?The gang?s all here,? said Ryan, putting the car in park and releasing his seat belt.
He hadn?t apologized for his rudeness on the phone, and I hadn?t expected it. No one is at his best at 4 A.M. He?d been cordial throughout the ride, almost jocular, pointing out places where incidents had occurred, recounting anecdotes of blunder and humiliation. War stories. Here, in this three-flat, a woman assaulted her husband with a frying pan, then turned it on us. There, in that Poulet Kentucky Frites, we found a nude man stuck in the ventilator shaft. Cop talk. I wondered if their cognitive maps were based on sites of police happenings chronicled in incident reports, rather than on the names of rivers and streets and the numbers on buildings that the rest of us use.
Ryan spied Bertrand and headed toward him. He was part of a clump composed of an SQ officer, Pierre LaManche, and a thin, blond man in dark aviator glasses. I followed him across the street, scanning the crowd for Claudel or Charbonneau. Though this was officially an SQ party, I thought they might be here. Everyone else seemed to be. I saw neither.
As we drew close I could tell the man in the sunglasses was agitated. His hands never rested, but continuously worried a wispy fringe of mustache that crawled across his upper lip. His fingers kept teasing out a few sparse hairs, then stroking them back into place. I noticed that his skin was peculiarly gray and unblemished, having neither color nor texture. He wore a leather bomber jacket and black boots. He could have been twenty-five or sixty-five.
I could feel LaManche?s eyes on me as we joined the group. He nodded, but said nothing. I began to have doubts. I?d choreographed this circus, brought all these people here. What if they found nothing? What if someone had removed the bag? What if it did turn out to be just another ?pissant cemetery? burial? Last night was dark, I was hyped. How much had I imagined? I could feel a growing tightness in my stomach.
Bertrand greeted us. As usual, he looked like a short, stocky version of a men?s fashion model. He?d chosen earth colors for the exhumation, ecologically correct tans and browns, no doubt made without chemical dyes.
Ryan and I acknowledged those we knew, then turned to the man in the shades. Bertrand introduced us.
?Andy. Doc. This is Father Poirier. He?s here representing the diocese.?
?
?Pardon me. Archdiocese. Since this is church property.? Bertrand jerked his thumb toward the fence behind him.
?Tempe Brennan,? I volunteered, offering my hand.
Father Poirier fixed his aviators on me and accepted it, wrapping my palm in a weak, spiritless grip. If people were graded on handshakes, he?d get a D-minus. His fingers felt cold and limp, like carrots kept too long in a cooler bin. When he released my hand, I resisted the urge to wipe it on my jeans.
He repeated the ritual with Ryan, whose face revealed nothing. Ryan?s early morning joviality had flown, replaced by stark seriousness. He?d gone into cop mode. Poirier looked as if he wanted to speak, but, seeing Ryan?s face, reconsidered and crimped his lips into a tight line. Somehow, with nothing said, he recognized that authority had shifted, that Ryan was now in charge.
?Has anyone been in there yet?? asked Ryan.
?No one. Cambronne got here about 5 A.M.,? said Bertrand, indicating the uniformed officer to his right. ?No one?s gone in or out. Father tells us that only two people have access to the grounds, himself and a caretaker. The guy?s in his eighties, been working here since Mamie Eisenhower made bangs popular.? In French it came out Eesenhure, and sounded comical.
?The gate could not have been open,? said Poirier, turning his aviators back on me. ?I check it every time I am here.?
?And when is that?? asked Ryan.
The shades released me and fastened on Ryan. They rested there a full three seconds before he responded.
?At least once a week. The Church feels a responsibility for all its properties. We do not simp-?
?What is this place??
Again, the pause. ?Le Monast #232;re St. Bernard. Closed since 1983. The Church felt the numbers did not warrant its continued operation.?
I found it strange that he spoke of the Church as an animate being, an entity with feelings and will. His French was also odd, subtly different from the flat, twangy form I?d grown used to. He wasn?t Qu #233;becois, but I couldn?t place the accent. It wasn?t the precise but throaty sound of France, what North Americans call Parisian. I suspected he was Belgian or Swiss.
?What goes on here?? Ryan pursued.
Another pause, as if the sound waves had to travel a long distance to strike a receptor.
?Today, nothing.?
The priest stopped speaking and sighed. Perhaps he recalled happier times when the Church thrived and the monasteries bustled. Perhaps he was collecting his thoughts, wanting to be precise in his statements to the police. The aviator lenses hid his eyes. An odd candidate for a priest, with his pristine skin, leather jacket, and biker footwear.
?Now, I come to check the property,? he continued. ?A caretaker keeps things in order.?
?Things?? Ryan was taking notes in a small spiral.
?The furnace, the pipes. Shoveling the snow. We live in a very cold place.? Poirier made a sweeping gesture with one thin arm, as if to take in the whole province. ?The windows. Sometimes boys like to throw rocks.? He looked at me. ?The doors and the gates. To make certain they remain locked.?
?When did you last check the padlocks??
?Sunday at 6 P.M. They were all secure.?
His prompt answer struck me. He hadn?t stopped to think on this one. Maybe Bertrand had already posed the question, or maybe Poirier just anticipated it, but the speed of his response made it sound precooked.
?You noticed nothing out of the ordinary??
?
?When does this caretaker-what?s his name??
?Monsieur Roy.?
?When does he come??
?He comes on Fridays, unless there is some special task for him.?
Ryan didn?t speak, but continued looking at him.
?Like clearing snow, or repairing a window.?
?Father Poirier, I believe Detective Bertrand has already questioned you about the possibility of burials on the grounds??
Pause. ?No. No. There are none.? He wagged his head from side to side and the sunglasses shifted on his nose. A bow popped off one ear and the frames came to rest at a twenty-degree angle. He looked like a tanker listing to port.
?This was a monastery, always a monastery. No one is buried here. But I have called our archivist and asked her to check the records to be absolutely certain.? As he spoke, he moved both hands to his temples and adjusted the glasses, realigning them carefully.
?You?re aware of why we?re here??
Poirier nodded and the glasses tilted again. He started to speak, then said nothing.
?Okay,? said Ryan, closing the spiral and sliding it into his pocket. ?How do you suggest we do this?? He directed that question to me.
?Let me take you in, show you what I found. After we remove it, bring in the dog to see if there?s anything else.? I was hoping my voice conveyed more confidence than I felt. Shit. What if there was nothing there?
?Right.?
Ryan strode over to the man in the jumpsuit. The shepherd bounded up to him and nuzzled his hand for attention. He stroked its head as he spoke to the handler. Then he rejoined us and led the whole group to the gate. As we walked I scanned my surroundings discreetly, looking for signs showing I?d been there the night before. Nothing.
We waited at the gate as Poirier withdrew an enormous ring of keys from his pocket and selected one. He grasped the padlock and yanked, making a show of testing it against the bars. It clanged softly in the morning air,
