Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  THE AIR HAD THE TEXTURE OF DEW. A MIST HAD RISEN FROM THE river, and tiny droplets sparkled like glitter in the streetlights. The chill and damp felt good against my skin. A knot of pain between my neck and shoulder blades made me suspect I’d been tensed for hours, coiled and ready to bolt. Maybe I had been. If so, the tension came only in part from my search for Gabby. Approaching the hookers had grown routine. So had their rejection. Fending off the cruisers and the gropers had become a reflex response.

  It was the battle inside that was wearing me down. I’d spent four hours fighting off an old lover, a lover from whom I’d never be free. All night I’d gazed temptation in the face—the chestnut glow of scotch on ice, the amber beer poured from bottles into throats. I’d smelled my moonshine sweetheart and seen his light in the eyes around me. I’d loved it once. Hell, I loved it still. But the enchantment would destruct. For me, any trifling dalliance and the affair would consume and overpower. So I’d walked away from it, with twelve slow steps. And I had stayed away. Having been lovers, we could never be friends. Tonight we’d almost been thrown into each other’s arms.

  I breathed deeply. The air was a cocktail of motor oil, wet cement, and fermenting yeast from the Molson brewery. Ste. Catherine was almost deserted. An old man in a tuque and parka slumbered against a storefront, a scruffy mongrel at his side. Another sorted through trash on the far side of the street. Perhaps there was a third shift on the Main.

  Discouraged and exhausted, I headed toward St. Laurent. I’d tried. If Gabby was in trouble, these folks would not help me reach her. This club was as closed as the Junior League.

  I passed the My Kinh. A sign above the window advertised CUISINE VIETNAMIENNE, and promised it all night. I glanced through the grimy glass with little interest, then stopped. Seated at a rear booth was Poirette’s companion, her hair still frozen in an apricot pagoda. I watched her for a moment.

  She dipped an egg roll into a cherry red sauce, then raised it to her mouth and licked the tip. After a moment she inspected the roll, then nibbled at the wrapping with her front teeth. She dipped again, and repeated the maneuver without hurry. I wondered how long she’d been working that egg roll.

  No. Yes. It’s too late. Hell. One last shot. I pushed open the door, and entered.

  “Hi.”

  Her hand jumped at the sound of my voice. She looked puzzled at first, then relieved, as recognition surfaced.

  “Hey, chère. You still out?” She returned to her roll.

  “May I join you?”

  “Suit yourself. You’re not working my ground, sugar, I got no grievance with you.”

  I slid into the booth. She was older than I’d thought, late thirties, maybe early forties. Though the skin on her throat and forehead was taut and there were no bags under her eyes, in the harsh fluorescent light I could see small creases radiating from her lips. Her jawline was beginning to sag.

  The waiter brought a menu and I ordered Soupe Tonqinoise. I wasn’t hungry, but I wanted an excuse to stay.

  “You find your friend, chère?” She reached for her coffee, and the plastic bracelets on her wrist clacked. I could see gray scar lines across her inner elbow.

  “No.”

  We waited while an Asian boy of about fifteen brought water and a paper place mat.

  “I’m Tempe Brennan.”

  “I remember. Jewel Tambeaux may hawk pussy, darlin’, but she’s not stupid.” She licked at the egg roll.

  “Ms. Tambeaux, I—”

  “You call me Jewel, baby.”

  “Jewel, I just spent four hours trying to find out if a friend is all right, and no one will even admit they’ve heard of her. Gabby’s been coming down here for years so I’m sure they know who I’m talking about.”

  “Might be they do, chère. But they got no idea why you askin’.” She put down the roll, and drank the coffee with a soft slurping sound.

  “I gave you my card. I’m not hiding who I am.”

  She looked at me hard for a moment. The smell of drugstore cologne, smoke, and unwashed hair floated from her and filled the small booth. The neck of her halter was rimmed with makeup.

  “Who are you, Miss ‘Person with a Card Says Tempe Brennan’? You heat? You inta some kind of weird hustle?” It came out sounding like “wired.” “You someone got a grudge?” As she spoke she raised one long, red talon from her cup and pointed it at me, emphasizing each possibility.

  “Do I look like a threat to Gabby?”

  “All folks know, chère, is you’re down here in your Charlotte Hornets sweatshirt and Yuppie sandals, and you’re asking a lot of questions, trying real hard to shake someone loose. You ain’t pussy on the hoof and you ain’t trying to score rock. Folks don’t know where to put you.”

  The waiter brought my soup and we sat in silence while I squeezed small cubes of lime and added red pepper paste with a tiny china spoon. As I ate, I watched Jewel nibble her egg roll. I decided to try humble.

  “I guess I went about it all wrong.”

  She raised hazel eyes to me. One false lash had loosened, and it curved upward on her lid, like a millipede rising to test the air. Dropping her eyes, she laid down the remains of the egg roll, and slid her coffee directly in front of her.

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have just charged up to people and started asking questions. It’s just that I’m worried about Gabby. I’ve called her apartment. I’ve stopped by. I’ve called her at school. No one seems to know where she is. It’s not like her.”

  I took a spoonful of soup. It tasted better than I’d anticipated.

  “What’s your friend Gabby do?”

  “She’s an anthropologist. She studies people. She’s interested in life down here.”

  “Coming of Age on the Main.”

  She laughed to herself, watching carefully for my response to the Margaret Mead reference. I gave none, but began to agree that Jewel Tambeaux was no dummy. I sensed I was being tested.

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found right now.”

  You may open your exam booklets.

  “Maybe.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  You may pick up your pencils.

  “She seemed very troubled the last time I was with her. Scared, almost.”

  “Troubled ’bout what, sugar?”

  Ready.

  “Some guy she thought was following her. Said he was strange.”

  “Lot of strange ones down here, chère.”

  Okay, class, begin.

  I told her the whole story. As she listened, she swirled the dregs in her cup, watching the black-brown liquid intently. When I’d finished, she continued with the cup, as if scoring my answer. Then she signaled for a refill. I waited to find out my grade.

  “I don’t know his name, but I most likely know who you talkin’ about. Skinny dude, personality of a mealworm. He’s strange, all right, and whatever’s ailing him ain’t no small thing. But I don’t think he’s dangerous. I doubt he’s got the brains to read a ketchup label.”

  I’d passed.

  “Most of us avoid him.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m only passing on the word from the street, ’cause I don’t do business with him myself. The guy makes my skin crawl like a gator in mud.” She grimaced and gave a small shudder. “Word is he’s got peculiar wants.”

  “Peculiar?”

  She put her cup on the table and looked at me, evaluating.

  “He pays for it, but he doesn’t want to fuck.”

  I scooped noodles from my soup and waited.

  “Girl named Julie goes with him. No one else will. She’s about as smart as a runner bean, but that’s another story. She told me it’s the same show every time. They go to the room, our hero brings a paper bag with a nightie inside. Nothing kinky, lacy kinds of stuff. He watches her put it on, then tells her to lie on the bed. Okay, no big deal. Then he strokes the nightie with one hand and his dick with the other. Pretty soon he gets hard as an oil derrick and b
lows a gusher, grunting and groaning like he’s off in some other creation. Then he makes her take off the gown, thanks her, pays her, and leaves. Julie figures it’s easy money.”

  “What makes you think this is the guy worrying my friend?”

  “One time, he’s stuffing Granny’s nightie back in the ditty bag, Julie sees a big ol’ knife handle. She tells him, you want more pussy, cowboy, lose the knife. He tells her it’s his sword of righteousness or some damned thing, goes on about the knife, and his soul, and ecological balance, and crap like that. Scares the shit out of her.”

  “And?”

  Another shrug.

  “He still around?”

  “Haven’t seen him for a while, but that don’t mean much. I never did see him regular. He’d kind of drift in and drift out.”

  “Did you ever talk to him?”

  “Cutie, we’ve all talked to him. When he’s around he’s like a case of the drips, irritating as hell but you can’t shake it. That’s how I know he’s got the personality of roach larvae.”

  “Ever see him with Gabby?” I slurped some more noodles.

  She sat back and laughed. “Nice try, sugar.”

  “Where could I find him?”

  “Hell if I know. Wait long enough, he’ll show up.”

  “How about Julie?”

  “It’s a free trade zone here, chère, folks come and go. I don’t keep track.”

  “Have you seen her lately?”

  She gave it some thought. “Can’t say as I have.”

  I studied the noodles at the bottom of the bowl and I studied Jewel. She had lifted the lid a tiny crack, allowed a peek inside. Could I raise it farther? I took the chance.

  “There may be a serial killer out there, Jewel. Someone murdering women and slicing them up.”

  Her expression never changed. She just looked at me, a stony gargoyle. Either she hadn’t understood, or she was dulled to thoughts of violence and pain, even death. Or perhaps she’d thrown on a mask, a facade to conceal a fear too real to validate by speech. I suspected the latter.

  “Jewel, is my friend in danger?”

  Our eyes locked.

  “She female, chère?”

  • • •

  I motored my way home, letting my thoughts drift, paying little attention to my driving. De Maisonneuve was deserted, the traffic lights playing to an empty house. Suddenly, a pair of headlights appeared in my rearview mirror and bore down on me.

  I crossed Peel and slid to my right to allow the vehicle to pass. The lights moved with me. I shifted back to the inner lane. The driver followed, shifting to high beam.

  “Asshole.”

  I sped up. The car stayed on my bumper.

  A prickle of fear. Maybe it wasn’t just a drunk. I squinted into the rearview mirror, trying to make out the driver. All I could see was a silhouette. It looked large. A man? I couldn’t tell. The lights were blinding. The car unidentifiable.

  Hands slick on the wheel, I crossed Guy, turned left around the block, ignoring red lights, shot up my street, and dived underground into the garage of my building.

  I waited until the electric door had settled, then bolted, key ready, ears alert for the sound of footsteps. No one followed. As I passed through the first-floor lobby, I peeked through the curtains. A car idled at the curb on the far side of the street, lights burning, its driver a black profile in the predawn dimness. Same car? I couldn’t be certain. Was I losing it?

  Thirty minutes later I lay watching the curtain of darkness outside my window fade from charcoal to mourning dove gray. Birdie purred in the crook of my knee. I was so exhausted I’d pulled off my clothes and fallen into bed, skipping the preliminaries. Not like me. Usually I’m compulsive about teeth and makeup. Tonight, I didn’t care.

  WEDNESDAY IS GARBAGE DAY ON MY BLOCK. I SLEPT THROUGH THE sound of the sanitation truck. I slept through Birdie’s nudging. I slept through three phone calls.

  I woke at ten-fifteen feeling sluggish and headachy. I was definitely not twenty-four anymore. All-nighters took their toll, and it made me cranky to admit it.

  My hair, my skin, even the pillow and sheets smelled of stale smoke. I bundled the linens and last night’s clothes into the washer, then took a long, sudsy shower. I was spreading peanut butter on a stale croissant when the phone rang.

  “Temperance?” LaManche.

  “Yes.”

  “I have been trying to reach you.”

  I glanced at the phone machine. Three messages.

  “Sorry.”

  “Oui. We will be seeing you today? Already Monsieur Ryan is calling.”

  “I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “Bon.”

  I played the messages. A distraught graduate student. LaManche. A hang-up. I wasn’t up to student problems, so I tried Gabby. No answer. I dialed Katy and got her machine.

  “Leave a short message, like this one,” it chirped cheerily. I did, not cheerily.

  • • •

  In twenty minutes I was at the lab. Stuffing my purse in a desk drawer, and ignoring the pink slips scattered across the blotter, I went directly downstairs to the morgue.

  The dead come first to the morgue. There, they are logged in and stored in refrigerated compartments until assigned to an LML pathologist. Jurisdiction is coded by floor color. The morgue opens directly onto the autopsy rooms, the red floor of each morgue bay stopping abruptly at the autopsy room threshold. The morgue is run by the coroner, the LML controls the operatories. Red floor: coroner. Gray floor: LML. I do my initial examinations in one of the four autopsy rooms. Afterward, the bones are sent up to the histology lab for final cleaning.

  LaManche was making a Y incision in the chest of an infant, her tiny shoulders propped on a rubber headrest, her hands spread at her sides as if poised to make a snow angel. I looked at LaManche.

  “Secouée,” was all he said. Shaken.

  Across the room Nathalie Ayers bent over another autopsy as Lisa lifted the breastplate from a young man. Below a shock of red hair his eyes bulged purple and swollen, and I could see a small, dark hole on his right temple. Suicide. Nathalie was a new pathologist at the LML, and didn’t yet do homicides.

  Daniel put down the scalpel he was sharpening. “Do you need the bones from St. Lambert?”

  “S’il vous plaît. In number 4?”

  He nodded and disappeared into the morgue.

  The skeletal autopsy took several hours, and I confirmed my initial impression that the remains were of one individual, a white female around thirty years of age. Though little soft tissue remained, the bones were in good condition and retained some fat. She’d been dead two to five years. The only oddity was an unfused arch on her fifth lumbar vertebra. Without the head, a positive ID would be tough.

  I asked Daniel to transfer the bones to the histo lab, washed, and went upstairs. The pile of pink slips had grown. I phoned Ryan and gave him my summary. He was already working missing persons reports with the St. Lambert police.

  One of the calls was from Aaron Calvert in Norman, Oklahoma. Yesterday. When I tried his number, a syrupy voice told me he was away from his desk. She assured me she was devastatingly sorry, and guaranteed that he’d get the message. Professionally affable. I set the other messages aside and went to see Lucie Dumont.

  Lucie’s office was crammed with terminals, monitors, printers, and computer paraphernalia of all kinds. Cables climbed walls to disappear into the ceiling, or were taped in bundles along the floor. Stacks of printouts drooped on shelves and file cabinets, fanning out like alluvium seeking the lowest point.

  Lucie’s desk faced the door, the control panel of cabinets and hardware forming a horseshoe behind her. She worked by rolling from station to station, sneakered feet propelling her chair across the gray tile. To me, Lucie was the back of a head silhouetted against a glowing green screen. I rarely saw her face.

  Today the horseshoe held five Japanese in business suits. They circled Lucie, arms held close to their bod
ies, nodding gravely as she pointed to something on a terminal and explained its significance. Cursing my timing, I went on to the histo lab.

  The St. Lambert skeleton had arrived from the morgue, and I set about analyzing the cuts the same way I had with Trottier and Gagnon. I described, measured, and plotted the location of each mark, and made impressions of the false starts. As with the others, the tiny gashes and trenches suggested a knife and a saw. Microscopic details were similar, and placement of cuts almost identical to those in the earlier cases.

  The woman’s hands had been sawed at the wrists, the rest of her limbs detached at the joints. Her belly had been slashed along the midline deep enough to leave cuts on the spine. Although the skull and upper neck bones were missing, marks on the sixth cervical vertebra told me that she had been decapitated at the midthroat. The guy was consistent.

  I repacked the bones, gathered my notes, and returned to my office, diverting up the corridor to see if Lucie was free. She and her Japanese suits were nowhere to be seen. I left a Post-it note on her terminal. Maybe she’d thank me for an excuse to bolt.

  In my absence Calvert had called. Naturally. As I dialed his number, Lucie appeared in my doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

  “You left me a message, Dr. Brennan?” she asked, flashing a quick smile. She spoke not a word of English.

  She was thin as soup in a homeless shelter, with a burr haircut that accentuated the length of her skull. The absence of hair and pale skin magnified the effect of her eyeglasses, making her seem little more than a mannequin for the oversized frames.

  “Yes, Lucie, thank you for stopping by,” I said, rising to clear a chair.

  She tucked her feet behind the chair leg, one behind the other, as she slid into her seat. Like a cat oozing onto a cushion.

  “Did you get stuck with tour duty?”

  She twitched a smile, then looked blank.

  “The Japanese gentlemen.”

  “Yes. They are from a crime lab in Kobe, chemists mostly. I do not mind.”

  “I’m not sure you can help me, but I wanted to ask,” I began.