Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  Why had my marriage failed? Why was I sleeping alone? Why was Katy so discontented? Why had my best friend been inconsiderate of me again? Where was she? No. I wouldn’t think about that. I don’t know how long I lay there, feeling the emptiness of my life, listening for Gabby’s key.

  THE NEXT MORNING I GAVE RYAN A SUMMARY OF MY DISCUSSION with J.S. A week crept by. Nothing.

  The weather stayed hot. Days, I worked through bones. Remains found in a septic tank in Cancún had been a tourist missing for nine years. Bones scavenged by dogs had been a teenage girl before homicide by a blunt instrument. A cadaver in a box, hands severed, face mutilated beyond recognition, revealed only that it had been a white male, skeletal age thirty-five to forty.

  Nights, I visited the jazz festival, milling with the sticky crowds that clogged Ste. Catherine and Jeanne-Mance. I heard Peruvians, their music a blend of woodwind and rain forest. I wandered from Place des Arts to Complexe Desjardins, enjoying the saxophones and guitars and summer nights. Dixieland. Fusion. R&B. Calypso. I willed myself not to look for Gabby. I refused to fear for the women about me. I listened to the music of Senegal, Cape Verde, Rio, and New York, and, for a while, I forgot. The five.

  Then, on Thursday, a call came. LaManche. Meeting on Tuesday. Important. Please be there.

  I arrived not knowing what to expect, most certainly not what greeted me. Seated with LaManche were Ryan, Bertrand, Claudel, Charbonneau, and two detectives from St. Lambert. The director of the lab, Stefan Patineau, sat at the far end of the table, a crown prosecutor on his right.

  They rose as one when I arrived, sending my anxiety level into the cheap seats. I shook hands with Patineau and the attorney. The others nodded, their faces neutral. I tried to read Ryan’s eyes, but they would not meet mine. As I took the one remaining chair, my palms felt sweaty and the familiar knot had hold of my gut. Had this meeting been called to discuss me? To review allegations made against me by Claudel?

  Patineau wasted no time. A task force was being formed. The possibility of a serial killer would be examined from every angle, all suspect cases investigated, every lead aggressively pursued. Known sex offenders would be pulled in and questioned. The six detectives would be assigned full time, Ryan would coordinate. I would continue my normal casework, but serve as an ex-officio member of the team. Space had been set aside downstairs, all dossiers and relevant materials were being moved to that location. Seven cases were under consideration. The task force would hold its first meeting that afternoon. We would keep Monsieur Gauvreau and the prosecutor’s office informed of all progress.

  Just like that. Done. I returned to my office, more stunned than relieved. Why? Who? I’d been arguing the serial killer theory for almost a month. What had happened to suddenly give it credence? Seven cases? Who were the other two?

  Why ask, Brennan? You’ll find out.

  And I did. At one-thirty I entered a large room on the second floor. Four tables formed an island in the middle, portable chalk and bulletin boards lined the walls. The detectives were clumped at the back of the room, like buyers at a trade show booth. The board they were viewing held the familiar Montreal and Métro maps, colored pins jutting from each. Seven more boards stood side by side, each topped by a woman’s name and picture. Five were as familiar as my own family, the others I didn’t know.

  Claudel favored me with a half second of eye contact, the others greeted me cordially. We exchanged comments about the weather, then moved to the table. Ryan distributed legal pads from a stack in the center, then launched right in.

  “You all know why you’re here, and you all know how to do your jobs. I just want to make sure of a few things at this point.”

  He looked from face to face, then gestured at a stack of folders.

  “I want everyone to study these files. Go through them carefully. Digest everything in them. We’re getting the information on computer, but it’s slow. For now we’ll use the old-fashioned way. If there’s anything you think is relevant, anything at all, get it up on that victim’s board.”

  Nods.

  “We’ll have an updated printout of the pervert parade today. Divide it up, roust these guys, see where they’ve been partying.”

  “Usually in their own shorts.” Charbonneau.

  “Could be one of them crossed the line, now finds his shorts lacking.”

  Ryan looked at each of us in turn.

  “It’s absolutely critical we work as a team. No individuals. No heroes. Talk. Exchange information. Bounce ideas off each other. That’s how we’re going to nail this bastard.”

  “If there is one.” Claudel.

  “If not, Luc, we’ll clean house, nail a whole lot of bastards. Nothing lost.”

  Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and drew a series of short, quick lines on his tablet.

  “It’s equally important we be concerned about security,” Ryan continued. “No leaks.”

  “Patineau going to announce our little civic group?” Charbonneau.

  “No. In a sense, we’re working undercover.”

  “Public hears the words serial killer, they’ll go ape shit. Surprised they haven’t already.” Charbonneau.

  “Apparently the press hasn’t picked up on the connection. Don’t ask me why. Patineau wants to keep it that way for now. That may change.”

  “Press has the memory of a gnat.” Bertrand.

  “Nah, that’s the IQ score.”

  “They’d never make that cutoff.”

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s go. Here’s what we’ve got.”

  Ryan summarized each case. I listened mutely as my ideas, even my words, filled the air and were scribbled onto legal pads. Okay, some of Dobzhansky’s ideas as well, but passed on by me.

  Mutilation. Genital penetration. Real estate ads. Métro stops. Someone had been listening. What’s more, someone had been checking. The boucherie where Grace Damas had once worked was a block off St. Laurent. Close to the St. Jacques apartment. Close to the Berri-UQAM Métro. It plotted. That made four for five. That’s what had tipped the balance. That and J.S.

  Following our talk, Ryan had convinced Patineau to forward a formal request to Quantico. J.S. had agreed to give the Montreal cases top priority. A flurry of faxes provided him with what he needed, and Patineau had a profile three days later. That had done it. Patineau had decided to move. Voilà. Task force.

  I felt relieved, but also slighted. They’d taken my labor and left me to sweat. On walking into that meeting, I had feared personal censure, had not expected tacit acknowledgment of work well done. Nevertheless. I steadied my voice to hide my anger.

  “So what does Quantico tell us to look for?”

  Ryan pulled a thin folder from the stack, opened it, and read.

  “Male. White. Francophone. Probably not educated beyond secondary level. Probably a history of NSO’s …”

  “C’est quoi, ça?” Bertrand.

  “Nuisance sexual offenses. Peeping. Obscene phone calls. Indecent exposure.”

  “The cute stuff.” Claudel.

  “Dummy man.” Bertrand.

  Claudel and Charbonneau snorted.

  “Shit.” Claudel.

  “My hero.” Charbonneau.

  “Who the hell’s dummy man?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.

  “Little maggot busts apartments so he can stuff the lady’s nightie, then slash it. Been working his act about five years.”

  Ryan continued, selecting phrases from the report.

  “Careful planner. Probably uses ruse to approach victim. Possibly the real estate angle. Probably married …”

  “Pourquoi?” Rousseau, St. Lambert.

  “The hidey-hole. Can’t bring the victims home to wifey.”

  “Or Mommy.” Claudel.

  Back to the report.

  “Probably selects, prepares isolated location in advance.”

  “The basement?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.

  “Hell, Gilbert sprayed the shit out of that place with Luminol. If
there was any blood there, it would have lit up like Tomorrowland.” Charbonneau.

  Report. “Excessive violence and cruelty suggest extreme anger. Possible revenge orientation. Possible sadistic fantasies involving domination, humiliation, pain. Possible religious overlay.”

  “Pourquoi, ça?” Rousseau.

  “The statue, the body dumps. Trottier was at a seminary, so was Damas.”

  For the next few moments no one said a word. The wall clock buzzed softly. In the corridor, a pair of high heels clicked closer, receded. Claudel’s pen made short, tense strokes.

  “Beaucoup de ‘possibles’ et ‘probables.’” Claudel.

  Claudel’s continued resistance to the one-killer theory annoyed me.

  “It’s also possible and probable we’re going to have another murder soon,” I snapped.

  Claudel’s face hardened into its usual mask, which he pointed at his tablet. The lines in his cheeks tensed, but he said nothing.

  Buzz.

  “Does Dr. Dobzhansky have a long-term forecast?” I asked, calmer.

  “Short term,” Ryan said somberly and returned to the profile. “Indications of loss of control. Increasing boldness. Intervals shortening.” He closed the folder and shoved it toward the center of the table. “Will kill again.”

  Silence again.

  Eventually, Ryan looked at his watch. We all followed suit, like assembly line robots.

  “So. Let’s get into these files. Add anything you have that’s not here. Luc, Michel, Gautier was CUM, so you guys might have more on that one.”

  Nods from Charbonneau and Claudel.

  “Pitre fell to the SQ. I’ll double-check her. The others are more recent, should be pretty complete.”

  Since I was all too familiar with the five recents, I started with Pitre and Gautier. The files had been open since ’88 and ’89 respectively.

  Constance Pitre’s semi-nude, badly decomposed body was found in an abandoned house at Khanawake, an Indian reserve upriver from Montreal. Marie-Claude Gautier was discovered behind the Vendôme Métro, a switching point for trains to the western suburbs. Both women had been savagely beaten, their throats slashed. Gautier had been twenty-eight, Pitre thirty-two. Neither had been married. Each lived alone. The usual suspects had been questioned, the usual leads pursued. Dead end in each case.

  I spent three hours going over the files, which, compared to those I’d studied for the past six weeks, were relatively sparse. Both women had been prostitutes. Was that the reason for the limited investigations? Exploited in life, ignored in death? Good riddance? I refused to allow myself to pursue it.

  I looked at family snapshots of each victim. Their faces were different, yet similar in some disturbing way. The yeasty white pallor, the lavish makeup, the cold, flat stare. Their expressions brought to recall my night on the Main, when I’d viewed the street production from a front-row seat. Resignation. Desperation. There I’d seen it live. Here it was in stills.

  I spread the crime scene photos, knowing beforehand the story they’d tell. Pitre: the yard, the bedroom, the body. Gautier: the station, the bushes, the body. Pitre’s head was almost severed. Gautier’s throat had also been slashed, her right eye stabbed into pulpy mush. The extreme savagery of the attacks had prompted their inclusion in our investigation.

  I read the autopsy, toxicology, and police reports. I dissected each interview and investigator’s summary. I pulled out every detail of the victims’ comings and goings, every particular of their lives and deaths. All the minutiae I could suck from each folder went onto a crude spreadsheet. It wasn’t much.

  I heard the others moving around, scraping chairs, exchanging banter, but I paid no attention. When I finally closed the files, it was past five. Only Ryan remained. I looked up to see him watching me.

  “Wanna see the Gypsies?”

  “What?”

  “Heard you like jazz.”

  “Yeah, but the festival is over, Ryan.” Heard from whom? How? Was this a social invitation?

  “True. But the city isn’t. Les Gitanes are playing in the Old Port. Great group.”

  “Ryan, I don’t think so.” But I did think. Had thought. That’s why I’d refuse. Not now. Not until the investigation was over. Not until the animal was netted.

  “Good enough.” The electric eyes. “But you gotta eat.”

  That was true. Another frozen dinner, solo, was decidedly unappealing. No. Don’t even give Claudel the appearance of impropriety.

  “It’s probably not a g—”

  “We could chew over some of your thoughts on this stuff while we put away a pizza.”

  “Business meeting.”

  “Certainement.”

  Buzz.

  Did I want to discuss the cases? Of course. Something about the added two didn’t ring true. Even more, I was curious about the task force. Ryan had given us the official version; what were the real dynamics? Were there threads in the web I should know about? Avoid?

  Buzz.

  Would the others think twice? Of course not.

  “Sure, Ryan. Where do you want to go?”

  Shrug. “Angela’s?”

  Close to my condo. I thought of the 4 A.M. call last month, the “friend” he’d been with. You’re paranoid, Brennan. The man wants a pizza. He knows you can park at home.

  “Is that convenient for you?”

  “Right on the way.”

  To what? I didn’t ask.

  “Fine. See you there in”—I looked at my watch—“thirty minutes?”

  • • •

  I stopped home, fed Birdie, barred myself from mirrors. No hair combing. No blusher. Business.

  At six-fifteen Ryan sipped a cold beer, I a Diet Coke as we waited for a veggie supreme. No goat cheese on his half.

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Rigid.”

  “In touch with myself.”

  We exchanged small talk for a while, then I switched lanes. “Tell me about these other cases. Why Pitre and Gautier?”

  “Patineau had me pull all unsolved SQ homicides that fit a certain profile. Back to ’85. Basically the pattern you’ve been hammering on. Females, overkill, mutilation. Claudel searched the CUM cases. Local PD’s were asked to do the same. So far, these two have come up.”

  “Just the province?”

  “Not exactly.”

  We fell silent as the waitress arrived, sliced, and served the pizza. Ryan ordered another Belle Gueule. I passed, mildly resentful. Your own fault, Brennan.

  “Don’t even think about touching my half.”

  “Don’t like it.” He drained his glass. “Do you know what goes through goats?”

  I did, but blocked it.

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “Initially, Patineau asked for a search of cases in and around Montreal. When the profile arrived from Quantico, he sent a composite description, our stuff and theirs, to the RCMP to see if the Mounties had similar cases in their files.”

  “And?”

  “Negative. Looks like we’ve got a homeboy.”

  We ate in silence for a while.

  Finally, “What’s your take?”

  I took my time answering.

  “I only spent three hours with the new files, but somehow they don’t seem to fit.”

  “The hooker angle?”

  “That. But something else. The killings are violent, no question about that, but they’re just too …”

  I’d been trying to put a word to the feeling all afternoon, but hadn’t found one. I dropped a piece of pizza to my plate, watched tomato and artichoke ooze off the soggy dough.

  “… messy.”

  “Messy?”

  “Messy.”

  “Jesus, Brennan, what do you want? Did you see the Adkins apartment? Or Morisette-Champoux? Looked like Wounded Tree.”

  “Knee.”

  “What?”

  “Knee. It was Wounded Knee.”
r />   “The Indians?”

  I nodded.

  “I don’t mean blood. The Pitre and Gautier scenes looked, what …?” Again, I groped for a word. “Disorganized. Unplanned. With the others, you get the sense this guy knew exactly what he was doing. Got into their homes. Brought his own weapon. Took it away with him. Never found one at the other scenes, right?”

  He nodded.

  “They recovered the knife with Gautier.”

  “No prints. That could suggest planning.”

  “It was winter. The guy probably wore gloves.”

  I swirled my Coke.

  “The bodies look like they were just left. Quickly. Gautier was facedown. Pitre was lying on her side, her clothes were torn, her pants were at her ankles. Take another look at the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins photos. The bodies almost look posed. They were both lying on their backs, their legs were spread, their arms were positioned. Like dolls. Or ballerinas. Christ, Adkins looked like she’d been laid down while doing a pirouette. Their clothing wasn’t torn, it was opened, neatly. It’s as if he wanted to display what he’d done to them.”

  Ryan said nothing. The waitress appeared, wanting assurance we’d enjoyed our meal. Anything else? Just a check.

  “I just get a different feeling with these other two cases. I could be dead wrong.”

  “That’s what we’re supposed to figure out.”

  Ryan took the check, raising a hand in a “don’t argue” gesture. “This one’s on me. Next one’s yours.”

  He cut my protest short by reaching out to touch my upper lip. Slowly, he ran his index finger around the corner of my mouth, then held it up for my inspection.

  “Goat,” he said.

  Fire ants would have had less effect on my face.

  • • •

  I arrived home to an empty apartment. No surprise. But I was becoming anxious about Gabby, and hoped she would reappear. Mainly so I could send her packing.