Bones to Ashes

“OK,” I said, drying my cheeks with my palms. “OK.” I started back toward the conference room. “Let’s spot one.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

The next three hours were some of the worst of my life.

Before leaving, Lesieur explained that Cormier had stored his collection in a series of digital folders. Some were titled. “Teen Dancers.” “Kinders.” “Aux prives d’amour.” “Japonaise.” Others were numbered or coded with letters. Every file bore the same date, probably the day of transfer to the thumb drive.

Hippo, Ryan, and I slogged our way through, folder by folder, video by video.

Not every clip was as horrific as the opener. Some showed overly made-up kids in sex-kitten lingerie. Others featured girls or adolescents awkwardly vamping, or mimicking strippers or pole dancers. A large number portrayed torture and full penetration.

Artistic skill and technical quality varied. Some videos looked old. Others appeared to have been shot recently. Some showed aptitude. Some were amateur.

The collection was formed around one common element. Every video featured one or more young females. A ghastly few involved toddlers.

Periodically, we took breaks. Drank coffee. Battled back revulsion. Refocused on the goal.

Each time, I checked my phone messages. No calls from Harry.

By noon nerves were frayed and the mood was tense.

I was opening a new folder when Hippo spoke.

“What the hell good’s this doing? I say we slide this garbage to NCECC and get our asses back on the street.”

The new folder was untitled. It contained eight files. I double-clicked the first and the video began loading.

“One familiar face.” Ryan’s fingers drummed the table. I could tell he wanted a cigarette. “One background detail.”

“Yeah?” The rusty voice dripped irritation. “What’s that give us?”

Ryan tipped his chair and thrust his feet onto the tabletop. “Right now, it’s our best shot at a lead.”

“Cormier was a perv. He’s dead.” Hippo took his zillionth antacid hit.

“He took photos of Quincy and Sicard.” Ryan wasn’t being goaded by Hippo’s ill temper.

“Hell-o. The guy was a photographer.”

Was Hippo being serious? Or playing devil’s advocate?

“Cormier may lead us to Bastarache,” I said. “Isn’t it your life’s dream to nail that bastard?”

The monitor went black, then a scene opened.

The camera is focused on a door.

“We’ve got nothing.” Hippo shifted and vinyl popped.

“We’ve got the contact sheet.”

“It’s older than Astroturf.”

“The child on that contact sheet was my friend. She worked in Bastarache’s house.”

“At the gray dawn of history.”

“When she was murdered!”

“Let’s concentrate.” Ryan. Sharp.

A girl appears in the doorway, young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She is in a low-cut halter-top evening gown. Black. Her hair is up. She is wearing too much lipstick.

The camera zooms in. The girl looks straight into the lens.

Beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath.

The girl’s eyes stare directly at us. She tilts her head, subtly raises one brow. Hints a smile.

“Mary mother of the sweet baby Jesus,” Hippo exhaled.

Ryan yanked his feet from the table. His chair legs smacked the floor.

Reaching behind her neck, the girl unties the halter. The dress falls, but she catches it to her breast.

The room was absolutely still.

Bending at the waist, the girl opens her mouth. Her tongue circles her lips. The camera zooms in and her features fill the screen.

Ryan jabbed a finger. “Stop it there!”

I moved to the keyboard. Hit Pause. The frame froze.