“But the mutt here in Montreal isn’t Menard,” Charbonneau said when I returned.
“I’m using the name for convenience.”
“So where’s the real Menard?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was killed by the man living in Pointe-St-Charles. That’s your job.”
“Go on,” Ryan urged.
“The Stan case was all over the news from the fall of eighty-four through the fall of eighty-five. The press loved it, called it the Girl in the Box Case. Then the Sex Slave Case.”
Claudel looked at his watch.
“In 1985 a fourteen-year-old girl named Angie Robinson disappeared from Corning, California. Corning is located between Chico and Red Bluff.” I paused for emphasis. “I have reason to believe one of the three pizza basement skeletons is that of Angie Robinson.”
Charbonneau’s doughnut stopped in its trajectory to his mouth. “The kid in the leather shroud?”
“Yes.”
“The one with the broken wrist,” Claudel jumped in. “You were certain the ages are incompatible.”
“I said Angie Robinson was too young and too short to be a match with skeleton 38428. But if Angie lived for some time after her disappearance, that would account for the discrepancies.”
“Explain the strontium and Carbon 14 results to Luc,” Ryan said.
I did.
“And explain the dental sealant again.”
I did.
“Holy shit,” said Charbonneau. “You think Menard followed the news coverage and was inspired by this head case Hooker?”
“Yes. But there’s more. Anique Pomerleau disappeared from Mascouche in 1990 at age fifteen. Friday, Ryan and I saw Pomerleau in Menard’s house.”
“Menard’s been here since eighty-eight,” Charbonneau said.
Claudel tipped back his head and spoke down his nose.
“So based on this story about a girl in a box—”
“The girl has a name.” Claudel’s cynicism was jiggling my switch. “Colleen Stan.”
Claudel’s nostrils tightened.
“So you believe Menard has been holding Anique Pomerleau against her will for a decade and a half? That Angela Robinson and the other females buried in the cellar were also his captives?”
I nodded.
For a few moments no one spoke. Claudel broke the silence.
“Did Anique Pomerleau attempt to escape?”
“No.”
“Did she signal to you in any way that she wanted to leave Menard’s house?”
“She wasn’t wearing a banner that said ‘Help Me,’ if that’s what you mean.”
Claudel arced an eyebrow at Ryan.
“Pomerleau looked pretty scared,” Ryan said.
“She looked terrified,” I said.
“What exactly did she do?” Charbonneau asked.
“She ducked out of sight as soon as Menard looked at her. Acted like an abused puppy.”
“You think Menard’s holding Pomerleau as some kind of sex slave?” Charbonneau.
“I am not suggesting motive.”
“Bull snakes.” Claudel snorted.
“I’m a little hazy on herpetology, Detective. What exactly does that mean?”
Claudel raised both shoulders and spread his hands. “Any healthy adult capable of doing so would reach out for help.”
“Psychologists disagree,” I snapped. “Apparently you’re not familiar with the Stockholm syndrome.”
Claudel’s outstretched palms turned skyward.
“It’s an adaptation to extreme stress experienced under conditions of captivity and torture.”
The hands dropped to Claudel’s lap. His chin dipped.
“The Stockholm syndrome is seen in kidnap victims, prisoners, cult members, hostages, even abused spouses and kids. Victims seem to consent to, and may even express fond feelings for, their captors or abusers.”
