Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  “Nothing we didn’t know. Keeps to himself, teaches his classes. Nobody really knows him all that well. And they’re not thrilled at a call late in the evening.”

  “Sounds like Grammama’s profile.”

  “The sister says he’s always been antisocial. Can’t remember him having friends. But she’s nine years older, doesn’t remember much about him as a kid. She did throw us one interesting tidbit.”

  “Yes”

  Ryan smiled. “Tanguay’s impotent.”

  “The sister volunteered that?”

  “She thought it might explain his antisocial tendencies. Sis thinks he’s harmless, just suffers from low self-esteem. She’s big into the self-help literature. Knows all the jargon.”

  I didn’t reply. In my mind I was seeing lines from two autopsy reports.

  “That makes sense. Adkins and Morisette-Champoux tested negative for sperm.”

  “Bingo.”

  “How did he become impotent?”

  “Combination congenital and trauma. He was born a one-baller, then wrecked it in a soccer accident. Some freak thing where another player was carrying a pen. Tanguay caught it with his one good nut. Bye-bye spermatogenesis.”

  “And that’s why he’s a hermit?”

  “Hey. Maybe Sis is right.”

  “Could explain his lack of sparkle with the girls.” I thought of Jewel’s comments. And Julie.

  “And everyone else.”

  “Isn’t it odd he’d choose teaching?” Ryan mused. “Why work in a setting where you have to interact with so many people? If you really feel inadequate, why not choose something less threatening, more private? Computers? Or lab work?”

  “I’m not a psychologist, but teaching might be perfect. You don’t interact with equals—you know, with adults; you interact with kids. You’re the one in charge. You have the power. Your classroom is your little kingdom and the kids have to do what you say. No way they’re going to ridicule or second-guess you.”

  “At least not to your face.”

  “Could be the perfect balance for him. Satisfy his need for power and control by day, feed his sexual fantasies at night.”

  “And that’s the best-case scenario,” I said. “Think of the opportunities for voyeurism, or even for physical contact that he has with those kids.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sat in silence for a while, Ryan’s eyes sweeping the room much as they had in Tanguay’s apartment. He looked exhausted.

  “Guess the surveillance unit isn’t necessary anymore,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He stood.

  I walked him to the door.

  “What’s your take on him, Ryan?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Then he spoke very carefully.

  “He claims he’s innocent as little Orphan Annie, but he’s nervous as hell. He’s hiding something. By tomorrow we’ll know what’s in the little country getaway. We’ll use that and hit him with the whole thing. He’ll roll over.”

  When he left I took a heavy dose of cold medicine and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. If I dreamed, I couldn’t remember.

  • • •

  The next day I felt better, but not well enough to go to the lab. Maybe it was avoidance, but I stayed home. Birdie was the only one I wanted to see.

  I kept busy reading a student thesis and responding to correspondence I’d been ignoring for weeks. Ryan called around one as I was unloading the dryer. I knew from his voice things weren’t going well.

  “Crime scene turned the cabin inside out and came up empty. Nothing there to suggest the guy even cheats at solitaire. No knives. No guns. No snuff films. None of Dobzhansky’s victim souvenirs. No jewelry, clothing, skulls, body parts. One dead squirrel in the refrigerator. That’s it. Otherwise, zipp-o.”

  “Signs of digging?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is there a toolshed or a basement where he might have saws or old blades?”

  “Rakes, hoes, wooden crates, an old chain saw, a broken wheelbarrow. Standard garden stuff. And enough spiders to populate a small planet. Apparently Gilbert’s going to need therapy.”

  “Is there a crawl space?”

  “Brennan, you’re not listening.”

  “Luminol?” I asked, depressed.

  “Clean.”

  “Newspaper clippings?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything to tie this place to the room we busted on Berger?”

  “No.”

  “To St. Jacques?”

  “No.”

  “To Gabby?”

  “No.”

  “To any of the victims?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What do you think he does out there?”

  “Fishes and thinks about his missing nut.”

  “What now?”

  “Bertrand and I are going up to have a long talk with Monsieur Tanguay. Time to drop some names and start turning up the heat. I still think he’ll give it up.”

  “Does it add up to you?”

  “Maybe. Maybe Bertrand’s idea isn’t so bad. Maybe Tanguay’s one of these split personalities. One side is the biology teacher who lives clean, fishes, and collects specimens for his students. The other side has uncontrollable rage against women and feels sexually inadequate, so he gets his rocks off stalking them and beating them to death. Maybe he keeps the two personalities apart, even to the extent of having a separate place for the stalker to enjoy his fantasies and admire his souvenirs. Hell, maybe Tanguay doesn’t even know he’s nuts.”

  “Not bad. Mr. Peepers and Mr. Creeper.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. Old sitcom.” I told him what I’d found out with Lacroix.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  “You’re a little hard to pin down, Ryan.”

  “So Rue Berger is definitely tied in.”

  “Why do you think there were no prints there?”

  “Shit, Brennan, I don’t know. Maybe Tanguay’s just slick as black ice. If it’s any comfort to you Claudel’s already got this guy convicted.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll let him tell you. Look, I’ve got to get up there.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  I finished my letters and decided to take them to the post office. I checked the refrigerator. My pork chops and ground beef wouldn’t do for Katy. I smiled, remembering the day she announced she’d no longer eat meat. My fourteen-year-old zealot vegetarian. I thought she’d last three months. It had been over five years.

  I made a mental list. Humus. Tabouli. Cheese. Fruit juices. No sodas for my Katy. How had I produced this child?

  The scratch in my throat was back and I felt hot again, so I decided to stop by the gym. I’ll blast these buggers with exercise and steam, I thought. One of us will come out the victor.

  The exercise turned out to be a bad idea. After ten minutes on the StairMaster my legs trembled and perspiration poured down my face. I had to quit.

  The steam had mixed results. It soothed my throat and released the bands that squeezed my forehead and facial bones. But as I sat there with the vapor swirling around me, my mind reached for something to play with. Tanguay. I ran through what Ryan had said, Bertrand’s theory, J.C.’s prediction, and what I knew. Something about Tanguay bothered me. As my thoughts gathered speed I could feel myself tensing. The gloves. Why had I blocked their relevance before?

  Did Tanguay’s physical handicap really lead him to sexual fantasies that ended in violence? Was he really a man with a desperate need to control? Was killing the ultimate act of control for him? I can just watch you, or I can hurt you or even kill you? Did he also play out the fantasy with animals? With Julie? Then why murder? Did he keep the violence in check, then suddenly succumb to a need to act out? Was Tanguay the product of abandonment by his mother? His deformity? A bad chromosome? Something else?

  And why Gabby? She didn’t fit the picture. He knew her. She was one of the few who would
talk to him. I felt a wave of anguish.

  Yes. Of course she fit the picture. A picture that included me. I found Grace Damas. I identified Isabelle Gagnon. I was interfering, challenging his authority. His manhood. Killing Gabby vented his rage against me and reestablished his sense of control. What next? Did the picture mean he would have gone for my daughter?

  A teacher. A killer. A man who likes to fish. A man who likes to mutilate. My mind continued to drift. I closed my eyes and felt heat trapped below the lids. Bright colors swam back and forth, like goldfish in a pond.

  A teacher. Biology. Fishing.

  Again the nagging. It was there. Come on. Come on. What? A teacher. A teacher. That’s it. A teacher. Since 1991. St. Isidor’s. Yes. Yes. We know that. So what? My head was too heavy to think. Then:

  The CD-ROM. I’d forgotten all about it. I grabbed for my towel. Maybe there was something there.

  I WAS PERSPIRING HEAVILY AND FELT WEAK ALL OVER, BUT I MANAGED to drive. Bonehead move, Brennan. Microbes win this one. Reduce your speed. You don’t want to be stopped. Get home. Find it. There’s got to be something.

  I flew along Sherbrooke, circled the block, and shot down the drive. The garage door was beeping again. Damn. Why can’t Winston fix that? I parked the car and hurried to my apartment. Check the dates.

  A satchel rested on the floor outside my door.

  “Shit. Now what?”

  I looked down at the backpack. Black leather. Made by Coach. Expensive. A gift from Max Ferranti. A gift to Katy. It was lying outside my door.

  My heart froze in my chest.

  Katy!

  I opened the door and called her name. No answer. I punched in the security code and tried again. Silence.

  I raced from room to room, searching for signs of my daughter, knowing I would find none. Did she remember to bring her key? If she had, she wouldn’t have left her pack in the hall. She had been here, found me not home, left her pack, and gone somewhere.

  I stood in the bedroom, trembling, a victim of virus and fear. Think, Brennan. Think! I tried. It wasn’t easy.

  She arrived and couldn’t get in. She’s gone for coffee, or window shopping, or to look for a phone. She’ll call in a few minutes.

  But if she didn’t have the key, how did she get through the outer door into the corridor to my unit door? The garage. She must have come through the pedestrian door into the garage, the one that’s not latching as it closes.

  The phone!

  I ran to the living room. No message. Could it be Tanguay? Did he have her?

  That’s impossible. He’s in jail.

  The teacher is in jail. But he’s not the one. The teacher isn’t the one. Or is he? Did he keep the Rue Berger room? Did he bury the glove with Katy’s picture in Gabby’s grave?

  The fear sent a wave of nausea rising up my esophagus. I swallowed and my swollen throat screamed in protest.

  Check the facts, Brennan. They may have been holidays.

  I booted the computer with shaking hands, my fingers barely able to work the keys. The spreadsheet filled the screen. Dates. Times.

  Francine Morisette-Champoux was killed in January. She died between 10 A.M. and noon. It was a Thursday.

  Isabelle Gagnon disappeared in April, between 1 and 4 P.M. It was a Friday.

  Chantale Trottier disappeared on an afternoon in October. She was last seen at her school in Centre-ville, miles from the west island.

  They died or disappeared during the week. During the day. The school day. Trottier may have been abducted after school hours. The other two were not.

  I grabbed the phone.

  Ryan was out.

  I slammed the receiver. My head felt like lead and my thoughts were coming in slow motion.

  I tried another number.

  “Claudel.”

  “Monsieur Claudel, this is Dr. Brennan.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Where is St. Isidor’s?”

  He hesitated, and I didn’t think he was going to answer.

  “Beaconsfield.”

  “That’s what, about thirty minutes from downtown?”

  “Without traffic.”

  “Do you know what the school hours are?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Can I just have an answer?” I was pushing the envelope and about to crack. My voice must have told him.

  “I can ask.”

  “Also, find out if Tanguay ever missed any days, if he called in sick or took personal leave, particularly on the days Morisette-Champoux and Gagnon were killed. They’ll have a record. They’d have needed a substitute unless school was not in session for some reason.”

  “I’m going out there tom—”

  “Now. I need it now!” I was poised on the edge of hysteria, toes clutching the end of the board. Don’t make me jump.

  I could hear his face muscles harden. Go ahead, Claudel. Hang up. I’ll have your ass.

  “I’ll get back to you.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at dust playing tag in a shaft of sunlight.

  Move.

  I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Then I fished a plastic square from my briefcase and returned to the computer. The case was labeled with the Rue Berger address and the date 94/06/24. I raised the lid, removed a CD-ROM disk, and set it in the drive.

  I opened a program for image viewing, bringing up a row of icons. I chose Album then Open, and a single album name appeared in the window. Berger.abm. I double-clicked and three rows of pictures filled the screen, each displaying six still photos of St. Jacques’s apartment. A line at the bottom told me the album contained a hundred and twenty shots.

  I clicked to maximize the first image. Rue Berger. The second and third showed the street from different angles. Next, the apartment building, front and back. Then the corridor leading to the St. Jacques apartment. Views of the apartment’s interior started with image twelve.

  I moved through the pictures, scrutinizing every detail. My head pounded. My shoulder and back muscles were like high-tension wires. I was back there again. The suffocating heat. The fear. The odors of filth and corruption.

  Image by image I searched. For what? I wasn’t sure. It was all there. The Hustler centerfolds. The newspapers. The city map. The staircase landing. The filthy toilet. The greasy countertop. The Burger King cup. The bowl of SpaghettiOs.

  I stopped, stared at the still life. File 102. A grimy plastic bowl. Fatty white rings congealing in red sludge. A fly, front legs clasped as if in prayer. An orange boulder rising from the sauce and pasta.

  I squinted, leaned in. Could I be seeing what I thought I was seeing? There. Coursing across the orange chunk. My heart pounded. It couldn’t be. We couldn’t be that lucky.

  I double-clicked, and a dotted line appeared. I dragged the cursor, and the line became a rectangle, its borders a string of rotating dots. I positioned the rectangle directly over the orange blob and zoomed in, magnifying the image again and again. Double. Triple. Up to eight times its actual size. I watched as the faint parabola I had spotted became an arched trail of dots and dashes.

  I zoomed out and examined the entire arc.

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  Using the image editor, I manipulated the brightness and contrast, modified the hue and saturation. I tried reversing the color, changing each pixel to its complement. I used a command to emphasize edges, sharpening the tiny trail against the orange background.

  I leaned back and stared. It is. I inhaled deeply. Sweet Jesus, it really is.

  With a trembling hand I reached for the phone.

  A recorded message told me Bergeron was still on vacation. I was on my own.

  I sifted the possibilities. I’d seen him do it several times. I could try. I had to know.

  I looked up another number.

  “Centre de Détention Parthenais.”

  “This is Tempe Brennan. Is Andrew Ryan there? He’d be with a prisoner named Tanguay.”

&n
bsp; “Un instant. Gardez la ligne.”

  Voices in the background. Come on. Come on.

  “Il n’est pas ici.”

  Damn. I looked at my watch. “Is Jean Bertrand there?”

  “Oui. Un instant.”

  More voices. Clatter.

  “Bertrand.”

  I identified myself, explained what I’d found.

  “No shit. What did Bergeron say?”

  “He’s on vacation until next Monday.”

  “Cheese, that’s beautiful. Kind of like your false starts, eh? What do you want me to do?”

  “Find a piece of plain Styrofoam and get Tanguay to bite down on it. Don’t stick it too far into his mouth. I just need the front six teeth. Have him bite edge to edge so you get nice clean tooth marks, one arch on each side of the plate. Then I want you to take the Styrofoam downstairs to Marc Dallair in photography. He’s way in back, behind ballistics. You got that?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. How do I get Tanguay to agree to this?”

  “That’s your problem. Figure something out. If he’s screaming innocent he should be delighted.”

  “Where am I supposed to come up with Styrofoam at four-forty in the afternoon?”

  “Go buy yourself a bloody Big Mac, Bertrand. I don’t know. Just get it. I’ve got to catch Dallair before he leaves. Get moving!”

  Dallair was waiting for an elevator when my call came. He took it at the reception desk.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Oui.”

  “Within the hour Jean Bertrand will bring bite mark specimens to your office. I need to have the image scanned into a Tif file and sent to me electronically as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

  There was a long pause. In my mind I could see him glance at the elevator clock.

  “Does this have to do with Tanguay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. I’ll wait.”

  “Angle the light across the Styrofoam as close to parallel as possible to really bring the marks out. And be sure to include a scale, a ruler or something. And please make sure the image is exactly one to one.”

  “No problem. I think I have an ABFO ruler here somewhere.”

  “Perfect.” I gave him my e-mail address and asked him to call when he’d sent the file.

  Then I waited. Seconds crept by with glacial slowness. No phone. No Katy. The digits on the clock glowed green. I heard them change. Click, click, click as the rotors turned.