Rewinding to April, I began anew.
July 14. The incident was reported in heartrending detail.
Tragedie de Pique-nique-Picnic Tragedy
The headline topped an article taking up most of page 4 below the fold.
On July 13, 1958, a congregation from the small town of Sainte-Monique had held its annual picnic at Parc de la Pointe-Taillon. As was customary, activities had included pontoon rides out onto Lac Saint-Jean.
An afternoon thunderstorm had barreled in with such speed and ferocity, the boaters hadn’t had a chance to react. The pontoon had capsized far from shore. Two men had survived. Four adults and five children had not. A man, a woman, and two little girls remained unaccounted for.
Heart hammering, I looked at the names and ages.
Richard Blackwater, 37
Louise-Rosette Clemenceau, 45
Melanie Clemenceau, 13
Claire Clemenceau, 7
I jotted the names and ages of those not recovered, and the date and location of the incident. Then, ignoring my throbbing head, I picked my way through the rest of 1958, reading every word, no matter the size of the print.
On the Tuesday following the incident, the first three victims had been buried, also in the Sainte-Monique cemetery.
Another article ran on July 16. The piece was brief, stating that the last two drowning victims had been laid to rest.
I pushed on.
After search efforts ended on July 21, there was no further mention of the tragedy. Or of the missing victims.
I sat back, staring at my notes.
It all fit. The PMI. The profile. The adult male’s cheekbones and incisors. I was willing to bet the farm Blackwater was an aboriginal name.
Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” boomed from my purse. After an eon of fumbling, I found and disarmed my cell.
When I looked up, the not so nice library lady was closing in, face pinched into a murderous scowl. Mouthing “Sorry,” I gathered my things. Unimpressed, the dragon waited, then bird-dogged me to the door.
Outside, darkness was settling over the city. Car windows were steamed, turning passengers and drivers into murky silhouettes. A damp wind skulked up de Maisonneuve, teasing trash and carrying with it the scent of oil and salt from the river.
Before pulling on my gloves, I checked my list of missed calls.
The number was Ryan’s.
He answered right away. Adamski was at Wilfrid-Derome. He and Claudel would begin with him shortly.
Why SQ turf? Though Marilyn Keiser was reported missing in Montreal, and her case fell to the city cops, the possible link to the Villejoin sisters, perhaps Rose Jurmain, meant the Surete du Quebec owned a piece of the action. At Ryan’s suggestion, Claudel had agreed to conduct the interrogation at SQ rather than SPVM headquarters. Courtesy. Separate forces. Neither detective outranked the other. Besides, Adamski thought he was a person of interest because of Florian Grellier’s link to Christelle Villejoin.
I wondered. Hadn’t Adamski questioned why he was being hauled to Montreal by a city cop? If so, I was sure Ryan and Claudel had covered that detail.
I picked up the pace.
When I arrived on the fourth floor of Wilfrid-Derome, Ryan and Claudel were viewing Adamski on a monitor in an observation room. Both wore expressions of disgust.
Claudel swiveled when I entered, then looked a question at Ryan.
“Dr. Brennan has offered to share her impressions,” Ryan said. We all knew I had no official reason to be present.
Claudel hitched one shoulder.
“How will you go at him?” I asked, noting several files in Ryan’s hand.
“First we’ll focus on the Villejoin murders. During the plane ride, Detective Claudel may have implied our reason for wanting Adamski was to shine a light on Florian Grellier.”
“The guy who fingered Adamski for revealing the location of Christelle Villejoin’s body.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You told Adamski you’re investigating Florian Grellier?” That surprised me.
“Hey. It’s not Detective Claudel’s fault if the witness mistook his meaning. Anyway, we’ll start with Grellier and Villejoin. Then Jurmain and Keiser will come at him like two tons of high-grade manure.”
The good-cop-bad-cop boys left. I stayed by the monitor.
Adamski raised stony eyes when the detectives entered the interrogation room. As before, his hands remained clasped on the table.
When Ryan activated the sound system, the tinny sound of scraping chairs came through a speaker.
This time, Ryan skipped the niceties. “This interview will be recorded. For your protection and ours.”
Adamski’s face remained neutral. Though he was trying hard for tough, the guy looked nervous.
“Do you prefer this interview be conducted in French or English?”
Ryan waited a full five seconds.
“With no preference expressed, questioning will proceed in English. Ryan, Andrew, lieutenant-detective, Surete du Quebec, and Claudel, Luc, sergeant-detective, Service de police de la Ville de Montreal, in interview with Red O’Keefe, aka Bud Keith, Alex Carling, Samuel Caffrey. Shall we add Lucky Labatt? Or shall we let that priceless gem go?”
“Look, I told you last time. I don’t know nothing about no old lady got buried in the woods.”
Ryan took Adamski over the same ground as last time, with questions framed to suggest the police had nothing new.
The performances were five-star all around. Adamski stonewalled. Ryan, feigning increasing frustration, grew more and more aggressive. Claudel interjected with the voice of reason.
After forty minutes, Ryan appeared to have reached his snapping point. Opening a file, he skipped a snapshot across the table. Though they were a bit fuzzy on the screen, I could see that the subjects were Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin, smiling before a Christmas tree, each arm-cradling a cat.
Adamski glanced at the photo, his expression never moving off cocky.
Ryan slapped down another. Christelle’s skeleton lying in its grave.
“Jesus.” Adamski jerked his eyes away.
Ryan shot from his chair, circled the table, and forced Adamski’s head around
