relevant, anything at all, get it up on that victim?s board.?
Nods.
?We?ll have an updated printout of the pervert parade today. Divide it up, roust these guys, see where they?ve been partying.?
?Usually in their own shorts.? Charbonneau.
?Could be one of them crossed the line, now finds his shorts lacking.?
Ryan looked at each of us in turn.
?It?s absolutely critical we work as a team. No individuals. No heroes. Talk. Exchange information. Bounce ideas off each other. That?s how we?re going to nail this bastard.?
?If there is one.? Claudel.
?If not, Luc, we?ll clean house, nail a whole lot of bastards. Nothing lost.?
Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and drew a series of short, quick lines on his tablet.
?It?s equally important we be concerned about security,? Ryan continued. ?No leaks.?
?Patineau going to announce our little civic group?? Charbonneau.
?No. In a sense, we?re working undercover.?
?Public hears the words serial killer, they?ll go ape shit. Surprised they haven?t already.? Charbonneau.
?Apparently the press hasn?t picked up on the connection. Don?t ask me why. Patineau wants to keep it that way for now. That may change.?
?Press has the memory of a gnat.? Bertrand.
?Nah, that?s the IQ score.?
?They?d never make that cutoff.?
?Okay. Okay. Let?s go. Here?s what we?ve got.?
Ryan summarized each case. I listened mutely as my ideas, even my words, filled the air and were scribbled onto legal pads. Okay, some of Dobzhansky?s ideas as well, but passed on by me.
Mutilation. Genital penetration. Real estate ads. M #233;tro stops. Someone had been listening. What?s more, someone had been checking. The boucherie where Grace Damas had once worked was a block off St. Laurent. Close to the St. Jacques apartment. Close to the Berri-UQAM M #233;tro. It plotted. That made four for five. That?s what had tipped the balance. That and J.S.
Following our talk, Ryan had convinced Patineau to forward a formal request to Quantico. J.S. had agreed to give the Montreal cases top priority. A flurry of faxes provided him with what he needed, and Patineau had a profile three days later. That had done it. Patineau had decided to move.
I felt relieved, but also slighted. They?d taken my labor and left me to sweat. On walking into that meeting, I had feared personal censure, had not expected tacit acknowledgment of work well done. Nevertheless. I steadied my voice to hide my anger.
?So what does Quantico tell us to look for??
Ryan pulled a thin folder from the stack, opened it, and read.
?Male. White. Francophone. Probably not educated beyond secondary level. Probably a history of NSO?s . . .?
?
?Nuisance sexual offenses. Peeping. Obscene phone calls. Indecent exposure.?
?The cute stuff.? Claudel.
?Dummy man.? Bertrand.
Claudel and Charbonneau snorted.
?Shit.? Claudel.
?My hero.? Charbonneau.
?Who the hell?s dummy man?? Ketterling, St. Lambert.
?Little maggot busts apartments so he can stuff the lady?s nightie, then slash it. Been working his act about five years.?
Ryan continued, selecting phrases from the report.
?Careful planner. Probably uses ruse to approach victim. Possibly the real estate angle. Probably married . . .?
?
?The hidey-hole. Can?t bring the victims home to wifey.?
?Or Mommy.? Claudel.
Back to the report.
?Probably selects, prepares isolated location in advance.?
?The basement?? Ketterling, St. Lambert.
?Hell, Gilbert sprayed the shit out of that place with Luminol. If there was any blood there, it would have lit up like Tomorrowland.? Charbonneau.
Report. ?Excessive violence and cruelty suggest extreme anger. Possible revenge orientation. Possible sadistic fantasies involving domination, humiliation, pain. Possible religious overlay.?
?
?The statue, the body dumps. Trottier was at a seminary, so was Damas.?
For the next few moments no one said a word. The wall clock buzzed softly. In the corridor, a pair of high heels clicked closer, receded. Claudel?s pen made short, tense strokes.
?
Claudel?s continued resistance to the one-killer theory annoyed me.
?It?s also
Claudel?s face hardened into its usual mask, which he pointed at his tablet. The lines in his cheeks tensed, but he said nothing.
Buzz.
?Does Dr. Dobzhansky have a long-term forecast?? I asked, calmer.
?Short term,? Ryan said somberly and returned to the profile. ?Indications of loss of control. Increasing boldness. Intervals shortening.? He closed the folder and shoved it toward the center of the table. ?Will kill again.?
Silence again.
Eventually, Ryan looked at his watch. We all followed suit, like assembly line robots.
?So. Let?s get into these files. Add anything you have that?s not here. Luc, Michel, Gautier was CUM, so you guys might have more on that one.?
Nods from Charbonneau and Claudel.
?Pitre fell to the SQ. I?ll double-check her. The others are more recent, should be pretty complete.?
Since I was all too familiar with the five recents, I started with Pitre and Gautier. The files had been open since ?88 and ?89 respectively.
Constance Pitre?s semi-nude, badly decomposed body was found in an abandoned house at Khanawake, an Indian reserve upriver from Montreal. Marie-Claude Gautier was discovered behind the Vend #244;me M #233;tro, a switching point for trains to the western suburbs. Both women had been savagely beaten, their throats slashed. Gautier had been twenty-eight, Pitre thirty-two. Neither had been married. Each lived alone. The usual suspects had been questioned, the usual leads pursued. Dead end in each case.
I spent three hours going over the files, which, compared to those I?d studied for the past six weeks, were relatively sparse. Both women had been prostitutes. Was that the reason for the limited investigations? Exploited in life, ignored in death? Good riddance? I refused to allow myself to pursue it.
I looked at family snapshots of each victim. Their faces were different, yet similar in some disturbing way. The yeasty white pallor, the lavish makeup, the cold, flat stare. Their expressions brought to recall my night on the Main, when I?d viewed the street production from a front-row seat. Resignation. Desperation. There I?d seen it live. Here it was in stills.
I spread the crime scene photos, knowing beforehand the story they?d tell. Pitre: the yard, the bedroom, the body. Gautier: the station, the bushes, the body. Pitre?s head was almost severed. Gautier?s throat had also been
