Monday Mourning

“One last question, sir. Did you and Menard part on good terms?”

“Hell no. I threw his ass out.”

“Why was that?”

“Got tired of complaints from other tenants.”

“Complaints about what?”

“Unsavory clientele, mostly. Some about noise late at night.”

“What kind of noise?”

“Damned if I know. But I’d heard enough carping. Is that a word? Carping?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a fish.”

Ryan dropped me at home, apologized, said he’d be on duty all weekend. He promised to phone if he heard anything on Menard or the other set of prints. Or anything on Anne.

I didn’t ask if his work schedule extended into Saturday night.

Screw it. Who cares?

My answering machine held no messages.

Katy wanted me in Charlotte by the twenty-second, so I tried busying myself with tasks that had to be done before my departure.

Bed linen. Plants. Gift wrapping of packages for the caretaker, the techs at the lab.

Ryan?

I set that one aside.

I also busied myself with tasks that just had to be done.

Laundry. Cat litter. Mail.

I blasted Christmas music, hoping jingling bells or heralding angels might kick-start me into a holiday mood.

No go. All I could think about were the bones on my lab tables, the printouts on my blotter, and where the hell was Anne.

At three, I gave in and headed to Wilfrid-Derome.

Typical Saturday afternoon. The lab was empty and still as a tomb.

One Demande d’expertise form lay on my desk.

Four months earlier an elevator worker had disappeared from an inspection job at a building in Cote St-Luc. Thursday his decomposed body was found in Parc Angrignon in LaSalle. X-rays showed multiple fractures. Pelletier wanted me to analyze the trauma when the bones were cleaned.

Setting the form aside, I again took up Claudel’s list.

Overhead, the fluorescents hummed. Outside, gusts whined around the window casings. Now and then some frozen windborne particle ticked a pane.

Simone Badeau. Too old.

Isabelle Lemieux. Dental work.

Marie-Lucille d’Aquin. Black.

Micheline Thibault. Too young.

Tawny McGee. Way too young.

Celine Dallaire. Broken collarbone at age fourteen.

The names went on and on.

After an hour I switched to Charbonneau’s list.

Jennifer Kay. Esther Anne Pigeon. Elaine Masse. Amy Fish. Theresa Perez.

Now and then I crossed to the lab to recheck a bone, hoping to find some detail I’d overlooked. Each time I returned disappointed.

When I’d finished with the names, I went back through the lists by age. Then height. Date of disappearance.

I knew I was grasping at straws, but it was like a compulsion. I couldn’t stop myself.

Down the corridor, I heard the security doors swoosh.

Place of disappearance.

Terrebonne. Anjou. Gatineau. Beaconsfield.

Butte County. Tehama County. San Mateo County.

At six I sat back, thoroughly discouraged. Two and a half hours, and I’d accomplished nothing.