“Her father was Alain Nicolet, and her mother was Eugenie Belanger, a well-known singer at that time. Her uncle, Louis-Philippe Belanger, was a city councilman and a very distinguished physician.”
“Yes. Is there a birth certificate?”
He was silent. Then,
“We have not been able to locate a birth certificate.”
“Do you know where Elisabeth was born?”
“I think she was born in Montreal. Her family was here for generations. Elisabeth is a descendant of Michel Belanger, who came to Canada in 1758, in the last days of New France. The Belanger family was always prominent in city affairs.”
“Yes. Is there a hospital record, or a baptismal certificate, or anything that officially records her birth?”
More silence.
“She was born more than a century and a half ago.”
“Were records kept?”
“Yes. Sister Julienne has searched. But things can be lost over such a long time. Such a long time.”
“Of course.”
For a moment we were both silent. I was about to thank him when,
“Why are you asking these questions, Dr. Brennan?”
I hesitated. Not yet. I could be wrong. I could be right but it meant nothing.
“I just wanted a bit more background.”
I’d hardly replaced the receiver when the phone rang.
“
“Ryan.” I could hear tension in his voice. “It was arson all right. And whoever planned it made sure the place went up. Simple but effective. They hooked a heat coil to a timer, same kind you use to turn on your lamps when you go off to the spa.”
“I don’t go to spas, Ryan.”
“Do you want to hear this?”
I didn’t answer.
“The timer turned on the hot plate. That set off a fire which ignited a propane tank. Most of the timers were destroyed, but we recovered a few. Looks like they were set to go off at intervals, but once the fire spread it was bombs away.”
“How many tanks?”
“Fourteen. We found one undamaged timer out in the yard. Must have been a dud. It’s the kind you can buy in any hardware store. We’ll try for prints, but it’s a long shot.”
“The accelerant?”
“Gasoline, as I suspected.”
“Why both?”
“Because someone friggin’ wanted the place destroyed big time and didn’t want a screw-up. Probably figured there wouldn’t be a second chance.”
“How do you know that?”
“LaManche was able to draw fluid samples from the bodies in the bedroom. Toxicology found celestial levels of Rohypnol.”
“Rohypnol?”
“I’ll let him tell you about it. It’s called the date rape drug or something because it’s undetectable to the victim and knocks you flat on your ass for hours.”
“I know what Rohypnol is, Ryan. I’m just surprised. It’s not so easy to come by.”
“Yeah. That could be a break. It’s banned in the U.S. and Canada.”
So is crack, I thought.
“Here’s another weird thing. It wasn’t Ward and June Cleaver up in that bedroom. LaManche says the guy was probably in his twenties, the woman closer to fifty.”
I knew that. LaManche had asked my opinion during the autopsy.
“Now what?”
“We’re heading back out there to take the other two buildings apart. We’re still waiting for word from the owner. He’s some kind of hermit buried in the Belgian boonies.”
“Good luck.”
Rohypnol. That kindled something way down in my memory cells, but when I tried to bring it up the spark went out.
I checked to see if the slides for Pelletier’s malnourished baby case were finished. The histology tech told me
