picture. Villejoin’s cold a year and a half, Jurmain over three. It’s tough.”
“Then get a confession.”
“That’s the plan, ma’am. Claudel’s going to schmooze Adamski on the plane. When we work him, he’ll play good cop. I’ll hit him with the two-by-four.”
“Poor casting.”
“Hey. The Emmy’s as good as mine.”
After clicking off, I sat staring at the baby tooth.
How had I overlooked the discoloration?
Returning all three teeth to the vial, I crossed to the window and gazed down.
I missed it.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I watched a barge slip silently upriver, not really computing what I was seeing.
Briel found it.
Molecules of an idea began coagulating. Lost. Lac Saint-Jean. Fleuve Saint- Laurent.
Twelve floors down, the water looked gray and forbidding. Deep. Unyielding.
The idea took shape.
Adamski’s body was never found.
The Gouvrards were never found.
Did others lie forgotten in cold, wet graves?
Crossing to the computer, I called up Wikipedia.
I learned that Lac Saint-Jean is a crater impact lake in the Laurentian Highlands, two hundred kilometers north of the Saint Lawrence River, into which it drains via the Saguenay River. Lac Saint- Jean covers approximately a thousand square kilometers, and drops to sixty-three meters at its deepest point.
Quick calculation. Roughly four hundred square miles by two hundred feet deep. That’s a whole lot of water.
I researched a number.
Dialed.
Worked my way through a dazzling hierarchy of voice mail choices.
When a nice lady finally answered, I made my inquiry. She asked me to hold.
I held.
In a while the nice lady came back on the line.
They had one source that might be of help.
Far from optimistic, I headed out.
Montreal has many libraries, both English and French. The Bibliotheque et Archives nationales du Quebec, or the Grande Bibliotheque, is the newest, having opened in April of 2005. Located on Boulevard de Maisonneuve, near the Universite du Quebec a Montreal campus, the massive glass and steel structure houses Quebec’s largest collection of recent, rare, and old editions, multimedia documents, reference materials, maps and prints. Auditorium. Exhibition hall. Cafe. Boutique.
Following the nice telephone lady’s instructions, I climbed to the first floor, walked to the north wing, and passed through doors marked
Hands on bony hips, a not quite so nice lady listened to my request, frown deepening with my every word. When I’d finished, she told me I’d need to obtain a library membership. When I returned, card in hand, she indicated a set of microfilm readers and told me to wait.
Ten minutes later, she reappeared carrying a tray filled with small gray and yellow boxes. With an expression of gothic gloom, she asked if I knew how to spool.
I assured her I’d practically majored in spooling.
Telling me there was additional microfilm going back to 1897, she took her leave.
I checked labels. The dates ran from 1948 to 1964, the year the
Deciding to start with the newspaper’s most recent editions, I spooled up the first reel. The film scratched softly as I cranked backward through time: 1964. 1963. 1962.
The black-and-white images floated in and out of focus. At first I went slowly, checking every page. As my skill grew, I was able to zip through the irrelevant, focusing solely on news and obits.
After an hour I felt a twinge behind one eye. After two a kettle drum was banging fortissimo.
I looked at the tray. Only a billion little boxes to go.
Was my idea crazy?
Maybe. But I had to look. Had to satisfy myself I’d done everything possible.
Threading a new film leader, I began winding through the first half of 1958.
Just past midway, I found what I was after.
34
Recherche pour les Victimes Noyees Suspendue-
Search for Drowning Victims Suspended
As with Briel’s report, I translated as I read.
July 21, 1958. Following a week of intense effort, the search has ended for four victims still missing and presumed dead following a boating disaster on Lac Saint-Jean. A memorial marker will be erected in honor of three of the dead, Louise-Rosette, Melanie, and Claire Clemenceau, in the cemetery at Sainte-Monique during a brief ceremony Thursday at 1 p.m. The public is invited.
A boating accident. Missing bodies. Lac Saint-Jean.
Excitement jangled every nerve in my body.
A full marching band had now taken the field in my frontal lobe, so I’d fallen into a rhythm of fast-forwarding and periodically pausing to skim. Obviously the hit-and-run approach had been inadequate. I’d missed the initial coverage.
Like the phalanges. And the tetracycline staining.
I rubbed my eyes. Rolled my shoulders.
Drowning. That would mean spring or summer.
