Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

He stared, his yellow eyes unblinking.

  “I can do something.”

  He arched, placed all four paws in a tight little square, curled his tail, and sat, his eyes never leaving my face.

  “I will do something. I will not just sit around and wait for this fiend to pounce. Not on my daughter.”

  I took the groceries to the kitchen and placed them in the refrigerator. Then I got out my laptop, logged in, and pulled up the spreadsheet. How long had it been since I’d started it? I checked the dates I’d entered. Isabelle Gagnon’s body was found on June 2. Seven weeks. It seemed like seven years.

  I went to the study and brought out my case files. Maybe the effort I’d spent photocopying wouldn’t be wasted after all.

  For the next two hours I scrutinized every photograph, every name, every date, literally every word in every interview and police report I had. Then I did it again. I went over and over the words, hoping to find some little thing I’d missed. The third time through I did.

  I was reading Ryan’s interview with Grace Damas’s father when I noticed it. Like a sneeze that’s been building, taunting but refusing to break, the message finally burst into my conscious thought.

  A boucherie. Grace Damas had worked at a boucherie. The killer used a chef’s saw, knew something about anatomy. Tanguay dissected animals. Maybe there was a link. I looked for the name of the boucherie but couldn’t find it.

  I dialed the number in the file. A man answered.

  “Mr. Damas?”

  “Yes.” Accented English.

  “I’m Dr. Brennan. I’m working on the investigation of your wife’s death. I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Yes.”

  “At the time she disappeared, was your wife working outside the home?”

  Pause. Then, “Yes.”

  I could hear a television in the background.

  “May I ask where, please?”

  “A bakery on Fairmont. Le Bon Croissant. It was just part time. She never worked full time, with the kids and all.”

  I thought that over. So much for my link.

  “How long had she worked there, Mr. Damas?” I hid my disappointment.

  “Just a few months, I think. Grace never lasted anywheres very long.”

  “Where did she work before that?” I dogged on.

  “A boucherie.”

  “Which one?” I held my breath.

  “La Boucherie St. Dominique. Belongs to a man in our parish. It’s over on St. Dominique, just off St. Laurent, ya know?”

  Yes. I pictured the rain against its windows.

  “When did she work there?” I kept my voice calm.

  “Almost a year, I guess. Most of ’91, seems like. I can check. Think it’s important? They never asked nothing about the dates before.”

  “I’m not sure. Mr. Damas, did your wife ever speak of someone named Tanguay?”

  “Who?” Harsh.

  “Tanguay.”

  An announcer’s voice promised he’d be right back after the commercial break. My head throbbed and a dry scratching was beginning in my throat.

  “No.”

  The vehemence startled me.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll let you know if there are any new developments.”

  I hung up and phoned Ryan. He’d left for the day. I tried his home number. No answer. I knew what I had to do. I made one call, picked up a key, and headed out.

  • • •

  La Boucherie St. Dominique was busier than the day I’d first noticed it. The same signs occupied its windows, but tonight the store was lit and open for business. There wasn’t much. An old woman moved slowly down the glass case, her face flaccid in the fluorescent glare. I watched her double back and point to a rabbit. The stiff little carcass reminded me of Tanguay’s sad collection. And Alsa.

  I waited until the woman left, then approached the man behind the counter. His face was rectangular, the bones large, the features coarse. The arms that hung from his T-shirt looked surprisingly thin and sinewy in contrast. Dark splotches marred the white of his apron, like dried petals on a linen tablecloth.

  “Bonjour.”

  “Bonjour.”

  “Slow tonight?”

  “It’s slow every night.” English, accented like Damas’s.

  I could hear someone rattling utensils in a back room.

  “I’m working on the Grace Damas murder investigation.” I pulled out my ID and flashed it. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  The man stared at me. In the back, a faucet went on, off.

  “Are you the owner?”

  Nod.

  “Mr.?”

  “Plevritis.”

  “Mr. Plevritis, Grace Damas worked here for a short time, did she not?”

  “Who?”

  “Grace Damas. Fellow parishioner at St. Demetrius?”

  The scrawny arms folded across his chest. Nod.

  “When was that?”

  “About three, four years ago. I don’t know exactly. They come and go.”

  “Did she quit?”

  “Without notice.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Hell if I know. Everyone was doing it about then.”

  “Did she seem unhappy, upset, nervous?”

  “What do I look like, Sigmund Freud?”

  “Did she have any friends here, anyone she was particularly close to?”

  His eyes lighted on mine and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Close?” he asked, his voice oily as Valvoline. I returned his gaze, unsmiling.

  The smile disappeared and his eyes left mine to wander the room.

  “It’s just me and my brother here. There’s no one to get close with.” He drew the word out, like an adolescent with a dirty joke.

  “Did she have any peculiar visitors, anyone who might have been hassling her?”

  “Look, I gave her a job. I told her what to do and she did it. I didn’t keep track of her social life.”

  “I thought perhaps you might have noticed—”

  “Grace was a good worker. I was mad as hell when she quit. Everyone splitting at the same time really left me with my nuts in a vise, so I was pissed. I admit it. But I don’t hold a grudge. Later, when I heard she was missing, at church, ya know, I thought she’d taken off. Didn’t really seem like her, but her old man can be pretty heavy sometimes. I’m sorry she got killed. But I really hardly remember her.”

  “What do you mean ‘heavy’?”

  A blank expression crossed his face, like a sluice gate dropping. He lowered his eyes and scratched with his thumbnail at something on the counter. “You’ll have to talk to Nikos about that. That’s family.”

  I could see what Ryan meant. Now what? Visual aids. I reached in my purse and pulled out the picture of St. Jacques.

  “Ever see this guy?”

  Plevritis leaned forward to take it. “Who is he?”

  “Neighbor of yours.”

  He studied the face. “Not exactly a prizewinning photo.”

  “It was taken by a video camera.”

  “So was the Zapruder film, but at least you could see something.”

  I wondered at his reference but said nothing. Spare me another conspiracy buff. Then I saw something cross his face, a subtle squint that puckered then flattened his lower lids.

  “What?”

  “Well …” He stared at the photo.

  “Yes?”

  “This guy looks a little like the other shitrag that bailed on me. But maybe that’s because you put me in mind of him with all your questions. Hell, I don’t know.” He thrust the picture across the counter at me. “I gotta close up.”

  “Who? Who was that?”

  “Look, it’s a lousy picture. Looks like a lot of guys with bad hair. Don’t mean nothing.”

  “What did you mean, someone else bailed on you? When?”

  “That’s why I was so cheesed off about Grace. The guy I had before her quit without so m
uch as a good-bye, then Grace takes a walk, then not long after that this other guy. He and Grace were part-timers, but they were the only help I had. My brother was down in the States and I was running this place all by myself that year.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Fortier. Lemme think. Leo. Leo Fortier. I remember ’cause I got a cousin named Leo.”

  “He worked here at the same time Grace Damas did?”

  “Yeah. I hired him to replace the guy quit just before Grace started. I figured with two part-timers to split the hours, in case one didn’t come in, I’d only be short-handed half the day. Then they both left. Tabarnac, that was a mess. Fortier worked here maybe a year, year and a half, then just stopped coming. Never even turned in his keys. I had to start back at zero. I don’t want to go through that again.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “That’s an easy one. Nothing. He saw my sign, walked in off the street wanting to work part time. He fit in where I needed him, early morning to open, late night for closing and clean up, and he had experience cutting up meat. Turned out to be real good, actually. Anyway, I hired him. He had some other kind of job during the day. He seemed okay. Real quiet. Did his work, never opened his mouth. Hell, I never even knew where he lived.”

  “How did he and Grace get along.”

  “Hell if I know. He’d be gone when she came in, then he’d come back after she’d left for the day. I’m not sure they even knew each other.”

  “And you think the man in this picture looks like Fortier?”

  “Him and every other guy with bad hair and an attitude about it.”

  “Do you know where Fortier is now?”

  He shook his head.

  “You know anyone named St. Jacques?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tanguay?”

  “Sounds like a bronzer for queers.”

  My head was pounding and my throat was starting to scratch. I left my card.

  I ARRIVED HOME TO FIND RYAN FUMING ON MY DOORSTEP. HE WASTED no time.

  “I just can’t get through to you, can I? No one can. You’re like one of those Ghost Dance Indians. Dress the dress and dance the dance and you’re bulletproof.”

  His face was flushed, and I could see a tiny vessel throbbing in his temple. I thought it unwise to comment just yet.

  “Whose car was it?”

  “Neighbor.”

  “Do you find all this amusing, Brennan?”

  I said nothing. The headache had spread from the back to encompass my entire cranium, and a dry cough told me my immune system was about to have callers.

  “Is there anyone on this planet who can get through to you?”

  “Would you like to come in for coffee?”

  “What makes you think you can just sail off like that and leave everyone sucking wind? These guys don’t exactly live to be out here protecting your sorry ass, Brennan. Why the hell didn’t you call or page me?”

  “I did.”

  “You couldn’t wait ten minutes?”

  “I didn’t know where you were or how long it would be. I didn’t think I’d be gone long. Hell, I wasn’t.”

  “You could have left a message.”

  “I’d have left War and Peace if I’d known you were going to overreact like this.” Not quite true. I knew.

  “Overreact?” His voice went icy calm. “Let me review for you. Five, maybe seven women have been brutally murdered and mutilated in this town. The most recent was four weeks ago.” He ticked points off on his fingers. “One of these women made a partial appearance in your garden. A nutcase had your picture in his spice collection. He’s gone missing. A loner who collects knives and pornography, frequents hookers, and likes to slice and dice little animals dialed up your apartment. He’d been stalking your best friend. She is now dead. She was buried clutching a picture of you and your daughter. This loner has also gone missing.”

  A couple passed on the sidewalk, dropping their eyes and quickening their pace, embarrassed to witness a lovers’ quarrel.

  “Ryan, come inside. I’ll make coffee.” My voice sounded raspy and speech was starting to hurt.

  He raised a hand in exasperation, fingers splayed, then dropped it to his side. I returned the keys to my neighbor, thanked her for the use of her car, and let Ryan and myself into the apartment.

  “Decaf or high test?”

  Before he could answer his beeper sounded, causing us both to jump.

  “Better go with decaf. You know where the phone is.”

  I listened, rattling cups and pretending not to.

  “Ryan.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “No shit.” Long pause. “When?” Pause. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

  He came to the kitchen door and stood there, his face tense. My temperature, blood pressure, and pulse all began to rise. Stay calm. I poured two cups of coffee, forcing my hand not to tremble. I waited for him to speak.

  “They got him.”

  My hand froze, the pot suspended in midair.

  “Tanguay?”

  He nodded. I returned the pot to its warmer. Carefully. I took out milk, poured a dollop in my cup, offered some to Ryan. Carefully. He shook his head. I put the carton back in the refrigerator. Carefully. I took a sip. Okay. Speak.

  “Tell me.”

  “Let’s sit.”

  We moved to the living room.

  “They arrested him about two hours ago driving east on the 417. An SQ unit spotted the tag and pulled him.

  “It’s Tanguay?”

  “It’s Tanguay. Prints match.”

  “He was heading toward Montreal?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What are they charging him with?”

  “For now, possession of open alcohol in a moving vehicle. Jerk was thoughtful enough to crack a bottle of Jim Beam and leave it in the backseat. They also confiscated some skin magazines. He thinks that’s the beef. They’re letting him sweat for a while.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Claims he has a cabin in the Gatineau. Inherited it from Daddy. Get this. He’d been fishing. Crime scene’s sending out a team to take the place apart.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Parthenais.”

  “You’re heading over there?”

  “Yeah.” He took a deep breath, expecting a fight. I had no desire to see Tanguay.

  “Okay.” My mouth was dry, and a languor was spreading through my body. Tranquillity? I hadn’t felt that in a long time.

  “Katy is coming,” I said with a nervous laugh. “That’s why I … why I went out tonight.”

  “Your daughter?”

  I nodded.

  “Bad timing.”

  “I thought I might find something. I … never mind.”

  For a few seconds neither of us spoke.

  “I’m glad it’s over.” Ryan’s anger was gone. He rose to his feet. “Would you like me to stop by after I’ve talked to him? Could be late.”

  Bad as I felt, there was no chance I’d sleep until I knew the outcome. Who was Tanguay? What would they find in his cabin? Had Gabby died there? Had Isabelle Gagnon? Grace Damas? Or had they been taken there, postmortem, merely to be butchered and packaged?

  “Please.”

  When he’d gone I realized I’d forgotten to tell him about the gloves. I tried Pete again. Though Tanguay was in custody, I was still uneasy. I didn’t want Katy anywhere near Montreal yet. Perhaps I’d go South.

  This time I reached him. Katy had left several days earlier. She’d told her father I proposed the trip. True. And approved the plans. Not quite. He wasn’t sure of the itinerary. Typical. She was traveling with friends from the university, driving to D.C. to stay with one set of parents, then to New York to visit the other friend’s home. Then she planned to continue on to Montreal. Sounded okay to him. He was sure she’d call.

  I started to tell him about Gabby and what had been going on in my life, but couldn’t. Not yet. No matter. It was over. As usual he had
to rush off to prepare for an early morning deposition, regretted he couldn’t talk longer. What’s new?

  I felt too ill and weary even to take a bath. For the next few hours I sat wrapped in a quilt, shivering and staring at the empty fireplace, wishing I had someone to feed me soup, stroke my forehead, and say I would be better soon. I dozed and woke, drifting in and out of dream fragments, while microscopic beings multiplied in my bloodstream.

  Ryan buzzed at one-fifteen.

  “Jesus, you look awful, Brennan.”

  “Thanks.” I rewrapped my quilt. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

  “Why don’t we do this tomorrow?”

  “No way.”

  He looked at me strangely then followed me in, threw his jacket on the couch, and sat.

  “Name’s Jean Pierre Tanguay. Twenty-eight. Homeboy. Grew up in Shawinigan. Never married. No kids. He has one sister living in Arkansas. His mother died when he was nine. Lot of hostility there. Father was a plasterer, pretty much raised the two kids. The old man died in a car wreck when Tanguay was in college. Apparently it hit him pretty hard. He dropped out of school, stayed with the sister for a while, then wandered around down in the States. You ready for this? While he was in Dixie he got a call from God. Wanted to be a Jesuit or something, but flunked the interview. Apparently they didn’t think his personality was priestly enough. Anyway, he resurfaced in Quebec in ’88 and managed to get back into Bishops. Finished his degree about a year and a half later.”

  “So he’s been in the area since ’88?”

  “Yep.”

  “That would put him back here about the time Pitre and Gautier were murdered.”

  Ryan nodded. “And he’s been here ever since.”

  I had to swallow before I spoke.

  “What’s he say about the animals?”

  “Claims he teaches biology. We’ve checked that out. Says he’s building a reference collection for his classes. Boils down the carcasses and mounts the skeletons.”

  “That would explain the anatomy books.”

  “Might.”

  “Where does he get them?”

  “Roadkills.”

  “Oh, Christ, Bertrand was right.” I could picture him skulking around at night, scraping up corpses and dragging them home in plastic bags.

  “He ever work in a butcher shop?”

  “He didn’t say. Why?”

  “What did Claudel find out from the people he works with?”