Déjà Dead (18 page)

“Adkins.”

The third went in the upper-left corner, near a broad expanse of river known as Lac des Deux-Montagnes.

“Trottier.”

The island of Montreal is shaped like a foot with its ankle dipping in from the northwest, its heel to the south, and its toes pointing northeast. Two pins marked the foot, just above the sole, one in the heel of Centre-ville, another to the east, halfway up the toes. The third lay up the ankle, on the far western end of the island. There was no apparent pattern.

“St. Jacques marked this one and this one,” I said, pointing to one of the downtown pins, then to the one on the east end.

I searched the south shore, following the Victoria Bridge across to St. Lambert, then dropping south. Finding the street names I’d seen on Friday, I took a fourth pin and pushed it in on the far side of the river, just below the arch of the foot. The scatter made even less sense. Ryan looked at me quizzically.

“That was his third X.”

“What’s there?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Hell if I know. Could be his dead dog Spike.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, we’ve got this . . .”

“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to find out?”

He looked at me for a long time before he answered. His eyes were neon blue, and I was mildly surprised that I’d never noticed them before. He shook his head.

“It just doesn’t feel right. It isn’t enough. Right now your serial killer idea’s got more holes than the Trans-Canada. Fill them in. Get me something else, or get Claudel to do a request for an SQ search. So far, this isn’t our baby.”

Bertrand was signaling to him, pointing at his watch, then hitching his thumb at the door. Ryan looked at his partner, nodded, then turned the neon back on me.

I said nothing. My eyes roved over his face, rummaging for a sign of encouragement. If it was there, I couldn’t find it.

“Gotta go. Just leave the file on my desk when you’re done.”

“Right.”

“And . . . Uh . . . Keep your head up.”

“What?”

“I heard what you found in there. This prick could be more than just your average dirtbag.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a card, and wrote something on it. “You can get me at this number just about any time. Call if you need help.”

Ten minutes later I was sitting at my desk, frustrated and antsy. I was trying to concentrate on other things, but having little success. Every time a phone rang in an office along the corridor, I reached for mine, willing it to be Claudel or Charbonneau. At ten-fifteen I called again.

A voice said, “Hold, please.” Then.

“Claudel.”

“It’s Dr. Brennan,” I said.

The silence was deep enough to scuba.

“
Oui
.”

“Did you get my messages?”

“
Oui
.”

I could tell he was going to be as forthcoming as a bootlegger at a tax audit.

“I wondered what you dug up on St. Jacques?”

He gave a snort. “Yeah, St. Jacques. Right.”

Though I felt like reaching across the line to rip out his tongue, I decided the situation called for tact, rule number one in the care and handling of arrogant detectives.

“You don’t think that’s his real name?”

“If that’s his real name, I’m Margaret Thatcher.”

“So, where are you?”

There was another pause, and I could see him turning his face to the ceiling, deciding how best to rid himself of me.

“I’ll tell you where we are, we’re nowhere. We didn’t get piss all. No dripping weapons. No home movies. No rambling confession notes. No souvenir body parts. Zip.”

“Prints?”

“None usable.”

“Personal effects?”

“The guy’s taste falls somewhere between severe and stark. No decorative touches. No personal effects. No clothes. Oh yeah, one sweatshirt and an old rubber glove. A dirty blanket. That’s it.”

“Why the glove?”

“Maybe he worried about his nails.”

“What
do
you have?”

“You saw it. His collection of Miss Show Me Your Twangie shots, the map, the newspapers, the clippings, the list. Oh, and some Franco-American spaghetti.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing.”

“No toiletries? Drugstore items?”

“
Nada
.”

I picked through that for a moment.

“Doesn’t sound like he really lives there.”

“If he does, he’s the filthiest sonofabitch you’ll ever meet. He doesn’t brush his teeth or shave. No soap. No shampoo. No floss.”

I gave that some thought.

“How do you read it?”

“Could be the little freak just uses the place as a hidey-hole for his true crime and porno hobby. Maybe his old lady doesn’t like his taste in art. Maybe she doesn’t let him jack off at home. How should I know?”

“What about the list.”

“We’re checking out the names and addresses.”

“Any in St. Lambert?”

Another pause.

“No.”

“Any more information on how he might have gotten Margaret Adkins’s bank card?”

This time the pause was longer, more palpably hostile.

“Dr. Brennan, why don’t you stick to what you do and let us catch the killers?”

“Is he?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“What?”

“A killer?”

I found myself listening to a dial tone.

I spent what was left of the morning estimating the age, sex, and height of an individual from a single ulna. The bone was found by children digging a fort near Pointe-aux-Trembles, and probably came from an old cemetery.

At twelve-fifteen I went upstairs for a Diet Coke. I brought it back to my office, closed the door, and took out my sandwich and peach. Swiveling to face the river, I encouraged my thoughts to wander. They didn’t. Like a Patriot missile, they homed in on Claudel.

He still rejected the idea of a serial killer. Could he be right? Could the similarities be coincidental? Could I be manufacturing associations that weren’t there? Could St. Jacques merely have a grotesque interest in violence? Of course. Movie producers and publishing houses make millions off the same theme. Maybe he wasn’t a killer himself, maybe he just charted the murders or played some kind of voyeuristic tracking game. Maybe he found Margaret Adkins’s bank card. Maybe he stole it before her death and she hadn’t yet missed it. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

No. It didn’t tally. If not St. Jacques, there was someone out there responsible for several of these deaths. At least some of the murders were linked. I didn’t want to wait for another butchered body to prove me right.

What would it take to convince Claudel I wasn’t a dimwit with an overactive imagination? He resented my involvement in his territory, thought I was overstepping my bounds. He’d told me to stick to what I do. And Ryan. What had he said? Potholes. Not enough. Find stronger evidence of a link.

“All right, Claudel, you sonofabitch, that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

I said it aloud, snapping my chair into full upright position and tossing my peach pit into the wastebasket.

So.

What do I do?

I dig up bodies. I look at bones.

I
N THE HISTOLOGY LAB
I
ASKED
D
ENIS TO PULL OUT CASES
25906-93 and 26704-94. I cleared the table to the right of the operating scope and placed my clipboard and pen. I took out two tubes of vinyl polysiloxane and positioned them, along with a small spatula, a tablet of coated papers, and a digital caliper accurate to .0001 inch.

Denis placed two cardboard boxes on the end of the table, one large and one small, each sealed and carefully labeled. I eased the lid from the larger box, selected portions of Isabelle Gagnon’s skeleton, and laid them out on the right half of the table.

Next I opened the smaller box. Though Chantale Trottier’s body had been returned to her family for burial, segments of bone had been retained as evidence, a standard procedure in homicide cases involving skeletal injury or mutilation.

I removed sixteen Ziploc bags and put them on the left side of the table. Each was marked as to body part and side. Right wrist. Left wrist. Right knee. Left knee. Cervical vertebrae. Thoracic and lumbar vertebrae. I emptied each bag and arranged the contents in anatomical order. The two segments of femur went next to their corresponding portions of tibia and fibula to form the knee joints. Each wrist was represented by six inches of radius and ulna. The ends of the bones sawed at autopsy were clearly notched. I would not confuse these cuts with those made by the killer.

I pulled the mixing pad toward me, opened one of the tubes, and squeezed a bright blue ribbon of dental impression material onto the top sheet. Next to it I squirted a white ribbon from the second tube. Selecting one of Trottier’s arm bones, I placed it in front of me and picked up the spatula. Working quickly, I mixed the blue catalyst and the white base, kneading and scraping the two squiggles into a homogenous goo. I scraped the compound into a plastic syringe, then squeezed it out like cake decoration, carefully covering the joint surface.

I laid the first bone down, cleaned the spatula and syringe, tore off the used sheet, and began the process anew with another bone. As each mold hardened I removed it, marked it as to case number, anatomical site, side, and date, and placed it next to the bone on which it had been formed. I repeated the procedure until a rubbery blue mold sat next to each of the bones in front of me. It took over two hours.

Next I turned to the microscope. I set the magnification and adjusted the fiber-optic light to angle across the viewing plate. Starting with Isabelle Gagnon’s right femur I began a meticulous examination of each of the small nicks and scratches I had just cast.

The cut marks seemed to be of two types. Each arm bone had a series of trench-like troughs lying parallel to its joint surfaces. The walls of the troughs were straight and dropped to meet their floors at ninety-degree angles. Most of the trench-like cuts were less than a quarter of an inch in length and averaged five hundredths of an inch across. The leg bones were circled by similar grooves.

Other marks were V-shaped, narrower, and lacked the squared-off walls and floors of the trench-like grooves. The V-shaped cuts lay parallel to the trenches on the ends of the long bones, but were unaccompanied in the hip sockets and on the vertebrae.

I diagrammed the position of each mark, and recorded its length, width, and, in the case of the trenches, depth. Next I observed each trench and its corresponding mold from above and in cross-section. The molds allowed me to see minute features not readily apparent when viewing the trenches directly. Tiny bumps, grooves, and scratches marking the walls and floors appeared as three-dimensional negatives. It was like viewing a relief map, the islands, terraces, and synclines of each trench replicated in bright blue plastic.

The limbs had been separated at the joints, leaving the long bones intact. With one exception. The bones of the lower arms had been severed just above the wrists. Turning to the bisected ends of the radius and ulna, I noted the presence and position of breakaway spurs, and analyzed the cross-sectional surface of each cut. When I’d finished with Gagnon, I repeated the whole process for Trottier.

At some point Denis asked if he could lock something up, and I agreed, paying no attention to his question. I didn’t notice the lab grow quiet.

“What are you still doing here?”

I almost dropped the vertebra I was removing from the microscope.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan! Don’t do that!”

“Don’t go bughouse, I just saw the light and thought I’d drop in to see if Denis was putting in overtime slicing up something entertaining.”

“What time is it?” I gathered the other cervical vertebrae and placed them in their bag.

Andrew Ryan looked at his watch. “Five-forty.” He watched me lift the bags into the smaller cardboard box and set the cover on top.

“Find anything useful?”

“Yup.”

I tapped the cover into place and picked up Isabelle Gagnon’s pelvic bones.

“Claudel doesn’t put much stock in this cut-mark business.”

It was precisely the wrong thing to say. I put the pelvic bones in the larger box.

“He thinks a saw’s a saw.”

I laid the two scapulae in the box and reached for the arm bones.

“What do you think?”

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“You are of the carpentry and grout gender. What do you know about saws?” I continued laying bones in the box.

“They cut things.”

“Good. What things?”

“Wood. Shrubbery. Metal.” He paused. “Bone.”

“How?”

“How?”

“How.”

He thought a minute. “With teeth. The teeth go back and forth and cut through the material.”

“What about radial saws?”

“Oh well, they go around.”

“Do they slice through the material or chisel through it?

“What do you mean?”

“Are the teeth sharp on the edge or flat? Do they cut the material or rip their way through it?”

“Oh.”

“And do they cut when they go back or when they go forth?”

“What do you mean?”