“We’ve done gobs of facial reproductions like this.” He adjusted a light. “Though this is the first with a plastic skull.”
Gobs?
“Let me guess. The camera captures the image, sends it to the PC, and you connect the dots.”
Ryan had a way of making complex things sound kindergarten simple.
“There’s a bit more to it than that. But, yes, once I’ve drawn facial contours using the markers, I’ll choose features from the program’s database, find the best fit, and paste them in.”
“This the technique you used for one of the Inner Life Empowerment bodies?”
Ryan referred to a case he and I had worked several years back. A number of McGill students were recruited into a fringe sect led by a sociopath with delusions of immortality. When a skeleton turned up in a shallow grave near the group’s South Carolina commune, Lucien and I did a sketch to establish that the remains were those of a missing coed.
“Yes. What’s up with Chantale?”
“The judge agreed to give her another chance at home detention.”
Last evening, while Ryan stayed to explain the shooting, I’d taken Chantale home. This morning he’d done a follow-up to be sure she was still there.
“Think Mommy will keep a closer watch?” I asked.
“I suspect Manuel Noriega enjoys more freedom than Chantale can hope for in the near future.”
“She was pretty subdued last night,” I said.
“The fuck-off-and-leave-me-alone demeanor has definitely lightened.”
“How are you doing?” I asked, noticing the tension in his face.
In Montreal, an internal investigation is mandated following every police shooting. To maintain impartiality, the CUM homicide section looks into shootings by SQ officers, and the SQ investigates incidents involving the CUM. As I was leaving with Chantale, I saw Ryan hand his gun to a CUM cop.
Ryan shrugged. “Two DOAs. One was mine.”
“It was a good shoot, Ryan. They know that.”
“I turned Ste-Catherine into the O.K. Corral.”
“The guy killed Nordstern and was about to take a hostage.”
“Have you been called?”
“Not yet.”
“Something to look forward to.”
“I’ll tell them exactly what went down. Have you got an ID on the shooter?”
“Carlos Vicente. Held a Guatemalan passport.”
“The moron carried his passport to a hit?”
Ryan shook his head. “A key from the Days Inn on Guy. We tossed the room, found the passport in a carry-on bag.”
“Doesn’t sound like a pro.”
“We also found two thousand U.S. dollars and an airline ticket to Phoenix.”
“Anything else?”
“Dirty shorts.”
I gave him the look.
“I phoned Galiano. Nothing popped up when he ran Vicente’s name, but he’s going to dig deeper.”
“What about Nordstern?”
“Doesn’t look good for the Pulitzer.”
More of the look.
“I’m heading to the Hotel St. Malo now. Since Nordstern was your boy, I thought you might like to tag along.”
“I need to finish this facial.”
“I can do it, Dr. Brennan.” Lucien sounded like a second-stringer on a high school football team.
I must have looked skeptical.
“Let me give it a shot.” Please, Coach. Send me in.
Why not? If Lucien’s sketch didn’t look right, I could always do my own.
“O.K. Do a full frontal. Don’t force the features. Make sure they fit the bony architecture.”
