Authors: Kathy Reichs
“That’s how he also had access to Le Grand Séminaire, ” I said.
“Yeah. Says he got that idea when he was following Chantale Trottier. Her father’s condo is right around the corner. Roy keeps a board at the monastery with all kinds of church keys hanging on hooks, neatly marked. Fortier just lifted the one he wanted.”
“Oh. And Gilbert has a chef’s saw for you. Says it glows.” Ryan.
He must have seen something in my face.
“When you’re feeling better.”
“I can hardly wait.” I was trying, but my bruised brain was withdrawing again.
The nurse came in.
“This is police business,” Claudel said.
She folded her arms and shook her head.
“
Merde
.”
She ushered them out quickly, but returned in a moment. With Katy. My daughter crossed the room without a word and clasped both my hands in hers. Tears filled her eyes.
Softly, “I love you, Mom.”
For a moment I just looked at her, a thousand emotions boiling inside me. Love. Gratitude. Helplessness. I cherished this child as no other being on earth. I desperately wished for her happiness. Her safety. I felt completely unable to assure her of either. I could feel tears of my own.
“And I love you, darling.”
She dragged a chair close and sat alongside my bed, not releasing my hands. The fluorescent light gleamed a halo of blond around her head.
She cleared her throat. “I’m staying at Monica’s. She’s commuting to McGill for summer school and living at home. Her family is taking good care of me.” She paused, unsure what to say, what to hold back. “Birdie is with us.”
She looked toward the window, back at me.
“There’s a policewoman who talks to me twice a day and will bring me here whenever I want.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bed. “You haven’t been awake very much.”
“I plan to do better.”
A nervous smile. “Dad calls every day to make sure I don’t need anything and to ask about you.”
Guilt and loss joined the emotions that were churning in me. “Tell him I’m fine.”
The nurse returned quietly and stood next to Katy, who took her cue. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It was morning when I got the next installment on Fortier.
“He’s been a nuisance sex offender for years. Got a sheet going back to 1979. Kept a girl locked up for a day and a half when he was fifteen, but nothing ever came of it. The grandmother kept it out of court, no arrest record. Mostly, he’d pick out a woman, follow her, keep records of her activities. He finally got busted for assault in 1988—”
“The grandmother.”
Another Claudel look. I noticed his silk tie was the exact mauve of his shirt.
“
Oui
. An evaluation by a court-appointed psychiatrist at that time described him as paranoid and compulsive.” He turned to Ryan. “What else did that shrink write? Tremendous anger, potential for violence, especially against women.”
“So he got six months and walked. Typical.”
This time Claudel just stared at me. He pinched his eyes at the bridge of his nose and continued.
“Except for the kid and Granny, Fortier up to that point hasn’t really done much beyond nuisance stuff. But he gets a real rush killing Grace Damas, decides to move on to bigger things. It’s right after that he rents his first hidey-hole. The one on Berger was only his latest.”
“Didn’t want to share his hobby with the little woman at home.” Ryan.
“Where did he get the rent money with only a part-time job?”
“Wife works. He probably squeezed it from her, told her some lie. Or maybe he had another hobby we don’t know about. We’re sure going to find out.”
Claudel continued in his detached, case-discussing voice.
“The next year he begins stalking in earnest, going about it systematically. You were right about the Métro. He’s got a thing about the number six. He starts out riding six stops, then follows a woman that fits his profile. His first random hit is Francine Morisette-Champoux. Our boy gets on at Berri-UQAM, gets off at Georges-Vanier and follows her home. He tracks her for several weeks, then makes his move.”
I thought of her words and felt a rush of anger. She wanted to feel safe. Untouchable in her home. The ultimate female fantasy. Claudel’s voice reconnected.
“But the free stalk is too risky, not controlled enough for him. He gets the idea of using real estate signs from the one on the Morisette-Champoux condo. It’s the perfect in.”
“Trottier?” I felt sick.
“Trottier. This time he takes the green line, rides his six stops, and gets off at Atwater. He walks around until he spots a sign. Daddy’s condo. He watches, takes his time, sees Chantale come and go. Says he spotted the Sacré C?ur logo on her uniform, even went to the school some days. Then the ambush.”
“By this time he’d also found a safer killing spot,” added Ryan.
“The monastery. Perfect. How did he get Chantale to go with him?”
“One day he waits until he knows she’s alone, rings the bell, asks to see the condo. He’s a potential buyer, right? But she won’t let him in. A few days later he pulls up next to her as she’s leaving school. What a coincidence. Claims he had an appointment with her father, but no one showed up. Chantale knows how badly the old man wants to sell the place, so she agrees to walk him through. The rest we know.”
The fluorescent tube above my bed buzzed softly. Claudel went on.
“Fortier doesn’t want to risk another body on the monastery grounds, so he drives her all the way up to St. Jerome. But he doesn’t like that either. It’s too long in the car. What if he got stopped? He’s seen the seminary, remembers the key. Next time he’ll do even better.”
“Gagnon.”
“Learning curve.”
“
Voilà
.”
At that moment the nurse appeared, a younger, gentler version of my weekday keeper. She read my chart, felt my head, took my pulse. For the first time I noticed that the IV was gone from my arm.
“Are you getting tired?”
“I’m fine.”
“You can have another painkiller if you need it.”
“Let’s see how it goes,” I said.
She smiled and left.
“What about Adkins?”
“He gets agitated when he talks about Adkins,” said Ryan. “Closes up. It’s almost as if he’s proud of the others, but feels different about her.”
A medicine cart passed in the corridor, rubber wheels gliding silently over tile.
Why didn’t Adkins fit the pattern?
A robotic voice urged someone to dial 237.
Why so messy?
Elevator doors opened, whooshed shut.
“Think about this,” I said. “He’s got the place on Berger. His system is working. He finds his victims with the Métro and the ‘for sale’ signs, then he tracks them until the right moment. He has a safe place to kill and a safe place to dump the bodies. Maybe it’s working too well. Maybe the rush isn’t there anymore, so he has to up the stakes. He decides to go back into the victim’s home, like he did with Morisette-Champoux.”
I remembered the photos. The disheveled warm-up suit. The dark red pool around the body.
“But he gets sloppy. We found out he called ahead to make an appointment with Margaret Adkins. What he didn’t count on was the husband phoning during his visit. He has to kill her quickly. He has to cut her fast, mutilate her with something close at hand. He pulls it off, gets away, but it’s rushed. He’s not in control.”
The statue. The severed breast.
Ryan nodded.
“Makes sense. The kill is just the final act in his fantasy of control. I can kill you or let you live. I can hide your body or display it. I can deprive you of your gender by mutilating your breasts or vagina. I can render you powerless by cutting off your hands. But then the husband calls and threatens his whole fantasy satisfaction.”
“Spoiled the rush.” Ryan.
“He never used stolen items before Adkins. Maybe he used her bank card afterward to reassert control.”
“Or maybe he had a cash flow problem, needed to blow something up his nose and had no purchasing power.” Claudel.
“It’s weird. Can’t shut him up on the others, but he turns into a potted palm on Adkins.” Ryan.
For a while no one said anything.
“Pitre and Gautier?” I asked, avoiding what I really had to know.
“Claims they’re not his.”
Ryan and Claudel exchanged words. I didn’t hear them. A chill spread and filled my rib cage, a question taking form. It coalesced, hung there, then slithered up and forced itself into language.
“Gabby?”
Claudel dropped his eyes.
Ryan cleared his throat.
“You’ve had a—”
“Gabby?” I repeated. Tears burned the insides of my eyelids.
Ryan nodded.
“Why?”
No one spoke.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” I fought to keep my voice even.
“This fuckhead’s a nutcase,” said Ryan. “He’s crazy for control. He won’t open up much about his childhood, but he’s got so much rage against the grandmother you have to scrape it off your teeth when you leave the room. Blames all of his problems on her. Keeps saying she ruined him. From what we’ve learned, she was a very domineering woman, and fanatically religious. His feelings of powerlessness probably stem from whatever went on between them.”
“Meaning the guy’s a real loser with women and blames it on the old lady,” added Claudel.
“What does this have to do with Gabby?”
Ryan seemed reluctant to continue.
“At first Fortier gets a sense of control through peeping. He can watch his victims, track them, learn all about them, and they aren’t even aware of him. He keeps his notebooks and clippings and runs a fantasy show in his head. An added bonus is that there’s no risk of rejection. But eventually, that’s not enough. He kills Damas, finds he likes it, and decides on a career move. He starts kidnapping and killing his victims. The ultimate control. Life and death. He’s in charge and unstoppable.”
I stared into the flame blue irises.
“Then you come along and dig up Isabelle Gagnon.”
“I’m a threat,” I said, anticipating where he was going.
“His perfect MO is jeopardized, he feels a threat. And Dr. Brennan is the cause. You may topple the whole fantasy in which he’s the supreme player.”
I ran over the events of the past six weeks.
“I dig up and identify Isabelle Gagnon in early June. Three weeks later Fortier kills Margaret Adkins, and the next day we show up on Rue Berger. Three days after that I find Grace Damas’s skeleton.”
“You’ve got it.”
“He’s furious.”
“Exactly. The hunt is his way of acting out his contempt for women—”
“Or his anger at Granny.” Claudel.
“Maybe. Anyway, he sees you as blocking him.”
“And I’m a woman.”
Ryan reached for a cigarette, remembered where he was.
“Also, he made a mistake. Adkins was sloppy. Using the bank card almost cost him.”
“So he needs someone to blame.”
“This guy can’t admit he’s screwed up. And he definitely can’t deal with a woman catching him out.”
“But why Gabby? Why not me?”
“Who knows? Chance? Timing? Maybe she walked out before you did.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s obvious he’d been stalking me for some time. He put the skull in my yard?”
Nods.
“He could have waited, then grabbed me like he did the others.”
“This is one sick fucker.” Claudel.
“Gabby wasn’t like the others, she wasn’t a random-stranger killing. Fortier knew where I lived. He knew she was staying with me.”
I was talking more to myself than to Ryan and Claudel. An emotional aneurysm, formed over the past six weeks and held in check by force of will, was threatening to burst.
“He did it on purpose. The psycho prick wanted me to know. It was a message, like the skull.”
My voice was rising but I couldn’t hold it back. I pictured an envelope on my door. An oval of bricks. Gabby’s bloated face with its tiny silver gods. A picture of my daughter.
The thin wall of my emotional balloon ruptured, and weeks of pent-up grief and tension rushed through the puncture.
Razors of pain shot through my throat but I screamed, “No! No! No! You goddamn sonofabitch!”
I heard Ryan speak sharply to Claudel, felt his hands on my arms, saw the nurse, felt the needle. Then nothing.
R
YAN CAME TO SEE ME AT HOME ON
W
EDNESDAY
. T
HE EARTH HAD
turned seven times since my night in hell, and I’d had time to construct an official version for myself. But there were holes I wanted to fill.
“Has Fortier been charged?”
“Monday. Five counts of first degree.”
“Five?”
“Pitre and Gautier are probably unrelated.”
“Tell me something. How did Claudel know Fortier would show up here?”
“He didn’t, really. From your questions about the school, he realized Tanguay couldn’t be the perp. He checked, found out the kids are in at eight, out at three-fifteen. Tanguay earned a perfect attendance ribbon. Hadn’t missed a day since he started, and there were no school holidays on the days you asked about. Also he’d learned about the glove business.
“He knew you were exposed, so he hauled ass back to your place to keep watch until he could get a unit back on site. Got here, tried the phone and found it dead. He vaulted the garden gate and found the French doors unlocked. You two were too busy dancing to hear him. He would have broken the glass, but you must have gotten the latch open when you tried to split.”
Claudel. My rescuer again.
“Anything new turn up?”
“They found an athletic bag in Fortier’s car with three choke collars, a couple of hunting knives, a box of surgical gloves, and a set of street clothes.”
I packed as he talked, perched on the end of my bed.
“His kit.”
“Yes. I’m sure we’ll tie the Rue Berger glove and the one with Gabby to the box in his car.”
I pictured him that night, Spiderman smooth, gloved hands bone white in the darkness.
“He’d wear the cycling suit and gloves whenever he went out to play. Even at Berger. That’s why we always came up empty. No hairs, no fibers, no latents.”