Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  “She wasn’t mutilated.”

  “No.”

  “Why the bricks?”

  “I’ve never been able to understand how these mutants think.”

  “It’s a taunt, isn’t it? He wanted us to find her, and he wanted to make a statement. There won’t be any prints inside the glove.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “This is different, isn’t it, Ryan?”

  “Yes.”

  The heat in the car was like molasses against my skin. I got out and lifted my hair to feel the breeze on my neck. There was none. I watched them secure the body bag with black canvas straps and slide it into the van. I felt a sob build in my chest and fought it back.

  “Could I have saved her, Ryan?”

  “Could any of us have saved her? I don’t know.” He let out a deep breath and squinted up into the sun. “Weeks ago, maybe. Probably not yesterday or the day before.” He turned back and locked his gaze on me. “What I do know is we’ll get this cocksucker. He’s a dead man.”

  I spotted Claudel walking toward us, carrying a plastic evidence bag. He says one thing to me and I’ll rip his goddamn lips off, I promised myself. I meant it.

  “Very sorry,” Claudel mumbled, avoiding my eyes. To Ryan. “We’re about done here.”

  Ryan raised his eyebrows. Claudel gave him an “over there” head signal.

  My pulse quickened. “What? What did you find?” Ryan placed a hand on each of my shoulders.

  I looked at the bag in Claudel’s hand. I could see a pale yellow surgical glove, dark brown stains mottling its surface. Protruding from the glove’s rim was a flat object. Rectangle. White border. Dark background. A snapshot. Ryan’s hands squeezed hard on my shoulders. I stared a question at him, already fearing the answer.

  “Let’s do this later.”

  “Let me see it.” I reached out a trembling hand.

  Claudel hesitated, extended the bag. I took it, grasped one glove finger through the plastic, and tapped gently until the photo slid free. I reoriented the bag and stared through the plastic.

  Two figures, arms entwined, hair whipping, ocean breakers rolling behind. Fear gripped me. My breathing quickened. Calm. Stay calm.

  Myrtle Beach—1992. Me. Katy. The bastard had buried a picture of my daughter with my murdered friend.

  No one spoke. I watched Charbonneau approach from the grave site. He joined us, looked at Ryan, who nodded. The three men stood in silence. No one knew how to act, what to say. I didn’t feel like helping them out. Charbonneau broke the silence.

  “Let’s go nail this sonofabitch.”

  “Got the warrant?” Ryan.

  “Bertrand will meet us. They issued as soon as we found the … body.” He looked at me, quickly away.

  “Is our boy there now?”

  “No one’s gone in or out since they staked the place. I don’t think we should wait.”

  “Yeah.”

  Ryan turned to me. “Judge Tessier bought probable cause and cut a warrant this morning, so we’re going to bust the guy you tailed Thursday night. I’ll drop y—”

  “No way, Ryan. I’m in.”

  “Br—”

  “In case you forgot, I just identified my best friend. She was holding a picture of me and my daughter. It may be this slimy piece of shit, or it may be some other psychopath that killed her, but I’m going to find out, and I’m going to do everything I can to fry his sorry ass. I will hunt him down and flush him out with or without you and your Merry Men.” My finger was stabbing the air like a hydraulic piston. “I will be there! Starting now!”

  My eyes burned and my chest began to heave. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. I forced calmness over my hysteria. For a long time no one spoke.

  “Allons-y,” said Claudel. Let’s go.

  BY NOON THE TEMPERATURE AND HUMIDITY WERE SO HIGH THE city was rendered lifeless. Nothing moved. Trees, birds, insects, and humans held themselves as still as possible, immobilized by the stifling heat. Most stayed out of sight.

  The drive was St. Jean Baptiste Day all over again. The tense silence. The smell of air-conditioned sweat. The fear in my gut. Only Claudel’s surliness was absent. He and Charbonneau were meeting us there.

  And the traffic was different. On our trip to Rue Berger we had fought holiday crowds. Today we breezed through empty streets, arriving at the suspect’s place in less than twenty minutes. When we turned the corner I could see Bertrand, Charbonneau, and Claudel in an unmarked car, Bertrand’s unit parked behind. The crime scene van was at the end of the block, Gilbert behind the wheel, a tech slumped against the passenger side window.

  The three detectives got out as we walked toward them. The street was as I remembered it, though daylight showed it to be even plainer and more worn than it had appeared in the dark. My shirt was pasted to my clammy skin.

  “Where’s the stakeout team?” Ryan asked by way of greeting.

  “They circled round back.” Charbonneau.

  “He in there?”

  “No activity since they got here around midnight. He could be asleep inside.”

  “There’s a back entrance?”

  Charbonneau nodded. “Been covered all night. We’ve got units at each end of the block, and there’s one on Martineau.” He jerked a thumb toward the opposite side of the street. “If lover boy’s in there, he’s not going anywhere.”

  Ryan turned to Bertrand. “Got the paper?”

  Bertrand nodded. “It’s 1436 Séguin. Number 201. Come on down.” He mimicked the game show invitation.

  We stood a moment, sizing up the building as one would an adversary, preparing ourselves for assault and capture. Two black kids rounded the corner and started up the block, rap music blaring from an enormous boom box. They wore Air Jordans and pants big enough to house a nuclear family. Their T-shirts bore totems of violence, one a skull with melting eyeballs, the other the grim reaper with beach umbrella. Death on Vacation. The taller boy had shaved his scalp, leaving only an oval cap on top. The other had dreadlocks.

  A mental flash of Gabby’s dreadlocks. A stab of pain.

  Later. Not now. I yanked my attention back to the moment.

  We watched the boys enter a nearby building, heard the rap truncated as a door closed behind them. Ryan looked in both directions, then back at us.

  “We set?”

  “Let’s get the sonofabitch.” Claudel.

  “Luc, you and Michel cover the back. If he bolts, squash him.”

  Claudel squinted, tipped his head as though to speak, then shook it, exhaling sharply through his nose. He and Charbonneau moved off, turned back at Ryan’s voice.

  “We do this by the books.” His eyes were hard. “No mistakes.”

  The CUM detectives crossed the street and disappeared around the graystone.

  Ryan turned to me.

  “Ready?”

  I nodded.

  “This could be the guy.”

  “Yes, Ryan, I know that.”

  “You all right?”

  “Jesus, Ryan …”

  “Let’s go.”

  I felt a bubble of fear swell in my chest as we mounted the iron stairs. The outer door was unlocked. We entered a small lobby with a grimy tile floor. Mailboxes lined the right wall, circulars lay on the floor beneath them. Bertrand tried the inner door. It was also open.

  “Great security,” said Bertrand.

  We crossed into a poorly lit corridor shrouded in heat and the smell of cooking grease. A threadbare carpet ran toward the back of the building and up a staircase to the right, secured at three-foot intervals by thin metal strips. Over it someone had laid a vinyl runner, at one time clear, now opaque with age and grime.

  We climbed to the second floor, our feet making faint tapping sounds on the vinyl—201 was first on the right. Ryan and Bertrand placed themselves on either side of the dark wooden door, backs to the wall, jackets unbuttoned, hands resting loosely on their weapons.

  Ryan motioned me beside him. I fla
ttened myself against the wall, felt the rough plaster pluck at my hair. I took a deep breath, drawing in mildew and dust. I could smell Ryan’s sweat.

  Ryan nodded to Bertrand. The anxiety bubble swelled up into my throat.

  Bertrand knocked.

  Nothing.

  He knocked again.

  No response.

  Ryan and Bertrand tensed. My breath was coming fast.

  “Police. Open up.”

  Down the hall a door opened quietly. Eyes peered through a crack the width of a security chain.

  Bertrand knocked harder, five sharp raps in the sweltering silence. Silence.

  Then. “Monsieur Tanguay n’est pas ici.”

  Our heads whipped toward the sound of the voice. It was soft and high-pitched, and came from across the corridor.

  Ryan gave Bertrand a stay-here gesture and we crossed. The eyes watched, their irises magnified behind thick lenses. They were barely four feet off the floor, and angled higher and higher as we approached.

  The eyes shifted from Ryan to me and back, seeking the least threatening place to land. Ryan squatted to meet them at their level.

  “Bonjour,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Comment ça va?”

  “Ça va.”

  The child waited. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl.

  “Is your mother home?”

  Head shake.

  “Father?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone?”

  “Who are you?”

  Good, kid. Don’t tell a stranger anything.

  “Police.” Ryan showed him his badge. The eyes grew even larger.

  “Can I hold it?”

  Ryan passed the badge through the crack. The child studied it solemnly, handed it back.

  “Are you looking for Monsieur Tanguay?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Why?”

  “We want to ask him some questions. Do you know Monsieur Tanguay?”

  The child nodded, offered nothing.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mathieu.” Boy.

  “When will your mother be home, Mathieu?”

  “I live with my grammama.”

  Ryan shifted his weight and a joint cracked loudly. He dropped one knee to the floor, propped an elbow on the other, rested chin on knuckles, and looked at Mathieu.

  “How old are you, Mathieu?”

  “Six.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  The child looked puzzled, as though other possibilities had never occurred to him.

  “Always.”

  “Do you know Monsieur Tanguay?”

  Mathieu nodded.

  “How long has he lived here?”

  Shrug.

  “When will your grammama be home?”

  “She cleans for people.” Pause. “Saturday.” Mathieu rolled his eyes and nibbled his lower lip. “Just a minute.” He disappeared into the apartment, reappeared in less than a minute. “Three-thirty.”

  “Sh … Shoot,” said Ryan, uncoiling from his hunched position. He spoke to me, his voice tense, just above a whisper. “That asshole may be in there and we’ve got an unattended kid here.”

  Mathieu watched like a barn cat with a cornered rat, his eyes never leaving Ryan’s face.

  “Monsieur Tanguay’s not here.”

  “Are you sure?” Ryan crouched again.

  “He’s gone away.”

  “Where?”

  Another shrug. A chubby finger pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “How do you know he’s away?”

  “I’m taking care of his fish.” A smile the size of the Mississippi lit his face. “He’s got tetras, and angelfish, and white clouds.” He used the English names. “They’re fantastic!” Fantastique! Such a perfect word. Its English counterpart never quite matches it.

  “When will Monsieur Tanguay be back?”

  Shrug.

  “Did Grammama write it on the calendar?” I asked.

  The child regarded me, surprised, then disappeared as he had before.

  “What calendar?” Ryan asked, looking up.

  “They must keep one. He went to check something when he wasn’t sure when Grammama would be home today.”

  Mathieu returned. “Nope.”

  Ryan stood. “Now what?”

  “If he’s right, we go in and toss the place. We’ve got a name, we’ll run Monsieur Tanguay down. Maybe Grammama knows where he’s gone. If not, we’ll pop him as soon as he comes anywhere near here.”

  Ryan looked to Bertrand, pointed at the door.

  Five more raps.

  Nothing.

  “Break it?” asked Bertrand.

  “Monsieur Tanguay won’t like it.”

  We all looked at the boy.

  Ryan lowered himself a third time.

  “He gets really mad if you do something bad,” said Mathieu.

  “It’s important that we look for something in Monsieur Tanguay’s apartment,” explained Ryan.

  “He won’t like it if you break his door.”

  I squatted next to Ryan.

  “Mathieu, do you have Monsieur Tanguay’s fish in your apartment?”

  Head shake.

  “Do you have a key to Monsieur Tanguay’s apartment?”

  Mathieu nodded.

  “Could you let us in?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t come out when Grammama’s gone.”

  “That’s good, Mathieu. Grammama wants you to stay inside because she thinks it’s safer for you. She’s right, and you’re a good boy to listen to her.”

  The Mississippi smile spread north again.

  “Do you think we could use the key, Mathieu, just for a few minutes? It’s very important police business and you are correct that we shouldn’t break the door.”

  “I guess that would be okay,” he said. “Because you’re police.”

  Mathieu darted out of sight, returned with a key. He pressed his lips together and looked straight at me as he held it through the crack.

  “Don’t break Monsieur Tanguay’s door.”

  “We’ll be very careful.”

  “And don’t go in the kitchen. That’s bad. You can’t ever go in the kitchen.”

  “You close the door and stay inside, Mathieu. I’ll knock when we’ve finished. Don’t open the door until you hear my knock.”

  The small face nodded solemnly, then disappeared behind the door.

  We rejoined Bertrand, who knocked again, called out. There was an awkward pause, then Ryan nodded, and I slipped the key into the lock.

  The door opened directly into a small living room, its color scheme shades of maroon. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling on two sides, the other walls were wood, every surface darkened by years of varnishing. Crushed red velvet looped across the windows, backed by graying lace, which blocked most of the sunlight. We stood absolutely still, listening and peering into the unlit room.

  The only sound I heard was a faint buzzing, erratic, like electricity jumping a broken circuit. Bzzt. Bzzzzzt. Bzt. Bzt. It came from behind double doors ahead and to the left. Otherwise, the place was deathly quiet.

  Poor choice of adverb, Brennan.

  I looked around and furniture shapes emerged from the deep shadow, looking old and worn. The center of the room was occupied by a carved wooden table with matching chairs. A well-used couch sagged in the front bay, a Mexican blanket stretched across it. Opposite, a wooden trunk served as a stand for a Sony Trinitron.

  Scattered about the room were small wooden tables and cabinets. Some were quite nice, not unlike pieces I’d unearthed at flea markets. I doubted any of these had been afternoon finds, purchased as bargains to strip and refinish. They looked as though they’d been in the place for years, ignored and unappreciated as successive tenants came and went.

  The floor was covered by an aging dhurrie. And plants. Everywhere. They were tucked i
n corners and strung along baseboards and hung from hooks. What the occupant lacked in furnishings, he’d made up for in greenery. Plants dangled from wall brackets and rested on windowsills, tabletops, sideboards, and shelves.

  “Looks like a fucking botanical garden,” said Bertrand.

  And smells, I thought. A musty odor permeated the air, a blend of fungus, and leaves, and damp earth.

  Across from the main entrance a short hall led to a single closed door. Ryan gestured me back with the same move he’d used in the hall, then slid along the wall, shoulders hunched, knees bent, back pressed to the plaster. He inched up to the door, paused, then shot a foot hard against the wood.

  The door flew in, hit the wall, and recoiled toward the frame, then came to rest half open. I strained for sounds of movement, my heart beating with the erratic buzzing. Bzzzzzzt. Bzt. Bzt. Bzzzzt. Da dum dum dum. Da dum. Da dum dum.

  An eerie glow seeped from behind the half-open door, accompanied by a soft gurgling.

  “Found the fish,” said Ryan, moving through the door.

  He flicked a switch with his pen and the room was thrown into brightness. Standard bedroom. Single bed, Indian print spread. Nightstand, lamp, alarm, nasal spray. Dresser, no mirror. Tiny bath to the rear. One window. Heavy drapes blocked a view of a brick wall.

  The only uncommon items were the tanks that lined the back wall. Mathieu was right, they were fantastique. Electric blues, canary yellows, and black-and-white stripes darted in and out of rose and white coral and foliage of every shade of green imaginable. Each tiny ecosystem was illuminated in aquamarine and lulled by a rolling oxygen sonata.

  I watched, mesmerized, feeling an idea about to form. Coaxing it. What? Fish? What? Nothing.

  Ryan moved around me, using his pen to sweep back the shower curtain, open the medicine cabinet, poke among the food and nets surrounding the tanks. He used a hanky to open dresser drawers, then the pen to leaf through underwear, socks, shirts, and sweaters.

  Forget the fish, Brennan. Whatever idea was in my mind, it was as elusive as the bubbles in the tanks, rising toward the surface only to disappear.

  “Anything?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing obvious. Don’t want to piss off recovery, so I’m just doing a quick check. Let’s case the other rooms, then I’ll turn it over to Gilbert. Pretty clear Tanguay’s elsewhere. We’ll nail his ass, but in the meantime we might as well find out what he has here.”