Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  After a moment he raised up and jerked a thumb in the direction from which he’d come. In a wheezy voice, like air through a clogged filter, he panted, “You better get over there, Ryan. The goddamn dog’s acting like a crackhead with a bad load.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Poirier’s hand jerk to his forehead and slide to his chest. The sign of the cross called upon once more.

  “What?” Ryan’s eyebrows rose in puzzlement.

  “DESALVO TOOK HIM AROUND THE GROUNDS, LIKE YOU SAID, AND THE SONO fabitch started circling this one spot and barking like he thinks Adolf Hitler and the whole goddamn German army’s buried there.” He paused. “Listen to him!”

  “And?”

  “And??? The little bastard’s about to blow a vocal chord. You don’t get over there pretty quick he’s going to circle right up his own asshole.”

  I suppressed a smile. The image was pretty comical.

  “Just hold him back a few more minutes. Give him a Milk-Bone or pop him a Valium if you have to. We’ve got something here we need to finish.” He looked at his watch. “Get back here in ten minutes.”

  The officer shrugged, released the branch he was holding, and turned to go.

  “Eh, Piquot.”

  The corpulent face swiveled back.

  “There’s a path here.”

  “Sacrifice,” Piquot hissed, picking his way through the tangle toward the trail Ryan had indicated. I was sure he’d lose it within fifteen yards.

  “And Piquot …” Ryan continued.

  The face looked back again.

  “Don’t let Rin Tin Tin disturb anything.”

  He turned back to me. “You waiting to have a birthday, Brennan?”

  We heard Piquot thrashing his way out of earshot as I slit the bag from end to end.

  The odor didn’t leap out and grab me as it had with Isabelle Gagnon. Freed of its confines, it spread outward slowly, asserting itself. My nose identified soil and plant decay, and an overlay of something else. It wasn’t the fetid smell of putrefaction, but a more primeval scent. It was a smell that spoke of passing, of origins and extinctions, of life recycled. I had smelled it before. It told me the sack held something dead, and not newly dead.

  Don’t let it be a dog or a deer, I thought, as my gloved hands separated the opening. My hands shook again and the plastic quivered in them. Yes, I changed my mind, let it be a dog or a deer.

  Ryan, Bertrand, and LaManche pressed in as I laid back the severed plastic. Poirier stood like a headstone, rooted to the spot.

  First I saw a scapula. Not much, but enough to confirm this was no hunter’s cache or family pet. I looked at Ryan. I could see pinching at the corners of his eyes and tension in his jaw muscles.

  “It’s human.”

  Poirier’s hand flew to his forehead for another go-around.

  Ryan reached for his spiral and turned a page. “What have we got?” he asked. His voice was as sharp as the blade I’d just used.

  I gently moved the bones. “Ribs … shoulder blades … collarbones … vertebrae,” I ticked off. “Looks like they’re all thoracic.”

  “Sternum,” I added, on finding the breastbone.

  I probed among the bones, looking for more body parts. The others watched in silence. When I reached into the back of the bag, a large brown spider skittered across my hand and up my arm. I could see its eyes rising on stalks, tiny periscopes seeking the cause of this intrusion. Its fuzzy legs felt light and delicate, like a lace hanky brushing across my skin. I jerked back, flinging the spider into space.

  “That’s it,” I said, straightening and stepping back. My knees popped in protest. “Upper torso. No arms.” My skin was crawling, but not from the spider.

  My gloved hands hung at my sides. I felt no joy in the vindication of my judgment, just a dulling numbness, like someone in shock. My emotional being had shut down, hung up a sign and gone to lunch. It’s happened again, I thought. Another human being dead. A monster is out there.

  Ryan scribbled in his spiral. His neck tendons bulged.

  “Now what?” Poirier’s voice was little more than a squeak.

  “Now we find the rest,” I said.

  Cambronne was positioning for photos when we heard the return of Piquot. Again, he came cross country. He joined us, looked at the bones, and released a whispered expletive.

  Ryan turned to Bertrand. “Can you take over here while we check out the dog?”

  Bertrand nodded. His body was as rigid as the pines around us.

  “Let’s bag what we’ve got, then recovery can go over this whole area. I’ll send them.”

  We left Bertrand and Cambronne and followed Piquot toward the barking. The animal sounded almost distraught.

  • • •

  Three hours later I sat on a grassy strip examining the contents of four body bags. The sun was high and hot on my shoulders, but did little to warm the chill inside me. Fifteen feet away the dog lay near its handler, its head angled across enormous brown paws. It had finished a big morning.

  Conditioned to respond to the smell of decomposed or decomposing body tissue, body dogs ferret out hidden corpses like infrared systems pinpoint heat. Even after its removal they detect the former resting places of decaying flesh. They are the bloodhounds of the dead. This dog had performed well, zeroing in on three more burial sites. At each strike it announced its find with zeal, barking and snapping and circling the spot in a frenzied display. I wondered if all cadaver dogs were as passionate about their work.

  Two hours were needed to excavate, process, and bag the remains. A preliminary inventory before removal, and now a more detailed list, logging every fragment of bone.

  I glanced at the dog. It looked as tired as I felt. Only its eyes moved, the chocolate orbs revolving like radar dishes. It shifted its gaze without moving its head.

  The dog had a right to be exhausted, but so did I. When it finally raised its head, a long, thin tongue dropped into view and hung quivering. I kept my tongue in my mouth and turned back to the inventory.

  “How many?”

  I hadn’t heard him approach, but I knew the voice. I braced myself.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel. Comment ça va?”

  “How many?” he repeated.

  “One,” I answered, never raising my eyes.

  “Anything missing?

  I finished writing and turned to look at him. He was standing with his feet spread, jacket hung from one arm, peeling the cellophane from a vending machine sandwich.

  Like Bertrand, Claudel had chosen natural textiles, cotton for the shirt and pants, linen for the jacket. He’d stayed with the greens, however, preferring a more verdant look. The only color contrast was in the pattern of his tie. Here and there it introduced a tasteful splash of tangerine.

  “Can you tell what we’ve got?” He gestured with bread and lunch meat.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  Less than thirty seconds since his arrival and I wanted to rip the sandwich from his hand and insert it forcefully up his nose, or any other orifice. Claudel did not bring out the best in me when I was relaxed and rested. This morning I was neither. Like the dog, I’d had it. I lacked the energy or the inclination to play games.

  “What we have is a partial human skeleton. There’s almost no soft tissue. The body was dismembered, placed in garbage bags, and buried in four separate locations in there.” I pointed to the monastery grounds. “I found one bag last night. The dog smelled out the other three this morning.”

  He took a bite, and gazed in the direction of the trees.

  “What’s missing?” The words garbled in ham and Muenster.

  I stared at him without speaking, wondering why I found a routine question so annoying. It was his manner. I played myself a variation on my Claudel lecture. Ignore it. This is Claudel. The man is a reptile. Expect condescension and arrogance. He knows you were right. He’s heard the story by now. He’s not going to say ‘bully for you.’ It must be kil
ling him. That’s good enough. Let it go.

  When I didn’t answer he returned his attention to me.

  “Anything missing?

  “Yes.”

  I put down the skeletal inventory sheet and looked him full in the eye. He squinted back, chewing. I wondered briefly why he had no sunglasses.

  “The head.”

  He stopped chewing.

  “What?”

  “The head is missing.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Monsieur Claudel, if I knew that, it wouldn’t be missing.”

  I saw his jaw muscles bunch, then release, not from mastication.

  “Anything else?”

  “Anything else what?”

  “Missing?”

  “Nothing significant.”

  His mind gnawed on those facts while his teeth gnawed on the sandwich. As he chewed, his fingers crumpled the cellophane, compressing it into a tight ball. Placing the ball in his pocket, he wiped each corner of his mouth with an index finger.

  “I don’t suppose you will tell me anything else?” More a statement than a question.

  “When I have had time to examine the …”

  “Yes.” He turned and walked away.

  Cursing under my breath, I zipped each of the body bags. The dog’s head snapped up at the sound. Its eyes followed me as I stuffed the clipboard into my pack and crossed the street toward a morgue attendant with a waist the size of an inner tube. I told him I’d finished, that the remains could be loaded, and that then they should wait.

  Up the street, I could see Ryan and Bertrand talking with Claudel and Charbonneau. The SQ meets the CUM. My paranoia made me suspicious of their talking. What was Claudel saying to them? Was it disparaging of me? Most cops are as territorial as howler monkeys, jealous of their turf, guarding their cases, wanting their own collars. Claudel was worse than the others, but why so specifically disdainful of me?

  Forget it, Brennan. He’s a bastard, and you’ve embarrassed him in his own backyard. You’re not at the top of his hit parade. Stop worrying about feeling and think about the job. You haven’t been innocent of possessive casework either.

  The talk stopped as I neared. Their manner removed some of the punch from the peppy approach I’d planned, but I hid my discomfort.

  “Hey, Doc,” said Charbonneau.

  I nodded and smiled in his direction.

  “So, where are we?” I asked.

  “Your boss took off about an hour ago. So did the good father. Recovery is finishing up,” said Ryan.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Metal detector hits?”

  “Every bloody pop top tab in the province.” Ryan sounded exasperated. “Oh, and we’re good for one parking meter. How ’bout you?”

  “I’m done. I told the morgue boys they could load up.”

  “Claudel says you’ve got no head.”

  “That’s right. The skull, jaw, and first four neck vertebrae are missing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the victim was decapitated and the killer put the head somewhere. He might’ve buried it here, but separately, like he did with the other body parts. They were pretty scattered.”

  “So we’ve got another bag out there?”

  “Maybe. Or he could’ve disposed of it somewhere else.”

  “Like where?”

  “In the river, down a latrine, in his furnace. How the hell would I know?”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Bertrand.

  “Maybe so the body couldn’t be identified.”

  “Could it?”

  “Probably. But it’s a hell of a lot easier with teeth and dental records. Besides, he left the hands.”

  “So?”

  “If a corpse is mutilated to prevent identification, usually the hands are removed too.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Prints can be taken from badly decomposed bodies, as long as there’s still some preserved skin. I’ve gotten prints from a five-thousand-year-old mummy.”

  “Did you get a match?” Claudel’s voice was flat.

  “The guy wasn’t entered,” I responded with equal lack of mirth.

  “But this is just bones,” said Bertrand.

  “The killer wouldn’t know that. He couldn’t be sure when the body would be found.” Like Gagnon, I thought. Only this one he buried.

  I stopped for a minute, and pictured the killer prowling the dark woods, distributing the bags and their grisly contents. Had he carved the victim elsewhere, bagged the bloody pieces, and brought them here by car? Did he park where I had parked, or was he able, somehow, to drive onto the grounds? Had he dug the holes first, planning the location of each? Or had he just carried in bags of body parts, digging one pit here and another there on four trips from his car? Was the dismemberment a panicky attempt to conceal a passion crime, or had both the murder and the mutilation been coldly premeditated?

  An appalling possibility struck me. Had he been here with me last night? Back to the present.

  “Or …”

  They all looked at me.

  “Or, he could still have it.”

  “Still have it?” scoffed Claudel.

  “Shit,” said Ryan.

  “Like Dahmer?” asked Charbonneau.

  I shrugged.

  “We better take Fang back for another sweep,” said Ryan. “They never brought him near the torso site.”

  “Right,” I said. “He’ll be pleased.”

  “Mind if we watch?” Charbonneau asked. Claudel shot him a look.

  “Not as long as you think happy thoughts,” I said. “I’ll get the dog. Meet me at the gate.”

  Striding off, I heard the word “bitch” in Claudel’s nasal tone. No doubt a reference to the animal, I told myself.

  The dog leapt to its feet when I approached, its tail wagging slowly. It looked from me to the man in the blue jumpsuit, seeking permission to approach the newcomer. I could see “DeSalvo” stamped on the jumpsuit.

  “Fido ready for another go?” I asked, extending a hand, palm down, toward the dog. DeSalvo gave an almost imperceptible nod, and the animal leapt forward and wetly nuzzled my fingers.

  “Her name’s Margot,” he said, speaking in English, but giving the name the French pronunciation.

  His voice was low and even, and he moved with the fluid, unhurried ease of those who spend their days with animals. His face was dark and deeply lined, a fan of small creases radiating from the corner of each eye. He looked like a man who’d lived outdoors.

  “French or English?”

  “She’s bilingual.”

  “Hey, Margot,” I said, crouching on one knee to scratch behind her ears. “Sorry about the gender thing. Big day, eh?”

  Margot’s tail picked up velocity. When I rose, she leapt back, pivoted full circle, then froze, studying my face intently. She tilted her head from side to side, and the crease between her eyes furrowed and unfurrowed.

  “Tempe Brennan,” I said, offering my hand to DeSalvo.

  He clipped one end of Margot’s lead to a belt at his waist and grasped the other end with one hand. He reached out his other hand to me. It felt hard and rough, like distressed metal. His grip was an uncontested A.

  “David DeSalvo.”

  “We think there may be more in there, Dave. Margot good for another go-round?”

  “Look at her.”

  On hearing her name Margot pricked her ears, crouched with head down, hips in the air, then sprang forward in a series of short hops. Her eyes were glued to DeSalvo’s face.

  “Right. What’ve you covered so far?”

  “We zigzagged the whole grounds, ’cept where you were working.”

  “Any chance she missed something?”

  “Nah, not today.” He shook his head. “Conditions are perfect. Temperature’s just right, it’s nice and moist from the rain. Plenty of breeze. And Margot’s in top form.”

  She nuzzled his knee and
was rewarded by strokes.

  “Margot don’t miss much. She wasn’t trained to nothing but corpse scent, so she won’t get sidetracked by nothing else.”

  Like trackers, cadaver dogs are taught to follow specific scents. In their case, it’s the smell of death. I remembered an Academy meeting at which an exhibitor had given away samples of bottled corpse scent. Eau de putrefaction. A trainer I knew used extracted teeth, bummed from his dentist and aged in plastic vials.

  “Margot’s ’bout the best I’ve worked with. Something else’s out there, she’ll scent it.”

  I looked at her. I could believe it.

  “Okay. Let’s take her over to that first site.”

  DeSalvo clipped the lead’s free end to Margot’s harness and she led us to the gate where the four detectives waited. We moved along the now familiar route, Margot in the lead, straining at her leash. She sniffed her way along, exploring nooks and crannies with her nose the way my flashlight had with its beam. Occasionally she stopped, inhaled rapidly, then expelled the air in a burst that sent dead leaves eddying around her snout. Satisfied, she’d move on.

  We stopped where the path branched off into the woods.

  “The part we haven’t done is just off here.”

  DeSalvo gestured in the general direction of our first find.

  “I’m gonna swing her around, bring her in downwind. She scents better that way. She thinks she’s got something, I’ll let her have her head.”

  “Will we bother her if we go into the area?” I asked.

  “Nah. Your smell don’t do nothing for her.”

  Dog and trainer continued up the roadbed for about ten yards, then disappeared into the woods. The detectives and I took the path. The crush of feet had made it more obvious. In fact, the burial site itself could now qualify as a tiny clearing. The vegetation was trampled and some of the overhead branches had been clipped.

  At the center, the abandoned hole gaped dark and empty, like a plundered grave. It was much larger than when we’d left it, and the surrounding earth was bare and scuffed. A mound of dirt lay off to the side, an earthen cone with sloping sides and truncated top, its particles unnaturally uniform. Backdirt from the screening.

  In less than five minutes we heard barking.

  “He behind us?” asked Claudel.

  “She,” I corrected.