We inspected them in sequence, our collective gaze moving from left to right, from her head to her feet. The frontal and lateral X rays of the skull showed multiple fractures. The shoulders, arms, and rib cage were normal. There was nothing extraordinary until we arrived at the radiograph of her abdomen and pelvis. Everyone saw it at once.
?Holy shit,? said Charbonneau.
?Christ.?
?
A small human form glowed from the depths of Margaret Adkins?s abdomen. We all stared at it, mute. There was but one explanation. The figure had been thrust through the vagina and high into the viscera with enough force to conceal it completely from external view. On seeing it, I felt as if a hot poker had pierced my gut. Involuntarily, I clutched my belly, as my heart hammered against my ribs. I stared at the film. I saw a statue.
Framed by the broad pelvic bones, the silhouette stood out in sharp contrast to the organs in which it was embedded. Surrounded by the grays of her intestines, the stark white figure stood with one foot forward, hands outstretched. It appeared to be a religious statue. The figure?s head was bowed, like a paleolithic Venus figurine.
For a few moments no one spoke. The room was absolutely silent.
?I?ve seen those,? Daniel said at last. With a stabbing motion he pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. A tic squeezed his features like a rubber toy.
?It?s our lady of something. You know. The Virgin. Mary.?
We all examined the opaque shape on the X ray. Somehow it seemed to compound the offense, making it all the more obscene.
?This sonofabitch?s a real sick bastard,? said Charbonneau, the practiced nonchalance of the homicide detective overridden by the emotion of the moment.
His vehemence surprised me. I was unsure if the atrocity alone had stirred something in him, or if the religious nature of the offending object was contributing to his reaction. Like most Qu #233;becois, Charbonneau had no doubt had a childhood permeated with traditional Catholicism, the rhythm of his daily life inextricably ruled by church dogma. Though many of us throw off the outward trappings, reverence for the symbols often lingers. A man might refuse to wear a scapular, but neither will he burn it. I understood. Different city, different language, but I, too, was a member of the tribe. Atavistic emotions die hard.
There was another long silence. Finally, LaManche spoke, choosing his words carefully. I couldn?t tell if he realized the full implications of what we were seeing. I wasn?t sure I did. Though he used milder tones than I?d have chosen, he voiced my thoughts perfectly.
?Monsieur Charbonneau, I believe you and your partner need to meet with Dr. Brennan and me. As I am sure you know, there are some unsettling aspects to this case and several others.?
He paused to allow that to sink in, and to consult a mental calendar.
?I will have the results of this autopsy by later tonight. Tomorrow is a holiday. Would Monday morning be convenient??
The detective looked at him, then at me. His face was neutral. I couldn?t tell if he understood LaManche?s meaning, or if he was truly unaware of the other cases. It was not beyond Claudel to have dismissed my comments without sharing them with his partner. If so, Charbonneau could not admit his ignorance.
?Yeah. Okay. I?ll see what I can do.?
LaManche held his melancholy eyes on Charbonneau and waited.
?Okay. Okay. We?ll be here. Now I better get my ass back on the street and start looking for this shithook. If Claudel turns up, tell him I?ll meet him back at headquarters around eight.?
He was rattled. He?d failed to switch over to French when addressing LaManche. It was clear he would have a long talk with his partner.
LaManche resumed the autopsy before the door closed behind Charbonneau. The rest was routine. The chest was opened with a Y-shaped incision. The organs were removed, weighed, sliced, and inspected. The statue?s position was determined, the internal damage assessed and described. Using a scalpel, Daniel cut the skin across the crown of the head, peeled the face forward and the scalp backward, and removed a section of skullcap with a Stryker saw. I took a step backward and held my breath as the air filled with the whine of the saw and the smell of burnt bone. The brain was structurally normal. Here and there gelatinous globs clung to its surface, like black jellyfish on a slick, gray globe. Subdural hematoma from the blows to her head.
I knew what the essence of LaManche?s report would be. The victim was a healthy young woman with no abnormalities or signs of disease. Then, that day, someone had bludgeoned her head with enough force to fracture her skull and cause her cerebral vessels to bleed into her brain. At least five times. He had then rammed a statue into her vagina, partially disemboweled her, and slashed off her breast.
A shudder ran through me as I considered her ordeal. The wounds to her vagina were vital. Her torn flesh had bled extensively. The statue had been inserted while her heart still beat. While she was alive.
?. . . tell Daniel what you want, Temperance.?
I hadn?t been listening. LaManche?s voice brought me back to the present. He?d finished, and was suggesting I take my bone samples. The sternum and front portions of the ribs had been removed early in the autopsy, so I told Daniel they were to be sent upstairs for soaking and cleaning.
I stepped close to the body and peered into the thoracic cavity. A number of small gashes meandered up the belly side of the vertebral bodies. They appeared as a trail of faint slits in the tough sheath covering the spine.
?I want the vertebrae from about here to here. Ribs, too.? I indicated the segment containing the gashes. ? Send it up to Denis. Tell him to soak it, no boiling. And be very careful in removing it. Don?t touch it with any kind of blade.?
He listened, holding his gloved hands out. His nose and upper lip jumped as he tried to adjust his glasses. He nodded continuously.
When I stopped speaking he looked at LaManche.
?Then close?? he asked.
?Close her up after that,? LaManche responded.
Daniel set to the task. He would remove the bone segments, then replace the organs and close the midsection. Finally, he would restore the skullcap, reposition the face, and sew the severed borders of the scalp. Save for the Y-shaped seam down her front, Margaret Adkins would appear untouched. She would be ready for her funeral.
I returned to my office, determined to regroup mentally before driving home. The fifth floor was totally deserted. I swiveled my chair, put my feet on the window ledge, and looked out at my river world. On my shore, the Miron complex resembled a Lego creation, its eccentric gray buildings connected by a horizontal latticework of steel. Beyond the cement factory, a boat moved slowly upriver, its running lights barely visible behind the gray veil of dusk.
The building was absolutely still, but the spooky quiet failed to relax me. My thoughts were black as the river. I wondered briefly if there was someone looking back at me from the factory, someone who was equally alone, equally unnerved by the after-hours solitude that rings so loudly in an empty office building.
I was having trouble sleeping and had been up since 6:30 A.M. I should have been tired. Instead I was agitated. I found myself absently playing with my right eyebrow, a nervous gesture that had profoundly irritated my husband. Years of his criticism had never broken me of the habit. Separation has its advantages. I can now fidget to my heart?s content.
Pete. Our last year together. Katy?s face when we?d told her about the split. Shouldn?t be too traumatic, we thought, she?s away at college. How wrong we?d been. The tears had almost made me reverse the decision. Margaret Adkins, her hands curled in death. She?d painted her doors blue with those hands. She?d hung her son?s posters. The killer. Was he out there right now? Was he relishing what he?d done today? Was his blood lust satiated, or was his need to kill heightened by the act itself?
The phone rang, splitting the silence like a sonic boom and yanking me back from whatever private grotto I?d entered. I was so startled I jumped, upending the pencil holder with my elbow. Bics and Scripto markers went flying.
