flung at a canvas by an abstract artist. There was no pattern.
What did you expect, Brennan, an arrow pointing to a flat on Sherbrooke? Forget place. Try time.
I looked at the dates. Damas was the first. In early 1992. I calculated in my head. Eleven months between Damas and Morisette-Champoux. Nine months later, Trottier. Six months to Gagnon. Two months between Gagnon and Adkins.
The intervals were decreasing. Either the killer was growing bolder, or his blood lust was growing stronger. My heart pounded hard against my ribs as I considered the implication. Over a week had passed since Margaret Adkins died.
26
I FELT TRAPPED INSIDE MY SKIN. ANXIOUS AND FRUSTRATED. THE visions in my head annoyed me, but I couldn?t turn them off. I watched a candy wrapper dance on the wind outside my window, tossed by puffs of shifting air.
That piece of paper is you, Brennan, I chided myself. Can?t control your own fate, much less anyone else?s. There?s nothing on St. Jacques. No word on who put the skull in your yard. Gabby?s nut case is still out there. Claudel is probably lodging a complaint against you. Your daughter is about to drop out of school. And five dead women are living in your head, and likely to be joined by a sixth or seventh at the rate your investigation is going.
I looked at my watch-2:15 P.M. I couldn?t stand my office another minute. I had to do something.
But what?
I glanced at Ryan?s incident report. An idea began to form.
They?ll be furious, I told myself.
Yes.
I checked the report. The address was there. I pulled up my spreadsheet on the computer screen. They were all there, along with the phone numbers.
You would do better to go to the gym and work off your frustration there.
Yes.
Solo sleuthing won?t help the situation with Claudel.
No.
You may lose Ryan?s support.
True.
Tough.
I printed the data from the screen, made a choice, and dialed. A man answered on the third ring. He was surprised but agreed to see me. Grabbing my purse, I fled into the summer sunshine.
It was hot again, the air so thick with humidity you could take your finger and write your initials in it. The haze refracted the sun?s glare and spread it all around like a cloak. I drove toward the home Francine Morisette- Champoux had shared with her husband. I?d chosen her case for no other reason than proximity. She had lived just below Centre-ville, not ten minutes from my condo. If I bombed, well, I was on my way home.
I found the address and pulled to a stop. The street was lined with brick town houses, each with its iron balcony, below-ground garage, and brightly colored door.
Unlike most communities in Montreal, this one had no name. Urban renewal had transformed what had been part of the Canadian National yards, replacing tracks and toolsheds with residences, barbecue grills, and tomato plants. The neighborhood was neat and middle class, but suffered from an identity crisis. It was too close to the city core to be truly suburban, but just a hair outside the arc defining trendy downtown. It wasn?t old and it wasn?t new. Functional and convenient, it lacked bouquet.
I rang the bell and waited. Fresh-cut grass and ripe garbage tinged the hot air. Two doors down a sprinkler arced water across a Chiclet-sized lawn. A central air compressor hummed to life, its sound challenging the sprinkler?s steady click.
When he opened the door I thought of the Gerber baby grown up. His hair was blond and receding, the center patch swirling into a curl on his forehead. His cheeks and chin were round and padded, his nose short and angled upward. He was a large man, not yet gone to fat, but moving down that road. Though it was ninety degrees, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Calgary Stampede-1985.
?Monsieur Champoux, I?m . . .?
He pulled the door wide and stepped back, ignoring the ID I held for his inspection. I followed him down a narrow hall to a narrow living room. Fish tanks lined one wall, tinting the room an eerie aquamarine. At the far end I could see a counter stacked with small nets, boxes of food, and other fish paraphernalia. Louvered doors opened onto the kitchen. I recognized the kitchen work island and looked away.
Monsieur Champoux cleared a spot on the sofa and indicated I should sit. He dropped into a recliner.
?Monsieur Champoux,? I began again, ?I?m Dr. Brennan from the Laboratoire de M #233;decine L #233;gale.?
I left it at that, hoping to avoid further explanations about my precise role in the investigation. I didn?t really have any.
?Have you found something? I . . . It?s been so long I don?t let myself think about it anymore.? He spoke to the parquet floor. ?It?s been a year and a half since Francine died, and I haven?t heard from you people in over a year.?
I wondered where he thought I fit in with ?you people.?
?I answered so many questions, talked to so many people. The coroner. The cops. The press. I even hired my own investigator. I really wanted to nail this guy. Didn?t do any good. They never found a clue. We can pinpoint the time he killed her to within an hour, you know. The coroner said she was still warm. This maniac kills my wife, walks out, and disappears without a trace.? He shook his head in disbelief. ?Have you finally got something??
His eyes held a mixture of anguish and hope. Guilt sliced to my core.
?No, Monsieur Champoux, not really.? Except four other women may have been killed by the same animal. ?I just want to go over a few details, see if there?s anything we overlooked.?
The hope vanished and resignation surfaced. He leaned back in his chair and waited.
?Your wife was a nutritionist??
He nodded.
?Where did she work??
?All over, really. She was paid by the MAS, but on any given day she could have been anywhere.?
?The MAS??
?Minist #232;re des Affaires Sociales.?
?She moved around??
?Her job was to advise food cooperatives, immigrant groups mostly, about how to buy stuff. She?d help them form these collective kitchens, then teach them how to make whatever it is they like to eat so it would be cheap, but still healthy. She?d help them get produce and meat and things. Usually in bulk. She was always visiting the kitchens to be sure they were running okay.?
?Where were these collectives??
?All over the place. Parc Extension. C #244;te des Neiges. St. Henri. Little Burgundy.?
?How long had she been working for the MAS??
?Maybe six, seven years. Before that she worked at the Montreal General. Had much better hours.?
?Did she enjoy her work??
?Oh yeah. She loved it.? The words caught briefly in his throat.
?Were her hours irregular??
?No, they were regular. She worked all the time. Mornings. Evenings. Weekends. There was always a problem and Francine was the one to fix it.? His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched.
?Had you and your wife disagreed about her work??
He fell silent for a moment. Then, ?I wanted to see more of her. I wished she was still at the hospital.?
