one. ?What?ve we got here??
?Girl killed over on Desjardins? Pussbag that lifted her card calls this little hole home,? said Claudel. ? Maybe.?
He indicated the room with a sweep of his arm. ?Put a lot of himself into it.?
?Well, we?ll take it out,? said Gilbert with a smile. His hair was clinging in circles to his wet forehead. ?Let?s dust.?
?There?s a basement, too.?
?
?Claude, why don?t you start down below? Marcie, take the counter back there.?
Marcie moved to the back of the room, removed a canister from her metal suitcase, and began brushing black powder on the Formica counter. The other technician headed downstairs. Pierre put on latex gloves and began removing sections of newspaper from the desktop and placing them in a large plastic sack. It was then I had my final shock of the day.
?
I was surprised to see him look at me.
Wordlessly I walked over and glanced at what he had. I was unnerved to see my own familiar jeans, my ? Absolutely Irish? T-shirt, my Bausch and Lomb aviator sunglasses. In his gloved hand he held the photo which had appeared in
For the second time that day I saw myself locked at an exhumation two years in the past. The picture had been cut and trimmed with the same careful precision as those on the wall. It differed in only one respect. My image had been circled and recircled in pen, and the front of my chest was marked with a large X.
12
I SLEPT A LOT OF THE WEEKEND. SATURDAY MORNING I HAD TRIED getting up, but that was short-lived. My legs trembled, and if I turned my head long fingers of pain shot up my neck and grabbed the base of my skull. My face had crusted over like cr #232;me br #251;l #233;e, and my right eye looked like a purple plum gone bad. It was a weekend of soup, aspirin, and antiseptic. I spent the days dozing on the couch, keeping abreast of O. J. Simpson?s escapades. At night I was asleep by nine.
By Monday the jackhammer had stopped pounding inside my cranium. I could walk stiffly and rotate my head somewhat. I got up early, showered, and was in my office by eighty-thirty.
There were three requisitions on my desk. Ignoring them, I tried Gabby?s number, but got only her machine. I made myself a cup of instant coffee and uncurled the phone messages I?d taken from my slot. One was from a detective in Verdun, another from Andrew Ryan, the third a reporter. I threw the last away and set the others by the phone. Neither Charbonneau nor Claudel had called. Nor had Gabby.
I dialed the CUM squad room and asked for Charbonneau. After a pause I was told he wasn?t there. Neither was Claudel. I left a message, wondering if they were out on the street early or starting the day late.
I dialed Andrew Ryan but his line was busy. Since I was accomplishing nothing by phone, I decided to drop by in person. Maybe Ryan would discuss Trottier.
I rode the elevator to the first floor and wound my way back to the squad room. The scene was much livelier than during my last visit. As I crossed to Ryan?s desk I could feel eyes on my face. It made me vaguely uncomfortable. Obviously they knew about Friday.
?Dr. Brennan,? said Ryan in English, unfolding from his chair and extending a hand. His elongated face broke into a smile when he saw the scab that was my right cheek. ?Trying out a new shade of blush??
?Right. Crimson cement. I got a message you called??
For a moment he looked blank.
?Oh yeah. I pulled the jacket on Trottier. You can take a look if you want.?
He leaned over and fiddled with some folders on his desk, spreading them out in a fan-shaped heap. He selected one and handed it to me just as his partner entered the room. Bertrand strode toward us wearing a light gray sports jacket monochromatically blended to darker gray pants, a black shirt, and a black-and-white floral tie. Save for the tan, he looked like an image from 1950s TV.
?Dr. Brennan, how goes it??
?Great.?
?Wow, nice effect.?
?Pavement is impersonal,? I said, looking around for a place to spread the file. ?May I . . .? I gestured to an empty desk.
?Sure, they?re out already.?
I sat down and began sorting the contents of the folder, leafing through incident reports, untangling interviews, and turning over photos. Chantale Trottier. It was like walking barefoot across hot asphalt. The pain came back as though it had happened yesterday, and I had to keep looking away, allowing my mind breaks from the surging sorrow.
On October 16, 1993, a sixteen-year-old girl rose reluctantly, ironed her blouse, and spent an hour shampooing and preening. She refused the breakfast her mother offered, and left her suburban home to join friends for the train ride to school. She wore a plaid uniform jumper and knee socks and carried her books in a backpack. She chatted and giggled, and ate lunch after math class. At the end of the day she vanished. Thirty hours later her butchered body was found in plastic garbage bags forty miles from her home.
A shadow fell across the desk and I looked up. Bertrand held two mugs of coffee. The one he offered me said ?Monday I Start My Diet.? Gratefully, I reached out and took it.
?Anything interesting??
?Not much.? I took a sip. ?She was sixteen. Found in St. Jerome.?
?Yup.?
?Gagnon was twenty-three. Found in Centre-ville. Also in plastic bags,? I mused aloud.
He tipped his head.
?Adkins was twenty-four, found at home, over by the stadium.?
?She wasn?t dismembered.?
?No, but she was cut up and mutilated. Maybe the killer got interrupted. Had less time.?
He sipped his coffee, slurping loudly. When he lowered the mug, milky brown beads clung to his mustache.
?Gagnon and Adkins were both on St. Jacques?s list.? I assumed the story had spread by now. I was right.
?Yeah but the media went snake over those cases. The guy had clipped
?Could be.? I took another sip, not really believing it.
?Didn?t he have a whole dungheap of stuff??
?Yeah,? said Ryan from behind us. ?Dickhead had clippings on all kinds of weird shit. Francoeur, didn?t you catch some of those dummy cases when you were with property?? This to a short, fat man with a shiny brown head who was eating a Snickers bar four desks over.
Francoeur put down the candy, licking his fingers and nodding. His rimless glasses blinked as his head moved up and down.
?Um. Hum. Two.? Lick. ?Damnedest thing.? Lick. ?This squirrel creeps the place, rifles the bedroom, then makes a big doll with a nightgown or a sweat suit, something that belongs to the lady of the house. He stuffs it, dresses it up in her underwear, then lays it out on the bed and slashes it. Probably makes him harder than a math final.? Lick. Lick. ?Then he gets his sorry ass out of there. Doesn?t even take anything.?
?Sperm??
