old.
?Jesus,? I whispered softly.
I was picking my way through the autopsy report when Charbonneau appeared in my doorway. I guessed his mood was not congenial. His eyes looked bloodshot and he didn?t bother with greetings. He entered without asking and took the chair opposite my desk.
Watching him, I felt a momentary sense of loss. The lumbering walk, the looseness in his movement, just the
For a moment I saw Pete sitting across from me, and my mind flew backward in time. What an intoxicant his body had been. I never knew if it was his size, or the relaxed way he had of moving it. Maybe it was
I waited for Charbonneau to begin. He was staring down at his hands.
?My partner can be a sonofabitch.? He spoke in English. ?But he?s not a bad guy.?
I didn?t respond. I noticed that his pants had four-inch hems, hand sewn, and wondered if he?d done the job himself.
?He?s just-set in his ways. Doesn?t like change.?
?Yes.?
He wouldn?t meet my eyes. I felt unease.
?And?? I encouraged.
He leaned back and picked at a thumbnail, still avoiding eye contact. From a radio down the hall Roch Voisine sang softly of H #233;l #232;ne.
?He says he?s going to file a complaint.? He dropped both hands and shifted his gaze to the window.
?A complaint?? I tried to keep my voice flat.
?With the minister. And the director. And LaManche. He?s even looking up your professional board.?
?And what is Monsieur Claudel unhappy about?? Stay calm.
?He says you?re overstepping your bounds. Interfering in stuff you got no business in. Messing up his investigation.? He squinted into the bright sunlight.
I felt my stomach muscles tighten, and a hotness spread upward.
?Go on.? Flat.
?He thinks you?re . . .? He fumbled for a word, no doubt seeking a substitute for the one Claudel had actually used. ?. . . overreaching.?
?And what exactly does that mean??
He still avoided eye contact.
?He says you?re trying to make the Gagnon case into a bigger deal than it really is, seeing all kinds of shit that isn?t there. He says you?re trying to turn a simple murder into an American-style psycho extravaganza.?
?And why am I trying to do that?? My voice wavered slightly.
?Shit, Brennan, this isn?t my idea. I don?t know.? For the first time his eyes met mine. He looked miserable. It was obvious he didn?t want to be there.
I stared back, not really seeing him, just using the time to quell the alarm call going out to my adrenals. I had some idea of the type of inquiry a letter of complaint could set in motion, and I knew it wouldn?t be good. I?d investigated such charges when I sat on the board?s ethics committee. Regardless of outcome, it was never pretty. Neither of us spoke.
?H #233;l #232;ne the things you do. Make me crazy ?bout you,? crooned the radio.
Don?t kill the messenger, I told myself. My eyes dropped to the dossier on my desk. A body with skin the color of milk reproduced in a dozen glossy rectangles. I considered the photos, then looked at Charbonneau. I hadn?t wanted to broach this yet, didn?t feel ready, but Claudel was forcing my hand. What the hell. Things couldn?t get worse.
?Monsieur Charbonneau, do you remember a woman named Francine Morisette-Champoux??
?Morisette-Champoux.? He repeated the name several times, twirling through his mental Rolodex. ?That was several years ago, eh??
?Almost two. January of 1993.? I handed him the photos.
He thumbed through them, nodding his head in recognition. ?Yeah, I remember. So??
?Think, Charbonneau. What do you recall about the case??
?We never got the turd that did it.?
?What else??
?Brennan, tell me you?re not trying to hook this one in, too??
He went through the photos again, the nodding transformed to negative shaking.
?No way. She was shot. Doesn?t fit the pattern.?
?The bastard slit her open and cut her hand off.?
?She was old. Forty-seven, I think.?
I gave him an icy stare.
?I mean, older than the others,? he mumbled, reddening.
?Morisette-Champoux?s killer drove a knife up her vagina. According to the police report there was extensive bleeding.?
I let that sink in.
?She was still alive.?
He nodded. I didn?t need to explain that a wound inflicted after death will bleed very little since the heart is no longer pumping and blood pressure is gone. Francine Morisette-Champoux had bled profusely.
?With Margaret Adkins it was a metal statue. She was also alive.?
Silently, I reached behind me and pulled the Gagnon file. I withdrew the scene photos and spread them in front of him. There was the torso lying on its plastic bag, dappled by the four o?clock sunlight. Nothing had been moved but the covering of leaves. The plunger lay in place, its red rubber cup snug against the pelvic bones, its handle projecting toward the body?s severed neck.
?I believe Gagnon?s killer shoved that plunger into her with enough force to drive the handle through her belly and clear up to her diaphragm.?
He studied the photos for a long time.
?Same pattern with all three victims,? I hammered on. ?Forceful penetration with a foreign object while the victim is alive. Body mutilation after death. Coincidence, Monsieur Charbonneau? How many sadists do we want out there, Monsieur Charbonneau??
He ran his fingers through the bristle on his head, then drummed them on the arm of the chair.
?Why didn?t you tell us this sooner??
?I just realized the Morisette-Champoux connection today. With only Adkins and Gagnon, it seemed a bit thin.?
?What does Ryan say??
?Haven?t told him.?
Unconsciously I fingered the scab on my cheek. I still looked like I?d gone to a TKO with George Foreman.
?Shit.? He said it with little force.
?What??
?I think I?m beginning to agree with you. Claudel?s going to bust my balls about this.? More drumming. ?What else??
?The saw marks and pattern of dismemberment are almost identical for Gagnon and Trottier.?
?Yeah. Ryan told us that.?
?And the unknown from St. Lambert.?
?A fifth?? It came out ?fit.?
?You?re very quick.?
