Bill
The third article covered the career of William Dean Christenson, alias Bill
?Look at this,? I said to no one in particular. Though the room was stifling, I felt cold all over.
Charbonneau came up behind me. ?Oh, baby, baby,? he intoned flatly, as his eyes swept over the arrangement to the right of the map. ?Love in wide angle.?
?Here,? I said, pointing at the articles. ?Look at these.?
Claudel joined us and the two men scanned them wordlessly. They smelled of sweat and laundered cotton and aftershave. Outside I could hear a woman calling to Sophie, and wondered briefly if she beckoned a pet or a child.
?Holy fuck,? breathed Charbonneau, as he grasped the theme of the stories.
?Doesn?t mean he?s Charlie Manson,? scoffed Claudel.
?No. He?s probably working on his senior thesis.?
For the first time I thought I detected a note of annoyance in Charbonneau?s voice.
?The guy could have delusions of grandeur,? Claudel went on. ?Maybe he watched the Menendez brothers and thought they were keen. Maybe he thinks he?s Dudley DoRight and wants to fight evil. Maybe he?s practicing his French and finds this more interesting than Tin Tin. How the fuck do I know? But it doesn?t make him Jack the Ripper.? He glanced toward the door. ?Where the hell is recovery??
Sonofabitch, I thought, but held my tongue.
Charbonneau and I turned our attention to the desktop. A stack of newspapers leaned against the wall. Charbonneau used his pen to rifle through them, lifting the edges then allowing the sections to drop back into place. The stack contained only want ads, most from
?Maybe the toad was looking for a job,? said Claudel sardonically. ?Thought he?d use Boden as a reference.?
?What was that underneath?? I?d seen a flash of yellow as the bottom section was lifted briefly.
Charbonneau nudged the pen under the last section in the pile and levered it upward, tipping the stack toward the wall. A yellow tablet lay under it. I wondered briefly if pen manipulation was required training for detectives. He allowed the newspapers to drop back to the desktop, slid the pen to the back of the stack, and pushed at the tablet, sliding it forward and into view.
It was a lined yellow pad, the type favored by attorneys. We could see that the top page was partially filled with writing. Bracing the stack with the back of his hand, Charbonneau teased the tablet out and slid it into full view.
The impact of the serial killer stories was nothing compared to the jolt I felt on seeing what was scrawled there. The fear that I?d kept down deep in its lair lunged out and grabbed me in its teeth.
The first column listed addresses, the second phone numbers. The next held brief notations on the residence. Apt. w/ outsd. entr., condo, 1st flr.; house w/ yd. The next column contained sets of letters behind some names, for others it was blank. I looked at the Adkins entry. Hu. So. The combinations looked familiar. I closed my eyes and ran a key word search. Kinship charts.
?Those are people they live with,? I said. ?Look at Adkins. Husband. Son.?
?Yeah. Gagnon?s got Br and Bf. Brother, boyfriend,? said Charbonneau.
?Big fag,? added Claudel. ?What?s Do mean?? he asked, referring to the last column. St. Jacques had written it behind some names, left no notation for others.
No one had an answer.
Charbonneau flipped back the first sheet and everyone fell silent reading the next set of notations. The page was divided in half with one name at the top and another halfway down. Below each was another set of columns. That on the left was headed ?Date,? the next two were marked ?In? and ?Out.? The empty spaces were filled with dates and times.
?Jesus H. Christ, he stalked them. He picked them out and tracked them like goddamn quail or something,? exploded Charbonneau.
Claudel said nothing.
?This sick sonofabitch hunted women,? repeated Charbonneau, as if rephrasing it would somehow make it more believable. Or less.
?Some research project,? I said softly. ?And he hasn?t turned it in yet.?
?What?? asked Claudel.
?Adkins and Gagnon are dead. These dates are recent. Who are the others??
?Shit.?
?Where the fuck is recovery?? Claudel strode over to the door and disappeared into the corridor. I could hear him swearing at the patrolman.
My eyes wandered back to the wall. I didn?t want to think about the list anymore today. I was hot and exhausted and in pain, and there was no satisfaction in the realization that I was probably right, and that now we would work together. That even Claudel would come on board.
I looked at the map, searching for something to divert myself. It was a large one showing in rainbow detail the island, the river, and the jumble of communities comprising the CUM and surrounding areas. The pink municipalities were crisscrossed by small white streets, and linked by red arterial roads and large blue autoroutes. They were dotted by the green of parks, golf courses, and cemeteries, the orange of institutions, the lavender of shopping centers, and the gray of industrial areas.
I found Centre-ville and leaned closer to try to locate my own small street. It was only one block long and, as I searched for it, I began to understand why taxis had so much difficulty finding me. I vowed to be more patient in the future. Or at least more specific. I traced Sherbrooke west to intersect Guy, but found I?d gone too far. It was then I had my third shock of the afternoon.
My finger hovered above Atwater, just outside the orange polygon demarcating Le Grand S #233;minaire. My eye was drawn to a small symbol sketched in pen at its southwest corner, a circle enclosing an X. It lay close to the site where Isabelle Gagnon?s body had been discovered. With my heart pounding, I shifted to the east end and tried to find the Olympic Stadium.
?Monsieur Charbonneau, look at this,? I said, my voice strained and shaky.
He came closer.
?Where?s the stadium??
He touched it with his pen and looked at me.
?Where?s Margaret Adkins?s condo??
He hesitated a minute, leaned in, and started to point to a street running south from Parc Maisonneuve. His pen rested in midair as we both stared at the tiny figure. It was an X drawn and circled in pen.
?Where did Chantale Trottier live??
?Ste. Anne-de-Bellevue. Too far out.?
We both stared at the map.
?Let?s search it systematically, sector by sector,? I suggested. ?I?ll start in the upper left-hand corner and work down, you start with the lower right and work up.?
He found it first. The third X. The mark was on the south shore, near St. Lambert. He knew of no homicides in that district. Neither did Claudel. We looked for another ten minutes, but found no other X?s.
We were just starting a second search when the crime scene van pulled up in front.
?Where the fuck have you been?? asked Claudel as they came through the door with their metal cases.
?It?s like driving through Woodstock out there,? said Pierre Gilbert, ?only less mud.? His round face was completely encircled by curly beard and curlier hair, reminding me of a Roman god. I could never remember which
