and finds this more interesting than Tin Tin. How the f.u.c.k do I know? But it doesn't make him Jack the Ripper." He glanced toward the door. "Where the h.e.l.l is recovery?"

Sonofab.i.t.c.h, I thought, but held my tongue.

Charbonneau and I turned our attention to the desktop. A stack of newspapers leaned against the wall. Charbonneau used his pen to rifle through them, lifting the edges then allowing the sections to drop back into place. The stack contained only want ads, most from La Presse La Presse and the and the Gazette Gazette.

"Maybe the toad was looking for a job," said Claudel sardonically. "Thought he'd use Boden as a reference."

"What was that underneath?" I'd seen a flash of yellow as the bottom section was lifted briefly.

Charbonneau nudged the pen under the last section in the pile and levered it upward, tipping the stack toward the wall. A yellow tablet lay under it. I wondered briefly if pen manipulation was required training for detectives. He allowed the newspapers to drop back to the desktop, slid the pen to the back of the stack, and pushed at the tablet, sliding it forward and into view.

It was a lined yellow pad, the type favored by attorneys. We could see that the top page was partially filled with writing. Bracing the stack with the back of his hand, Charbonneau teased the tablet out and slid it into full view.

The impact of the serial killer stories was nothing compared to the jolt I felt on seeing what was scrawled there. The fear that I'd kept down deep in its lair lunged out and grabbed me in its teeth.

Isabelle Gagnon. Margaret Adkins. Their names leapt out at me. They were part of a list of seven that ran along the bound edge of the tablet. Beside each, running sideways across the page, was a series of columns separated by vertical lines. It looked like a crude spreadsheet containing personal data on each of the individuals listed. It did not look unlike my own spreadsheet, except I didn't recognize the other five names.

The first column listed addresses, the second phone numbers. The next held brief notations on the residence. Apt. w/ outsd. entr., condo, 1st flr.; house w/ yd. The next column contained sets of letters behind some names, for others it was blank. I looked at the Adkins entry. Hu. So. The combinations looked familiar. I closed my eyes and ran a key word search. Kinship charts.

"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 f.a.g," 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 s.p.a.ces were filled with dates and times.

"Jesus H. Christ, he stalked them. He picked them out and tracked them like G.o.dd.a.m.n quail or something," exploded Charbonneau.

Claudel said nothing.

"This sick sonofab.i.t.c.h 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?"

"s.h.i.t."

"Where the f.u.c.k 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 c.u.m and surrounding areas. The pink munic.i.p.alities 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 inst.i.tutions, 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 At.w.a.ter, just outside the orange polygon demarcating Le Grand Seminaire. 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 f.u.c.k 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 G.o.d. 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 bas.e.m.e.nt, too."

"Oui." Save for the inflection, dropping then rising, it sounded more like a question than an a.s.sent. Whyyyy? 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 sungla.s.ses. In his gloved hand he held the photo which had appeared in Le Journal Le Journal that morning. 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.

12.

ISLEPT A LOT OF THE WEEKEND. SAt.u.r.dAY MORNING I I HAD TRIED 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 creme brulee, 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. 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 creme brulee, 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 c.u.m 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 cla.s.s. 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 a.s.sumed the story had spread by now. I was right.

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

"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. "d.i.c.khead had clippings on all kinds of weird s.h.i.t. 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 gla.s.ses blinked as his head moved up and down.

"Um. Hum. Two." Lick. "d.a.m.nedest 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 a.s.s 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.