?How many?? he repeated.
?One,? I answered, never raising my eyes.
?Anything missing?
I finished writing and turned to look at him. He was standing with his feet spread, jacket hung from one arm, peeling the cellophane from a vending machine sandwich.
Like Bertrand, Claudel had chosen natural textiles, cotton for the shirt and pants, linen for the jacket. He?d stayed with the greens, however, preferring a more verdant look. The only color contrast was in the pattern of his tie. Here and there it introduced a tasteful splash of tangerine.
?Can you tell what we?ve got?? He gestured with bread and lunch meat.
?Yes.?
?Yes??
Less than thirty seconds since his arrival and I wanted to rip the sandwich from his hand and insert it forcefully up his nose, or any other orifice. Claudel did not bring out the best in me when I was relaxed and rested. This morning I was neither. Like the dog, I?d had it. I lacked the energy or the inclination to play games.
?What
He took a bite, and gazed in the direction of the trees.
?What?s missing?? The words garbled in ham and Muenster.
I stared at him without speaking, wondering why I found a routine question so annoying. It was his manner. I played myself a variation on my Claudel lecture. Ignore it. This is Claudel. The man is a reptile. Expect condescension and arrogance. He knows you were right. He?s heard the story by now. He?s not going to say ?bully for you.? It must be killing him. That?s good enough. Let it go.
When I didn?t answer he returned his attention to me.
?Anything missing?
?Yes.?
I put down the skeletal inventory sheet and looked him full in the eye. He squinted back, chewing. I wondered briefly why he had no sunglasses.
?The head.?
He stopped chewing.
?What??
?The head is missing.?
?Where is it??
?Monsieur Claudel, if I knew that, it wouldn?t be missing.?
I saw his jaw muscles bunch, then release, not from mastication.
?Anything else??
?Anything else what??
?Missing??
?Nothing significant.?
His mind gnawed on those facts while his teeth gnawed on the sandwich. As he chewed, his fingers crumpled the cellophane, compressing it into a tight ball. Placing the ball in his pocket, he wiped each corner of his mouth with an index finger.
?I don?t suppose you will tell me anything else?? More a statement than a question.
?When I have had time to examine the . . .?
?Yes.? He turned and walked away.
Cursing under my breath, I zipped each of the body bags. The dog?s head snapped up at the sound. Its eyes followed me as I stuffed the clipboard into my pack and crossed the street toward a morgue attendant with a waist the size of an inner tube. I told him I?d finished, that the remains could be loaded, and that then they should wait.
Up the street, I could see Ryan and Bertrand talking with Claudel and Charbonneau. The SQ meets the CUM. My paranoia made me suspicious of their talking. What was Claudel saying to them? Was it disparaging of me? Most cops are as territorial as howler monkeys, jealous of
Forget it, Brennan. He?s a bastard, and you?ve embarrassed him in his own backyard. You?re not at the top of his hit parade. Stop worrying about feeling and think about the job. You haven?t been innocent of possessive casework either.
The talk stopped as I neared. Their manner removed some of the punch from the peppy approach I?d planned, but I hid my discomfort.
?Hey, Doc,? said Charbonneau.
I nodded and smiled in his direction.
?So, where are we?? I asked.
?Your boss took off about an hour ago. So did the good father. Recovery is finishing up,? said Ryan.
?Anything??
He shook his head.
?Metal detector hits??
?Every bloody pop top tab in the province.? Ryan sounded exasperated. ?Oh, and we?re good for one parking meter. How ?bout you??
?I?m done. I told the morgue boys they could load up.?
?Claudel says you?ve got no head.?
?That?s right. The skull, jaw, and first four neck vertebrae are missing.?
?Meaning??
?Meaning the victim was decapitated and the killer put the head somewhere. He might?ve buried it here, but separately, like he did with the other body parts. They were pretty scattered.?
?So we?ve got another bag out there??
?Maybe. Or he could?ve disposed of it somewhere else.?
?Like where??
?In the river, down a latrine, in his furnace. How the hell would I know??
?Why would he do that?? asked Bertrand.
?Maybe so the body couldn?t be identified.?
?Could it??
?Probably. But it?s a hell of a lot easier with teeth and dental records. Besides, he left the hands.?
?So??
?If a corpse is mutilated to prevent identification, usually the hands are removed too.?
He looked at me blankly.
?Prints can be taken from badly decomposed bodies, as long as there?s still some preserved skin. I?ve gotten prints from a five-thousand-year-old mummy.?
?Did you get a match?? Claudel?s voice was flat.
?The guy wasn?t entered,? I responded with equal lack of mirth.
?But this is just bones,? said Bertrand.
?The killer wouldn?t know that. He couldn?t be sure when the body would be found.? Like Gagnon, I thought. Only this one he buried.
I stopped for a minute, and pictured the killer prowling the dark woods, distributing the bags and their grisly contents. Had he carved the victim elsewhere, bagged the bloody pieces, and brought them here by car? Did he park where I had parked, or was he able, somehow, to drive onto the grounds? Had he dug the holes first, planning the location of each? Or had he just carried in bags of body parts, digging one pit here and another there on four trips from his car? Was the dismemberment a panicky attempt to conceal a passion crime, or had both the murder and the mutilation been coldly premeditated?
An appalling possibility struck me. Had he been here with me last night? Back to the present.
