Authors: Kathy Reichs
Pause. “Not common, but sometimes.”
“So what do you think about the Métro and want ad idea?”
“The fantasies these guys act out can be incredibly elaborate and very specific. Some need special locations, exact sequences of events. Some sexual sadists need specific victim responses, so they script the whole thing, force the victim to say certain things, perform certain acts, wear certain clothes. But, Tempe, these behaviors aren’t just typical of sexual sadists. They characterize a lot of personality disorders. Don’t get hung up on the sexual sadist angle. What you want to look for is that signature, that calling card that only your killer leaves. That’s how you’ll nail him, regardless of how psychiatrists classify him. Using the Métro and newspaper could figure into your boy’s fantasy.”
“J.S., based on what I’ve told you, what do you think?”
There was a long pause, a slow expulsion of breath.
“I think you’ve got a real nasty one up there, Tempe. Tremendous anger. Extreme violence. If it is this St. Jacques character, his using the victim’s bank card bothers me. Either he’s incredibly stupid, and it doesn’t look that way, or he’s getting sloppy for some reason. Maybe sudden financial pressure. Or he’s getting bolder. The skull in your garden is a flag. He was sending a message. Maybe a taunt. Or, it’s possible that at some level he wants to be caught. I don’t like what you’re telling me about how you figure in. And it looks like you
do
figure in. The picture. The skull. Based on what you’ve told me, looks more like he’s taunting you.”
I told him about the night at the monastery and the car that had tailed me.
“Christ, Tempe, if this guy’s refocusing on you, don’t play games. He’s dangerous.”
“J.S., if it was him on the monastery grounds, why didn’t he just kill me then?”
“It goes back to what I was saying before. You probably surprised him out there, so he wasn’t prepared to kill in the way he likes. He wasn’t in control. Maybe he didn’t have his kit. Maybe the fact that you were unconscious robbed him of the rush he gets at seeing his victim’s fear.”
“No death ritual.”
“Exactly.”
We chatted for a while, other places, old friends, the time before murder became part of our lives. When we hung up it was after eight.
I leaned back, stretched my arms and legs, and went limp. For some time I lay there, a rag doll recalling its past. Eventually, hunger roused me, and I went to the kitchen, warmed a tray of frozen lasagna and forced myself to eat it. Then I spent an hour reconstructing from my notes what J.S. had said. His parting words kept coming back to me.
“The intervals are getting shorter.”
Yes, I knew that.
“He’s upping the stakes.”
I knew that too.
“He may now have his sights trained on you.”
At ten I went to bed. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, feeling alone and sorry for myself. Why did I carry the burden of these women’s deaths? Did someone have me in the crosshairs of his psychopathic fantasy? Why wouldn’t anyone take me seriously? Why was I getting old, eating frozen dinners in front of a television I didn’t watch? When Birdie nestled at my knee, that tiny bit of contact triggered the tears I’d been holding back since talking to J.S. I cried into the pillowcase Pete and I had bought in Charlotte. Or, rather, I had bought while he stood around looking impatient.
Why had my marriage failed? Why was I sleeping alone? Why was Katy so discontented? Why had my best friend been inconsiderate of me again? Where was she? No. I wouldn’t think about that. I don’t know how long I lay there, feeling the emptiness of my life, listening for Gabby’s key.
T
HE NEXT MORNING
I
GAVE
R
YAN A SUMMARY OF MY DISCUSSION
with J.S. A week crept by. Nothing.
The weather stayed hot. Days, I worked through bones. Remains found in a septic tank in Cancún had been a tourist missing for nine years. Bones scavenged by dogs had been a teenage girl before homicide by a blunt instrument. A cadaver in a box, hands severed, face mutilated beyond recognition, revealed only that it had been a white male, skeletal age thirty-five to forty.
Nights, I visited the jazz festival, milling with the sticky crowds that clogged Ste. Catherine and Jeanne-Mance. I heard Peruvians, their music a blend of woodwind and rain forest. I wandered from Place des Arts to Complexe Desjardins, enjoying the saxophones and guitars and summer nights. Dixieland. Fusion. R&B. Calypso. I willed myself not to look for Gabby. I refused to fear for the women about me. I listened to the music of Senegal, Cape Verde, Rio, and New York, and, for a while, I forgot. The five.
Then, on Thursday, a call came. LaManche. Meeting on Tuesday. Important. Please be there.
I arrived not knowing what to expect, most certainly not what greeted me. Seated with LaManche were Ryan, Bertrand, Claudel, Charbonneau, and two detectives from St. Lambert. The director of the lab, Stefan Patineau, sat at the far end of the table, a crown prosecutor on his right.
They rose as one when I arrived, sending my anxiety level into the cheap seats. I shook hands with Patineau and the attorney. The others nodded, their faces neutral. I tried to read Ryan’s eyes, but they would not meet mine. As I took the one remaining chair, my palms felt sweaty and the familiar knot had hold of my gut. Had this meeting been called to discuss me? To review allegations made against me by Claudel?
Patineau wasted no time. A task force was being formed. The possibility of a serial killer would be examined from every angle, all suspect cases investigated, every lead aggressively pursued. Known sex offenders would be pulled in and questioned. The six detectives would be assigned full time, Ryan would coordinate. I would continue my normal casework, but serve as an ex-officio member of the team. Space had been set aside downstairs, all dossiers and relevant materials were being moved to that location. Seven cases were under consideration. The task force would hold its first meeting that afternoon. We would keep Monsieur Gauvreau and the prosecutor’s office informed of all progress.
Just like that. Done. I returned to my office, more stunned than relieved. Why? Who? I’d been arguing the serial killer theory for almost a month. What had happened to suddenly give it credence? Seven cases? Who were the other two?
Why ask, Brennan? You’ll find out.
And I did. At one-thirty I entered a large room on the second floor. Four tables formed an island in the middle, portable chalk and bulletin boards lined the walls. The detectives were clumped at the back of the room, like buyers at a trade show booth. The board they were viewing held the familiar Montreal and Métro maps, colored pins jutting from each. Seven more boards stood side by side, each topped by a woman’s name and picture. Five were as familiar as my own family, the others I didn’t know.
Claudel favored me with a half second of eye contact, the others greeted me cordially. We exchanged comments about the weather, then moved to the table. Ryan distributed legal pads from a stack in the center, then launched right in.
“You all know why you’re here, and you all know how to do your jobs. I just want to make sure of a few things at this point.”
He looked from face to face, then gestured at a stack of folders.
“I want everyone to study these files. Go through them carefully. Digest everything in them. We’re getting the information on computer, but it’s slow. For now we’ll use the old-fashioned way. If there’s anything you think is relevant, anything at all, get it up on that victim’s board.”
Nods.
“We’ll have an updated printout of the pervert parade today. Divide it up, roust these guys, see where they’ve been partying.”
“Usually in their own shorts.” Charbonneau.
“Could be one of them crossed the line, now finds his shorts lacking.”
Ryan looked at each of us in turn.
“It’s absolutely critical we work as a team. No individuals. No heroes. Talk. Exchange information. Bounce ideas off each other. That’s how we’re going to nail this bastard.”
“If there is one.” Claudel.
“If not, Luc, we’ll clean house, nail a whole lot of bastards. Nothing lost.”
Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and drew a series of short, quick lines on his tablet.
“It’s equally important we be concerned about security,” Ryan continued. “No leaks.”
“Patineau going to announce our little civic group?” Charbonneau.
“No. In a sense, we’re working undercover.”
“Public hears the words serial killer, they’ll go ape shit. Surprised they haven’t already.” Charbonneau.
“Apparently the press hasn’t picked up on the connection. Don’t ask me why. Patineau wants to keep it that way for now. That may change.”
“Press has the memory of a gnat.” Bertrand.
“Nah, that’s the IQ score.”
“They’d never make that cutoff.”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s go. Here’s what we’ve got.”
Ryan summarized each case. I listened mutely as my ideas, even my words, filled the air and were scribbled onto legal pads. Okay, some of Dobzhansky’s ideas as well, but passed on by me.
Mutilation. Genital penetration. Real estate ads. Métro stops. Someone had been listening. What’s more, someone had been checking. The boucherie where Grace Damas had once worked was a block off St. Laurent. Close to the St. Jacques apartment. Close to the Berri-UQAM Métro. It plotted. That made four for five. That’s what had tipped the balance. That and J.S.
Following our talk, Ryan had convinced Patineau to forward a formal request to Quantico. J.S. had agreed to give the Montreal cases top priority. A flurry of faxes provided him with what he needed, and Patineau had a profile three days later. That had done it. Patineau had decided to move.
Voilà
. Task force.
I felt relieved, but also slighted. They’d taken my labor and left me to sweat. On walking into that meeting, I had feared personal censure, had not expected tacit acknowledgment of work well done. Nevertheless. I steadied my voice to hide my anger.
“So what does Quantico tell us to look for?”
Ryan pulled a thin folder from the stack, opened it, and read.
“Male. White. Francophone. Probably not educated beyond secondary level. Probably a history of NSO’s . . .”
“
C’est quoi, ça?
” Bertrand.
“Nuisance sexual offenses. Peeping. Obscene phone calls. Indecent exposure.”
“The cute stuff.” Claudel.
“Dummy man.” Bertrand.
Claudel and Charbonneau snorted.
“Shit.” Claudel.
“My hero.” Charbonneau.
“Who the hell’s dummy man?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.
“Little maggot busts apartments so he can stuff the lady’s nightie, then slash it. Been working his act about five years.”
Ryan continued, selecting phrases from the report.
“Careful planner. Probably uses ruse to approach victim. Possibly the real estate angle. Probably married . . .”
“
Pourquoi?
” Rousseau, St. Lambert.
“The hidey-hole. Can’t bring the victims home to wifey.”
“Or Mommy.” Claudel.
Back to the report.
“Probably selects, prepares isolated location in advance.”
“The basement?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.
“Hell, Gilbert sprayed the shit out of that place with Luminol. If there was any blood there, it would have lit up like Tomorrowland.” Charbonneau.
Report. “Excessive violence and cruelty suggest extreme anger. Possible revenge orientation. Possible sadistic fantasies involving domination, humiliation, pain. Possible religious overlay.”
“
Pourquoi, ça?
” Rousseau.
“The statue, the body dumps. Trottier was at a seminary, so was Damas.”
For the next few moments no one said a word. The wall clock buzzed softly. In the corridor, a pair of high heels clicked closer, receded. Claudel’s pen made short, tense strokes.
“
Beaucoup de
‘possibles’ et ‘probables.’” Claudel.
Claudel’s continued resistance to the one-killer theory annoyed me.
“It’s also
possible
and
probable
we’re going to have another murder soon,” I snapped.
Claudel’s face hardened into its usual mask, which he pointed at his tablet. The lines in his cheeks tensed, but he said nothing.
Buzz.
“Does Dr. Dobzhansky have a long-term forecast?” I asked, calmer.
“Short term,” Ryan said somberly and returned to the profile. “Indications of loss of control. Increasing boldness. Intervals shortening.” He closed the folder and shoved it toward the center of the table. “Will kill again.”
Silence again.
Eventually, Ryan looked at his watch. We all followed suit, like assembly line robots.
“So. Let’s get into these files. Add anything you have that’s not here. Luc, Michel, Gautier was CUM, so you guys might have more on that one.”
Nods from Charbonneau and Claudel.
“Pitre fell to the SQ. I’ll double-check her. The others are more recent, should be pretty complete.”
Since I was all too familiar with the five recents, I started with Pitre and Gautier. The files had been open since ‘88 and ‘89 respectively.
Constance Pitre’s semi-nude, badly decomposed body was found in an abandoned house at Khanawake, an Indian reserve upriver from Montreal. Marie-Claude Gautier was discovered behind the Vendôme Métro, a switching point for trains to the western suburbs. Both women had been savagely beaten, their throats slashed. Gautier had been twenty-eight, Pitre thirty-two. Neither had been married. Each lived alone. The usual suspects had been questioned, the usual leads pursued. Dead end in each case.
I spent three hours going over the files, which, compared to those I’d studied for the past six weeks, were relatively sparse. Both women had been prostitutes. Was that the reason for the limited investigations? Exploited in life, ignored in death? Good riddance? I refused to allow myself to pursue it.
I looked at family snapshots of each victim. Their faces were different, yet similar in some disturbing way. The yeasty white pallor, the lavish makeup, the cold, flat stare. Their expressions brought to recall my night on the Main, when I’d viewed the street production from a front-row seat. Resignation. Desperation. There I’d seen it live. Here it was in stills.