Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  Back in the living room Bertrand was inspecting the TV.

  “State of the art,” he said. “Boy likes his tube.”

  “Probably needs a regular Cousteau fix,” said Ryan absently, body tense, eyes scanning the gloom around us. No one would surprise us today.

  I wandered to the shelves containing the books. The range of topics was impressive, and, like the TV, the books looked new. I scanned the titles. Ecology. Ichthyology. Ornithology. Psychology. Sex. Lots of science, but the guy’s taste was eclectic. Buddhism. Scientology. Archaeology. Maori art. Kwakiutl wood carving. Samurai warriors. World War II artifacts. Cannibalism.

  The shelves held hundreds of paperbacks, including modern fiction, both French and English. Many of my favorites were present. Vonnegut. Irving. McMurtry. But the majority were crime fiction novels. Brutal murderers. Deranged stalkers. Violent psychopaths. Heartless cities. I could quote their cover blurbs without even reading them. There was also an entire shelf of nonfiction devoted to the lives of serial and spree killers. Manson. Bundy. Ramirez. Boden.

  “I think Tanguay and St. Jacques belong to the same book club,” I said.

  “This butt wipe probably is St. Jacques,” said Bertrand.

  “No, this guy brushes his teeth,” said Ryan.

  “Yeah. When he’s Tanguay.”

  “If he reads this stuff, his interests are incredibly broad,” I said. “And he’s bilingual.” I glanced over the collection again. “And he’s compulsive as hell.”

  “What are you now, Dr. Ruth?” asked Bertrand.

  “Look at this.”

  They joined me.

  “Everything’s arranged by topic, alphabetically.” I pointed to several shelves. “Then by author within each category, again alphabetically. Then by year of publication for each author.”

  “Doesn’t everyone do that?”

  Ryan and I looked at him. Bertrand was not a reader.

  “Look how every book is aligned with the edge of the shelf.”

  “He does the same with his shorts and socks. Must use a square edge to stack them,” said Ryan.

  Ryan voiced my thoughts.

  “Fits the profile.”

  “Maybe he just keeps the books for show. Wants his friends to think he’s an intellectual,” said Bertrand.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “They’re not dusty. Also, look at the little yellow slips. He not only reads this stuff, he marks certain things to go back to. Let’s point that out to Gilbert and his commandos so they don’t lose the markers. Could be useful.”

  “I’ll have them seal the books before they dust.”

  “Something else about Monsieur Tanguay.”

  They stared at the shelves.

  “He reads some weird shit,” said Bertrand.

  “Besides the crime stories, what interests him most?” I asked. “Look at the very top shelf.”

  They looked again.

  “Shit,” said Ryan. “Gray’s Anatomy. Cunningham’s Manual of Practical Anatomy. Color Atlas of Human Anatomy. Handbook of Anatomical Dissection. Medical Illustration of the Human Body. Christ, look at this. Sabiston’s Principles of Surgery. He’s got more of this shit than a med school library. Looks like he’s heavy into knowing what a body’s got inside.”

  “Yeah, and not just the software. This squirrel’s into the hardware.”

  Ryan reached for his radio. “Let’s get Gilbert and his raiders up here. I’ll tell the teams out back to go to ground and watch for Dr. Prick. We don’t want to spook him when he shows up. Christ, Claudel’s probably got his nuts in a half hitch by now.”

  Ryan spoke into his handset. Bertrand continued to skim the titles behind me.

  Bzt. Bzzzzzzt. Bzzt. Bzt.

  “Hey, this is your kind of stuff.” He used a hanky to withdraw something. “Looks like there’s just this one.”

  He laid a single volume of the American Anthropologist on the table. July 1993. I didn’t have to open it. I knew one entry on its table of contents. “A major hit,” she’d called it. “Fodder for promotion to full professor.”

  Gabby’s article. The sight of the AA hit me like a snapped cable. I wanted out of there. I wanted to be gone to a sunny Saturday where I was safe, and no one was dead, and my best friend would be calling with plans for dinner.

  Water. Cold water on your face, Brennan.

  I lurched toward the double doors and flipped one open with my foot, looking for the kitchen.

  BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZT. BZZZZZZT. BZT.

  The room had no window. A digital clock to my right gave off a luminous orange glow. I could make out two white shapes and another pale stretch at waist level. Refrigerator, stove, sink, I assumed. I felt for a switch. The hell with procedure. They could sort out my prints.

  The back of my hand pressed to my mouth, I stumbled to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. When I straightened and turned, Ryan was standing in the doorway.

  “I’m fine.”

  Flies shot around the room, startled at the sudden intrusion.

  BZZT. BZT. BZZZZT.

  “Mint?” He offered a roll of Life Savers.

  “Thanks.” I took one. “The heat.”

  “It’s a cooker.”

  A fly careened off his cheek. “What the fu—” He swatted at the air. “What’s this guy do in here?”

  Ryan and I saw them at the same time. Two brown objects lay on the counter, halos of grease staining the paper towels on which they dried. Flies danced around them, landing and taking off in nervous agitation. A surgical glove lay to their left, a twin to the one we’d just unearthed. We went closer, fomenting the flies to excited flight.

  I looked at each shriveled mass and thought of the roaches and spiders in the barber pole, their legs dried and constricted in rigor. These objects had nothing to do with arachnids, however. I knew instantly what they were, though I’d only seen the others in photos.

  “They’re paws.”

  “What?”

  “Paws from some kind of animal.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Flip one over.”

  He did. With his pen.

  “You can see the ends of the lower limb bones.”

  “What’s he doing with them?”

  “How the hell should I know, Ryan?” I thought of Alsa.

  “Christ.”

  “Check the refrigerator.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  The tiny corpse was there, skinned and wrapped in clear plastic. Along with several others.

  “What are they?”

  “Small mammals of some sort. Without the skin I can’t tell. They’re not horses.”

  “Thanks, Brennan.”

  Bertrand joined us. “What’ve you got?”

  “Dead animals.” Ryan’s voice betrayed his aggravation. “And another glove.”

  “Maybe the guy eats roadkill,” said Bertrand.

  “Maybe. And maybe he makes lampshades out of people. That’s it. I want this place sealed. I want every friggin’ thing confiscated. Bag his cutlery, bag that blender, bag everything in the goddamn refrigerator. I want that disposal scraped and every inch of this place hosed with Luminol. Where the hell’s Gilbert?”

  Ryan moved toward a wall phone to the left of the door.

  “Hold it. That phone got a redial button?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Hit it.”

  “Probably get his priest. Or Grammama.”

  Ryan pushed the button. We listened to a seven-note melody followed by four rings. Then a voice answered, and the bubble of fear I’d been carrying all day rose to my head and I felt faint.

  “Veuillez laissez votre nom et numéro de téléphone. Je vais vous rappeler le plus tôt possible. Merci. Please leave your name and number and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thanks. This is Tempe.”

  THE SOUND OF MY OWN VOICE HIT ME LIKE A BLOW TO THE HEAD. My legs buckled and my breath came in rapid gasps.

  Ryan helped me to a chair, broug
ht water, asked no questions. I have no idea how long I sat there, feeling nothing but emptiness. Eventually, my composure crept back, and I began to assess the reality.

  He’d phoned me. Why? When?

  I watched Gilbert don rubber gloves and slide his hand around the inside of the disposal. He drew something out and dropped it in the sink.

  Was he trying to reach me? Or Gabby? What had he intended to say? Had he intended to speak at all, or just check whether I was there?

  A photographer moved from room to room, his flash like a firefly in the gloomy flat.

  The hang-ups. Was it he?

  A tech in rubber gloves and coveralls taped books and sealed them into evidence bags, marking each, then signing across the seal. Another brushed white powder across the red-black varnish of the shelves. A third emptied the refrigerator, removing packages in plain brown wrappers, and placing them in a cooler.

  Had she died here, her last visual images the ones I now saw?

  Ryan spoke to Charbonneau. Snatches of the conversation floated to me through the suffocating heat. Where’s Claudel? Took off. Roust the superintendent. Find out about basements, storage areas. Get keys. Charbonneau left, returned with a middle-aged woman in housecoat and slippers. They disappeared again, accompanied by the book packer.

  Again and again Ryan offered to take me home. There was nothing I could do, he told me gently. I knew that, but I couldn’t leave.

  Grammama arrived around four. She was neither hostile nor cooperative. Reluctantly, she provided a description of Tanguay. Male. Quiet. Brown hair, thinning. Medium everything. Could have fit half the men in North America. She had no idea where he was or how long he’d be gone. He’d left before, but never for long. She only noticed because Tanguay asked Mathieu to feed the fish. He was nice to Mathieu and gave him money when he cared for the fish. She knew little else about him, rarely saw him. She thought he worked, thought he had a car. Wasn’t sure. Didn’t care. Didn’t want to get involved.

  The recovery team spent all afternoon and late into the night dissecting the apartment. I didn’t. By five I needed out. I accepted Ryan’s offer of a ride and left.

  We spoke little in the car. Ryan repeated what he’d said on the phone. I was to stay home. A team would watch my building around the clock. No late night sorties. No solo expeditions.

  “Don’t ride me, Ryan,” I said, my voice betraying my emotional brittleness.

  The rest of the drive was spent in strained silence. When we reached my building Ryan put the car in park and turned to me. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face.

  “Listen, Brennan. I’m not trying to give you a hard time. This scum is going down. You can take that to the bank. I’d just like you to live to see it.”

  His concern touched me more than I was willing to admit.

  • • •

  They pulled out all stops. APB’s went out to every cop in Quebec, to the Ontario Provincial Police, the RCMP, and the state forces in New York and Vermont. But Quebec is big, its borders easy to cross. Lots of places to hide or slip out.

  In the days that followed I grappled with the possibilities. Tanguay could be lying low, biding his time. He could be dead. He could have taken off. Serial killers do that. Sensing danger, they pack up and relocate. Some are never caught. No. I refused to accept that.

  Sunday I never left home. Birdie and I did what the French call coconer. We cocooned. I didn’t get dressed, avoided the radio and television. I couldn’t bear to see Gabby’s photo, or hear the overdone descriptions of the victim and suspect. I made only three calls, first to Katy, then to my aunt in Chicago. Happy Birthday, Auntie! Eighty-four. Well done.

  I knew Katy was in Charlotte, just wanted to reassure myself. No answer. Of course. Curse the distance. No. Bless the distance. I didn’t want my daughter anywhere near the place a monster had held her picture. She would never know what I’d found.

  The last call was to Gabby’s mother. She was sedated, couldn’t come to the phone. I spoke to Mr. Macaulay. Assuming they released the body, the funeral would be on Thursday.

  For a time, I sat sobbing, my body rocking as though to a metronome. The demons that live in my bloodstream screamed for alcohol. Pleasure-pain, such a simple principle. Feed us. Numb us. Make it go away.

  But I didn’t. That would have been easy. You’re down love-forty, so lob one in, shake hands at the net, and it’s Miller time. Except this wasn’t tennis. If I gave up in this game, I would lose my career, my friends, my self-respect. Hell, I might as well let St. Jacques/Tanguay do me in.

  I would not give in. Not to the bottle, and not to the maniac. I owed it to Gabby. I owed it to myself and to my daughter. So I stayed sober and waited, desperately wishing I had Gabby to talk me through. I checked frequently to be sure the surveillance team was in place.

  • • •

  On Monday Ryan called around eleven-thirty. LaManche had completed the autopsy. Cause of death: ligature strangulation. Though the body was decomposed he’d found a groove buried deep in the flesh of Gabby’s neck. Above and below it the skin was torn in a series of gouges and scratches. The vessels in the throat tissue showed hundreds of tiny hemorrhages.

  Ryan’s voice receded. I pictured Gabby desperately clawing to breathe, to live. Stop. Thank God we found her so quickly. I couldn’t have faced the horror of Gabby on my autopsy table. The pain of losing her was unbearable enough.

  “… hyoid was broken. Also, whatever he used had links or loops or something, left a spiral pattern in the skin.”

  “Was she raped?”

  “He couldn’t tell because of the decomposition. Negative for sperm.”

  “Time of death?”

  “LaManche is giving it a minimum of five days. We know the upper limit is ten.”

  “Pretty wide window.”

  “Given this heat and the shallow burial, he thinks the body should be in worse shape.”

  Oh, God. She may not have died the day she disappeared.

  “Have you checked her apartment?”

  “No one saw her, but she’d been there.”

  “What about Tanguay?”

  “Ready for this? The guy’s a teacher. Small school out on the west island.” I heard the rustle of paper. “St. Isidor’s. Been there since 1991. He’s twenty-eight. Single. For next of kin on his application he put ‘none.’ We’re checking it. He’s been living on Séguin since ’91. Landlady thinks he was somewhere in the States before that.”

  “Prints?”

  “Lots. We ran them, came up empty. Sent them south this morning.”

  “Inside the glove?”

  “At least two readable and a smudged palm.”

  An image of Gabby. The plastic bag. Another glove. I jotted down a single word. Glove.

  “He has a degree?”

  “Bishops. Bertrand’s out in Lennoxville now. Claudel’s trying to roust someone at St. Isidor’s, not having much luck. The caretaker is about a hundred and no one else is around. They’re closed for the summer.”

  “Any names turn up in the apartment?”

  “None. No pictures. No address books. No letters. Guy must live in a social vacuum.”

  A long silence as we mulled that over, then Ryan said,

  “Might explain his unusual hobbies.”

  “The animals?”

  “That. And the cutlery collection.”

  “Cutlery?”

  “This squirrel had more blades than an orthopedic surgeon. Surgical tools mostly. Knives. Razors. Scalpels. Kept them stashed under the bed. Along with a box of surgical gloves. Original.”

  “A loner with a blade fetish. Great.”

  “And the standard porn gallery. Well thumbed.”

  “What else?”

  “Guy’s got a car.” More rustling. “A 1987 Ford Probe. It’s not in the neighborhood. They’re looking for it. We got the driver’s license photo this morning and sent that out too.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll let you jud
ge for yourself, but I think Grammama was right. He’s not memorable. Or maybe the Xerox/fax reproduction doesn’t do him justice.”

  “Could it be St. Jacques?”

  “Could be. Or Jean Chrétien. Or the guy that sells hot dogs on Rue St. Paul. Richard Petty’s out. He’s got a mustache.”

  “You’re a laugh riot, Ryan.”

  “This guy doesn’t even have a parking ticket. He’s been a real good boy.”

  “Right. A real good boy who collects knives and porn and carves up small mammals.”

  Pause.

  “What were they?”

  “We’re not sure yet. They’re asking some guy over at U of M.”

  I looked at the word I’d written, swallowed hard.

  “Any prints inside the glove we found with Gabby?” It was difficult to say her name.

  “No.”

  “We knew there wouldn’t be.”

  “Yeah.”

  I heard squad room noises in the background.

  “I want to drop off a copy of this license photo so you’ll have some idea what he looks like in case you meet him up close and personal. I still think it’s better if you stick near home until we pop this asshole.”

  “I’m coming in. If ident is done with the gloves I want to take them over to biology. Then Lacroix.”

  “I think you sh—”

  “Cut the macho crap, Ryan.”

  A breath drawn deeply, expelled.

  “Are you holding out on me?”

  “Brennan, what we know, you know.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  • • •

  In less than half an hour I arrived at the lab. Ident had finished and sent the gloves to the biology section.

  I looked at my watch—twelve-forty. I called the ident section at CUM headquarters to ask if I could see the photos taken at the St. Jacques apartment on Rue Berger. Lunchtime. The desk clerk would leave a message.

  At one o’clock I walked over to the biology section. A woman with flyaway hair and a plump, Christmas angel face was shaking a glass vial. Two latex gloves lay on the counter behind her.

  “Bonjour, Françoise.”

  “Ah. I thought I might see you today.” The cherub eyes took on a worried expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite know what to say to you.”