Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  I lay on the couch and turned on the Expos game. Martinez had just beaned one off the batter. The announcer was going crazy. Tough moving back up to starter.

  I watched until the announcer’s voice faded to a hum and the noise in my head took over. How did Pitre and Gautier fit in? What did Khanawake mean? Pitre was Mohawk. The others had all been white. Four years ago the Indians had barricaded the Mercier Bridge, making life hell for commuters. Feelings between the reserve and its neighbors remained less then cordial. Was that significant?

  Gautier and Pitre were hookers. Pitre had been busted several times. None of the other victims had police records. Did that mean anything? If victims had been selected at random, what would be the odds that two out of seven would be hookers?

  Had the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins scenes really shown premeditation? Was I imagining the staging? Was it accidental?

  Was there a religious angle? That was one I hadn’t really explored. If so, what did it mean?

  Eventually, I drifted into uneasy sleep. I was on the Main. Gabby was beckoning to me from the upstairs window of a run-down hotel. The room behind her was dimly lit, and I could see figures moving about. I tried to cross the street to her, but women outside the hotel threw rocks when I moved. They were angry. A face appeared beside Gabby’s, backlit against the room. It was Constance Pitre. She tried to put something over Gabby’s head, a dress or gown of some sort. Gabby resisted, her gestures to me becoming more frantic.

  A rock hit me in the gut, wrenching me hard into the present. Birdie stood on my stomach, tail in landing position, eyes fixed on my face.

  “Thanks.”

  I dislodged him and swung to a sitting position.

  “What the hell did that mean, Bird?”

  My dreams are not particularly disingenuous. My subconscious takes recent experience and throws it back at me, often in riddle form. Sometimes I feel like Arthur, frustrated with Merlin’s cryptic answers. Just tell me! Think, Arthur. Think!

  The rock-throwing. Obvious: Martinez’s bean ball. Gabby. Obvious: She’s on my mind. The Main. The hookers. Pitre. Pitre trying to dress Gabby. Gabby beckoning for help. A tingle of fear began to form.

  Hookers. Pitre and Gautier were hookers. Pitre and Gautier are dead. Gabby works with hookers. Gabby was being harassed. Gabby is gone. Could there be a connection? Could she be in trouble?

  No. She used you, Brennan. She does it often. You always fall for it.

  The fear would not recede.

  What about the guy shadowing her? She seemed genuinely frightened.

  She split. Not even a note. Thanks. Gotta go. Nothing.

  Isn’t that a bit much, even for Gabby? The fear became stronger.

  “Okay, Dr. Macaulay, let’s find out.”

  I went to the guest room and looked around. Where to begin? I had already gathered her belongings and heaped them on the closet floor. I hated to go through them.

  Trash. It seemed less invasive. I dumped the wastebasket onto the desk. Tissues. Candy wrappers. Tinfoil. A sales slip from Limité. An ATM receipt. Three balls of crumpled paper.

  I opened a yellow ball. Gabby’s scrawl on lined paper:

  “I’m sorry. I can’t deal with this. I would never forgive myself if …”

  It broke off there. A note to me?

  I opened the other yellow ball:

  “I will not succumb to this harassment. You are an irritant that must …”

  Again, she’d given up. Or been interrupted. What had she been trying to say? To whom?

  The other ball was white and larger. When I unwadded it, runaway fear shot through me, vaporizing all the unkind thoughts I’d been nurturing. I flattened the paper with trembling hands and stared.

  What I saw was a pencil drawing, the central figure clearly female, her breasts and genitalia depicted in minute detail. The torso, arms, and legs were crudely sketched, the face an oval with features vaguely shadowed in. The woman’s abdomen was open, the organs rising from it to circle the central figure. In the lower left-hand corner in a stranger’s hand was written:

  “Every move you make. Every step you take. Don’t cut me.”

  I FELT COLD ALL OVER. OH, GOD, GABBY. WHAT HAVE YOU GOTTEN into? Where are you? I looked at the mess around me. Was it normal Gabby chaos, or the aftermath of panicky flight?

  I reread the unfinished notes. For whom were they intended? Me? Her stalker? I would never forgive myself if what? An irritant that must be what? I looked at the drawing and sensed what I’d felt when viewing Margaret Adkins’s X rays. Foreboding. No. Not Gabby.

  Calm down, Brennan. Think!

  The phone. I tried Gabby’s apartment and office. Answering machine. Voice mail. Bless the electronic age.

  Think.

  Where did her parents live? Trois-Rivières? 411. Only one Macaulay. Neal. An old woman’s voice. French. So glad to hear from you. Been such a long time. How are you? No, they hadn’t talked to Gabrielle in several weeks. No, that wasn’t unusual. Young people, so busy. Is anything wrong? Assurances. Promises to visit soon.

  Now what? I didn’t know any of Gabby’s current friends.

  Ryan?

  No. He’s not your guardian. Anyway, what would you tell him?

  Slow down. Think. I got a Diet Coke. Was I overreacting? I returned to the guest room and reexamined the sketch. Overreacting? Hell, I was underreacting. I checked a number, reached for the phone, and dialed.

  “Y’allo.”

  “Hey, J.S. Tempe.” I struggled to keep my voice steady.

  “My God. Two calls in one week. Admit it. You can’t stay away from me.”

  “It’s been over a week.”

  “Anything under a month I interpret as irresistible attraction. What’s up?”

  “J.S., I …”

  He caught the tremor in my voice and his demeanor changed, the flipness replaced by genuine concern.

  “Are you okay, Tempe? What is it?”

  “It’s these cases I talked to you about last week.”

  “What’s happened? I profiled the guy right away. Hope they realize that was your influence. Did they get my report?”

  “Yes. You made the difference, actually. They’ve decided to form a task force. That part’s moving right along.”

  I wasn’t sure how to broach my anxiety about Gabby, didn’t want to abuse our friendship.

  “Could I ask you a few more questions? There’s something else I’m concerned about, and I really don’t know wh—”

  “Why do you even ask, Brennan? Fire away.”

  Where to begin? I should have made a list. My head was like Gabby’s room, thoughts and images scattered haphazardly.

  “This is something else.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  “I guess I’m interested in what you call nuisance sexual offenders?”

  “Okay.”

  “Would that include things like following someone, calling her, but not doing anything overtly threatening?”

  “It could.”

  Start with the sketch.

  “You told me last time that violent offenders often make records? Like tapes and drawings?”

  “Right.”

  “Do nuisance offenders?”

  “Do they what?”

  “Make sketches and things.”

  “They might.”

  “Can the content of a drawing indicate the level of violence someone is capable of?”

  “Not necessarily. For one person drawing could be a release valve, a way of acting out without actually engaging in violence. For another, it could be the trigger that sets him off. Or a reenactment of what he’s already done.”

  Great.

  “I found a drawing of a woman with her stomach slit and her guts spread out around her. What does that suggest?”

  “The Venus de Milo has no arms. G.I. Joe has no dick. What does that mean? Art? Censorship? Sexual deviance? Tough call when seen in a vacuum.”

  Silence. What should I tell him? />
  “Did this drawing come from the St. Jacques gallery?” he asked.

  “No.” I found it in my guest room trash. “You said offenders often escalate to higher and higher levels of violence, right?”

  “Yeah. At first they might just engage in peeping, or obscene phone calls. Some stay with that, others move on to bigger challenges: self-exposure, stalking, even breaking and entering. For still others that’s not enough; they progress to rape and even murder.”

  “So some sexual sadists might not actually be violent?”

  “There you go with the sexual sadist business again. But in answer to your question, yes. Some of these guys play out their fantasies in other ways. Some use inanimate objects, or animals, some find consenting partners.”

  “Consenting partners?”

  “A compliant partner, someone who’ll permit whatever it is the fantasy requires. Subordination, humiliation, even pain. Could be a wife, a girlfriend, someone he pays.”

  “A prostitute?”

  “Sure. Most prostitutes will do some role playing, within limits.”

  “That can defuse violent tendencies?”

  “It can as long as she goes along. Same with a wife or girlfriend. It’s often when the compliant partner gets fed up that things go bad. She’s been his punching bag, then she pulls the plug, maybe even threatens to tell. He gets enraged, kills her, finds he enjoys it. On to the next.”

  Something he’d said was bothering me.

  “Let’s back up. What kind of inanimate objects?”

  “Pictures, dolls, clothing. Anything, really. I had one guy used to beat the crap out of a life-size blowup of Flip Wilson in drag.”

  “I hate to ask.”

  “Deep-seated rage against blacks, gays, and women. Hat trick every time he jerked off.”

  “Of course.”

  I could hear the Phantom of the Opera in the background.

  “J.S., if a guy does that, makes pictures or uses a doll, for instance, does that mean he probably won’t kill?”

  “Maybe, but again, who knows what’s going to alter his curve and nudge him over that line? One day a naughty picture is enough, the next it’s not.”

  “Could a guy do both?”

  “Both what?”

  “Flip-flop back and forth. Kill some victims, just stalk and harass others?”

  “Sure. For one thing, a victim’s behavior can alter the equation. He feels insulted or rejected by her. She says the wrong thing, turns left instead of right. She wouldn’t even have to know. Don’t forget, most serial killers have never met their victims. But these women star in the fantasy. Or he might see one woman in one role, cast another differently. Love your wife, then go out and kill. Cast one stranger as prey, another as friend.”

  “So, once someone starts killing, he could still revert to his earlier, less violent tactics on occasion?”

  “He might.”

  “So someone who is seemingly just a nuisance could be a lot more?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Someone who phones a victim, follows her, sends her gory sketches isn’t necessarily harmless, even though he keeps his distance?”

  “You are talking about St. Jacques, aren’t you?”

  Was I?

  “Does it sound like him?”

  “I just assumed we were discussing him. Or whoever it was kept the bridal suite you guys tossed.”

  Open up your mind, let the fantasy unwind …

  “J.S. I—It’s gotten personal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I told him everything. Gabby. Her fear. Her exit. My anger, now my fear.

  “Shit, Brennan, how do you get yourself into these things? Look, this guy sounds like bad news. Gabby’s creep may or may not be St. Jacques, but it’s possible. He stalks women. St. Jacques stalks women. He draws pictures of eviscerated females, doesn’t exactly have a normal sex life, and carries a knife. St. Jacques, or whoever this devo is, is killing women, then cutting them up or disfiguring them. What do you think?”

  Turn your face away from the garish light of day …

  “When did she first notice this guy?” J.S. asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Before or after this whole thing broke?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Not much. He hangs out with hookers, pays for sex, then plays a scene with lingerie. Carries a knife. Most of the women won’t have anything to do with him.”

  “That sound good to you?”

  “No.”

  “Tempe, I want you to report this to the guys you work with. Let them check it out. You say Gabby is unpredictable, so it’s probably nothing. She may have just taken off. But she’s your friend. You’ve been threatened. The skull. The guy who followed you in the car.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Gabby was staying with you. She’s disappeared. It warrants a look.”

  “Right. Claudel will rush right out and collar nightie man.”

  “Nightie man? You’ve been hanging with cops too long.”

  I stopped. Where had I gotten that? Of course. Dummy man.

  “We have a fruitcake that breaks in, stuffs lingerie, stabs it, then leaves. Been at it for years. They call him dummy man.”

  “If he’s been at it for years he can’t be that dumb.”

  “No, no. It’s what he makes with the lingerie. It’s like a dummy.”

  Synapse. Or a doll.

  Feel me, touch me …

  J.S. said something, but my mind was veering off at warp speed. Dummy. Lingerie. Knife. A hooker named Julie who plays games with a nightie. A sketch of carnage with the words “don’t cut me.” News articles found in a Berger Street room, one about a break-in with a nightgown dummy, one with my picture, clipped and marked with an X. A skewered skull, grinning from my shrubbery. Gabby’s face in 4 A.M. terror. A bedroom in chaos.

  Help me make the music of the night …

  “I’ve got to go, J.S.”

  “Tempe, promise me you’ll do what I say. It’s a long shot, but it could be that Gabby’s creep is the sicko that kept the Berger Street nest. He could be your killer. If so, you’re in danger. You’re blocking him, so you’re a threat to him. He had your picture. He may have put Grace Damas’s skull in your yard. He knows who you are. He knows where you are.”

  I wasn’t hearing J.S. In my mind I was already moving.

  • • •

  It took thirty minutes to cross Centre-ville, go up the Main, and find my alley spot. As I stepped over the splayed legs of a wino who sat slumped against the wall, his head bobbing to the muted thud of C&W coming through the brick, he smiled and raised a hand in a one-finger wave, then opened his palm and extended it toward me.

  I dug in my pocket and gave him a loony. Maybe he’d watch my car.

  The Main was a smorgasbord of night dwellers through which I nibbled a path. Panhandlers, hookers, druggies, and tourists. Accountants and salesmen jostled in clumps, reckless with binge merriment. For some it was a boisterous romp, for others a joyless reality. Welcome to the Hotel St. Laurent.

  Unlike my last visit, this time I had a plan. I worked my way toward Ste. Catherine, hoping to find Jewel Tambeaux. Not so easy. Though the usual pack was gathered outside the Hotel Granada, Jewel wasn’t part of it.

  I crossed the street and considered the women. No one reached for a rock. I took this as a good sign. Now what? From my last social call on these ladies, I had a pretty good idea as to what I shouldn’t do. That, however, gave me no clue as to what I should do.

  I have a rule that has served me well in life. When in doubt, do nothing. If you’re not sure, don’t buy it, don’t comment, don’t commit. Sit tight. Deviation from this maxim has usually caused me regret. The red dress with the ruffled neck. The promise to debate Creationism. The angry letter fired off to the Vice Chancellor. This time I stuck to my policy.

  I found a cement block, brushed off the broken gla
ss, and sat. Knees drawn, eyes on the Granada, I waited. And waited. And waited.

  For a while I was intrigued by the soap opera playing around me. As the Main Turns. Midnight came and went—1 A.M. Then 2. The script unwound its tale of seduction and exploitation. Maul My Children. The Young and the Hopeless. I played mental games, creating all sorts of clever titles.

  By 3 A.M. screenwriting no longer held my interest. I was tired, discouraged, and bored. I knew surveillance was not glamorous, but I hadn’t been prepared for just how numbing it was. I’d had enough coffee to fill an aquarium, prepared endless lists in my head, composed several letters I would never write, and played “guess the life story” of a great many citizens of Quebec. Hookers and johns had come and gone, but Jewel Tambeaux was not to be seen.

  I stood and flexed backward, considered rubbing my anesthetized ass, decided against it. Next time, no cement. Next time no sitting up all night, watching for a hooker who could be in Saskatoon.

  As I started to step off toward my car, a white Pontiac station wagon swung to the curb across the street. Orange Chihuly hair emerged, followed by a familiar face and halter.

  Jewel Tambeaux slammed the Pontiac door, then leaned inside the passenger window to say something to the driver. A moment later the car sped off, and Jewel joined two women sitting on the hotel steps. In the pulsating neon they looked like a trio of housewives gossiping on a suburban stoop, their laughter sailing into the predawn air. After a moment, Jewel stood, hiked her spandex mini-skirt, and moved off up the block.

  The Main was winding down, the action seekers gone, the scavengers just emerging. Jewel walked slowly, swinging her hips to some private rhythm. I angled across and fell in behind her.

  “Jewel?”

  She turned, her face a smiling question mark. I was not what she expected. Her eyes moved over my face, puzzled, disappointed. I waited for her to recognize me.

  “Margaret Mead.”

  I smiled. “Tempe Brennan.”

  “Researching a book?” She moved her hand in a horizontal swath, indicating a title. “Ass on the Hoof, or My Life Among Hookers.” Soft, Southern English, with a bayou cadence.

  I laughed. “Might sell. May I walk with you?”