Authors: Kathy Reichs
They laughed simultaneously, with the throaty sound men seem to share when enjoying a joke at the expense of women. Claudel looked at his watch.
You’re being paranoid, Brennan, I told myself. Get a grip. I cleared my throat and began weaving my way through the labyrinth of desks. The trio fell silent and turned in my direction. Recognizing me, the SQ detectives smiled and rose. Claudel did not. Making no attempt to mask his disapproval, he flexed and lowered his feet, and resumed his tassle inspection, abandoning it only to consult his watch.
“Dr. Brennan. How are you?” Ryan asked, switching to English and extending his hand in my direction. “You been home lately?”
“Not for several months.” His grip was firm.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you pack an AK-47 when you go out down there?”
“No, we keep those mostly for home use. Mounted.”
I was used to their quips about American violence.
“They got indoor toilets down there yet?” asked Bertrand. His topic of choice was the South.
“In some of the bigger hotels,” I responded.
Of the three men, only Ryan looked embarrassed.
Andrew Ryan was an unlikely candidate for an SQ homicide detective. Born in Nova Scotia, he was the only son of Irish parents. Both were physicians who trained in London, arriving in Canada with En-glish as their sole language. They expected their son to follow into the professional ranks, and, having chafed under the confines of their own unilingualism, vowed to ensure his fluency in French.
It was during his junior year at St. Francis Xavier that things began to go bad. Enticed by the thrill of life on the edge, Ryan got into trouble with booze and pills. Eventually, he was spending little time on campus, preferring the dark, stale beer-smelling haunts of dopers and drunks. He became known to the local police, his benders frequently concluding on the floor of a cell, his finales played facedown in vomit. He ended up one night in St. Martha’s Hospital, a cokehead’s blade having pierced his neck, nearly severing his carotid artery.
As with a born-again Christian, his conversion was swift and total. Still drawn to life in the underbelly, Ryan merely changed sides. He finished his undergraduate studies in criminology, applied for and got a job with the SQ, eventually rising to the rank of detective lieutenant.
His time on the streets served him well. Though usually polite and soft-spoken, Ryan had the reputation of a brawler who could take the lowlifes on their own terms and match them trick for trick. I’d never worked with him. All this had come to me through the squad room grapevine. I’d never heard a negative comment about Andrew Ryan.
“What are you doing here today?” he asked. He swept his long arm toward the window. “You should be out enjoying the party.”
I could see a thin scar winding out of his collar and up the side of his neck. It looked smooth and shiny, like a latex snake.
“Lousy social life, I guess. And I don’t know what else to do when the stores are closed.”
I said it brushing bangs back from my forehead. I remembered my gym gear, and felt a bit intimidated by their impeccable tailoring. The three of them looked like an ad for GQ.
Bertrand came from behind his desk, and extended his hand, nodding and smiling. I shook it. Claudel continued not to look at me. I needed him here like I needed a yeast infection.
“I wondered if I could take a look at a file from last year. Chantale Trottier. She was killed in October of ‘93. The body was found in St. Jerome.”
Bertrand snapped his fingers into a pointing gesture, which he aimed at me.
“Yes. I remember that one. The kid in the dump. We still haven’t nailed the bastard that did that one.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Claudel’s eyes go to Ryan. Though the movement was almost imperceptible, it triggered my curiosity. I doubted Claudel was there on a social call, was certain they’d talked about yesterday’s murder. I wondered if they’d discussed Trottier or Gagnon.
“Sure,” said Ryan, his face smiling but impassive. “Whatever you need. You think there’s something in there we missed?”
He reached for a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Placing it in his mouth, he extended the pack toward me. I shook my head.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of cases upstairs I’m working on, and they keep making me think of Trottier. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I’d just like to go over the scene photos and maybe the incident report.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said, blowing a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. If he knew any of my cases were also Claudel’s, he didn’t let on. “Sometimes you just have to follow a hunch. What do you think you’ve got?”
“She thinks there’s a psychopath out there responsible for every murder since Cock Robin.”
Claudel’s voice was flat, and I saw that his eyes were back on the tassles. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. It seemed to me that he did not try to disguise his contempt. I turned away and ignored him.
Ryan smiled at Claudel. “Come on, Luc, ease back, it never hurts to take another look. We sure aren’t setting any speed records clipping this worm.”
Claudel snorted and shook his head. Again he consulted his watch.
Then, to me, “What’ve you got?”
Before I could answer the door flew open and Michel Charbonneau burst into the far end of the room. He jogged toward us, weaving through the desks and waving a paper in his left hand.
“We’ve got him,” he said. “We’ve got the sonofabitch.” His face was red and he was breathing hard.
“About time,” said Claudel. “Let’s see.” He addressed Charbonneau as one would a delivery boy, his impatience obliterating any pretense of courtesy.
Charbonneau’s brow furrowed, but he handed the paper to Claudel. The three men huddled, their heads bent close, like a team consulting the playbook. Charbonneau spoke to their backs.
“The dumb fucker used her bank card an hour after he iced her. Apparently he hadn’t had enough fun for the day, so he went to the corner dépanneur to score some change. Only this place don’t cater to the quiche and Brie crowd, so they’ve got a video camera pointed at the money machine. Ident hammered the transaction and,
voilà
, we’ve got us a Kodak moment.”
He nodded at the photocopy.
“He’s a real beauty, eh? I took it by there this morning, but the night clerk didn’t know the guy’s name. Thought he recognized the face. Suggested we talk to the guy comes in after nine. Apparently our boy’s a regular.”
“Holy shit,” said Bertrand.
Ryan just stared at the picture, his tall, lean frame hunched over that of his shorter partner.
“So this is the cocksucker,” said Claudel, scrutinizing the image in his hand. “Let’s get this asshole.”
“I’d like to ride along.”
They’d forgotten I was there. All four turned toward me, the SQ detectives half amused and curious as to what would happen next.
“
C’est impossible
,” said Claudel, the only one now using French. His jaw muscles bunched and his face went taut. There was no smile in his eyes.
Showdown.
“Sergeant Detective Claudel,” I began, returning his French and choosing my words carefully. “I believe I see significant similarities in several homicide victims whom I have been asked to examine. If this is so, there may be one individual, a psychopath as you call him, behind all of their deaths. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. Do you really want to assume responsibility for ignoring the possibility and risking the lives of more innocent victims?”
I was polite but unyielding. I, too, was unamused.
“Oh hell, Luc, let her ride along,” said Charbonneau. “We’re just going to do some interviews.”
“Go on, this guy’s going down whether you cut her in or not,” said Ryan.
Claudel said nothing. He took out his keys, stuffed the photo into his pocket, and brushed past me on his way to the door.
“Let’s boogie,” said Charbonneau.
I had a hunch yet another day might go into overtime.
G
ETTING THERE WAS NO SMALL TASK
. A
S
C
HARBONNEAU FOUGHT
his way west along De Maisonneuve, I sat in the back, gazing out the window and ignoring the bursts of static that erupted from the radio. The afternoon was sweltering. As we inched along, I watched heat rise from the pavement in undulating waves.
Montreal was preening itself with patriotic fervor. The fleur-de-lis was everywhere, hung from windows and balconies, worn on T-shirts, hats, and boxer shorts, painted on faces, and waved on flags and placards. From Centre-ville eastward to the Main, sweaty revelers clogged the streets, choking off traffic like plaque in an artery. Thousands of people filled the streets, ebbing and flowing in streams of blue and white. Though seemingly without orientation, the throng oozed generally northward, toward Sherbrooke and the parade, punks moving next to mothers with strollers. The marchers and floats had left St. Urbain at 2
P.M
., twirling and high-stepping eastward along Sherbrooke. At that moment they were just above us.
Over the hum of the air conditioner I could hear a lot of laughter and sporadic bursts of song. Already there was some fighting. As we waited out the light at Amherst, I watched a lummox push his girlfriend against a wall. He had hair the color of unbrushed teeth, burred on top and long in the back. His chicken-white skin was moving toward grenadine. We pulled away before the scene could play itself out, leaving me with an image of the girl’s startled face superimposed on the breasts of a naked woman. Eyes squinting and mouth in an O, she was framed by a poster for a Tamara de Lempicka exposition at the Musée des Beaux Arts. “
Une femme libre
,” it whooped. “A free woman.” Another of life’s ironies. I took some satisfaction in knowing the oaf wouldn’t have a good night. He might even blister.
Charbonneau turned to Claudel. “Lemme see that picture a minute.”
Claudel pulled it from his pocket. Charbonneau studied it, shifting his eyes from the traffic to the photo in his hand.
“He sure don’t look like much, does he?” he said to no one in particular. Wordlessly he extended the picture to me over the seat back.
What I held was a black-and-white print, a blowup of a single frame taken from high up and to the subject’s right. It showed a blurred male figure with face averted, concentrating on the task of inserting or retracting a card at an automatic teller machine.
His hair was short and wispy in front, splayed downward into a fringe on his forehead. The top of his head was almost bare, and he had combed as many long strands as possible from left to right in an attempt to hide his baldness. My favorite male “do.” About as attractive as a Speedo bathing suit.
His eyes were shielded by bushy brows, and his ears flared out like petals on a pansy. His skin looked deathly pale. He wore a plaid shirt and what looked like work pants. The graininess and poor angle obscured any other details. I had to agree with Charbonneau. He didn’t look like much. It could have been anyone. Silently, I handed the photo back.
Dépanneurs are the convenience stores of Quebec. They are found anywhere shelves and a refrigerator can be packed into a covered space. Scattered throughout the city, dépanneurs survive by providing grocery, dairy, and alcohol essentials. They dot every neighborhood, forming a capillary bed that feeds the needs of locals and foot travelers. They can be counted on for milk, cigarettes, beer, and cheap wine, the remainder of their inventory determined by neighborhood preferences. They provide no glitz and no parking. The upscale version may have a bank machine. It was to one such that we were heading.
“Rue Berger?” Charbonneau asked Claudel.
“
Oui
. It runs south from Ste. Catherine. Take René Lévesque to St. Dominique then go back north. That’s a snakepit of one-ways in there.”
Charbonneau turned left and began creeping south. In his impatience he kept goosing the gas then tapping the brake, causing the Chevy to lurch like a Ferris wheel seat. Feeling a bit seasick, I focused on the action at the boutiques, bistros, and modern brick buildings of L’Université du Québec, which lined St. Denis.
“
Sacré bleu!
”
“
Ca-lice!
” said Charbonneau as a dark green Toyota station wagon cut him off.
“Bastard,” he added as he hit the brake then shot up to its bumper. “Look at that oily little freak.”
Claudel ignored him, apparently used to his partner’s erratic driving. I thought of Dramamine, but held my tongue.
Eventually we reached René Lévesque and turned west, then cut north onto St. Dominique. We doubled back at Ste. Catherine and, once again, I found myself in the Main, less than one block from Gabby’s girls. Berger is one of a small checkerboard of side streets sandwiched between St. Laurent and St. Denis. It lay directly ahead.
Charbonneau turned the corner and slid to the curb in front of the Dépanneur Berger. A dingy sign above its door promised “
bière et vin
.” Sun-bleached ads for Molson and Labatt covered the windows, the tape yellowed and peeling with age. Rows of dead flies lined the sill below, their bodies stratified according to season of death. Iron bars safeguarded the glass. Two geezers sat on kitchen chairs outside the door.
“Guy’s name is Halevi,” said Charbonneau, consulting his notebook. “He probably won’t have much to say.”
“They never do. His memory may improve if we sweat him a little,” said Claudel, slamming the car door.
The geezers watched us silently.
A string of brass bells jangled as we entered. The interior was hot and smelled of dust and spices and old cardboard. Two rows of back-to-back shelves ran the length of the store, forming one center and two side aisles. The dusty shelves held an assortment of aging canned and packaged goods.
On the far right a horizontal refrigerator case held vats of nuts, dal, dried peas, and flour. An assembly of limp vegetables lay in its far end. Something from another era, the case no longer refrigerated.
Upright coolers with wine and beer lined the left wall. In the rear, a small, open case, draped with plastic to conserve the cold, held milk, olives, and feta cheese. To its right, in the far corner, was the bank machine. Except for this, the place looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since Alaska applied for U.S. statehood.