Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  The last office on the left was open but unoccupied. A plaque above the door said “Jeannotte” in delicate script. Compared with my office, the room looked like St. Joseph’s Oratory. It was long and narrow, with a bell-shaped window at the far end. Through the leaded glass I could see the administration building and the drive leading up to the Strathcona Medical-Dental Complex. The floor was oak, the planks buffed yellow by years of studious feet.

  Shelves lined every wall, filled with books, journals, notebooks, videotapes, slide carousels, and stacks of papers and reprints. A wooden desk sat in front of the window, a computer workstation to its right.

  I looked at my watch. Twelve forty-five. I was early. I moved back up the hall and began to examine the photos lining the corridor. School of Divinity, Graduating Class of 1937, and 1938, and 1939. Stiff poses. Somber faces.

  I had worked my way to 1942 when a young woman appeared. She wore jeans, a turtleneck, and a wool plaid shirt that hung to her knees. Her blond hair was cut blunt at the jawline, and thick bangs covered her eyebrows. She wore no makeup.

  “May I help you?” she asked in English. She tipped her head and the bangs fell sideways.

  “Yes. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”

  “Dr. Jeannotte’s not here yet, but I expect her any time. Can I do something for you? I’m her teaching assistant.” With a quick gesture, she tucked hair behind her right ear.

  “Thank you, I’d like to ask Dr. Jeannotte a few questions. I’ll wait, if I may.”

  “Uh, oh, well. O.K. I guess that’s O.K. She’s just, I’m not sure. She doesn’t allow anyone in her office.” She looked at me, glanced through the open door, then back at me. “I was at the copy machine.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll wait out here.”

  “Well, no, she could be a while. She’s often late. I . . .” She turned and scanned the corridor behind her.

  “You could sit in her office.” Again the hair gesture. “But I don’t know if she’ll like that.”

  She seemed unable to make a decision.

  “I’m fine here. Really.”

  Her eyes moved past me, then back to my face. She bit her lip and did another hair tuck. She didn’t seem old enough to be a college student. She looked about twelve.

  “What did you say your name is?”

  “Dr. Brennan. Tempe Brennan.”

  “Are you a professor?”

  “Yes, but not here. I work at the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale.”

  “Is that the police?” A crease formed between her eyes.

  “No. It’s the medical examiner.”

  “Oh.” She licked her lips, then checked her watch. It was the only jewelry she wore.

  “Well, come in and sit down. I’m here, so I think it’s O.K. I was just at the copy machine.”

  “I don’t want to cause . . .”

  “No. It’s no problem.” She gave a follow-me jerk of her head and entered the office. “Come in.”

  I entered and took a seat on the small sofa she indicated. She moved past me to the far end of the room and began reshelving journals.

  I could hear the hum of an electric motor, but couldn’t see the source. I looked around. I’d never seen books take up so much space in a room. I scanned the titles immediately across from me.

  The Elements of Celtic Tradition. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament. The Mysteries of Freemasonry. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. The Kingship Rituals of Egypt. Peake’s Commentary on the Bible. Churches That Abuse. Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism. Armageddon in Waco. When Time Shall Be No More: Prophecy Belief in Modern America. An eclectic collection.

  Minutes dragged by. The office was uncomfortably warm, and I felt a headache begin at the base of my skull. I removed my jacket.

  Hmmmmmm.

  I studied a print on the wall to my right. Naked children warmed themselves at a hearth, skin glowing in firelight. Below was written After the Bath, Robert Peel, 1892. The picture reminded me of one in my grandmother’s music room.

  I checked the time. One-ten.

  “How long have you worked for Dr. Jeannotte?”

  She was bending over the desk but straightened quickly at the sound of my voice.

  “How long?” Bewildered.

  “Are you one of her graduate students?”

  “Undergraduate.” She stood silhouetted by the light from the window. I couldn’t see her features, but her body looked tense.

  “I hear she is very involved with her students.”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  Strange answer. “I was just curious. I never seem to have enough time to see my students outside the classroom. I admire her.”

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  “Dr. Jeannotte is more than a teacher to many of us.”

  “How did you come to major in religious studies?”

  For a while she didn’t answer. When I thought she wasn’t going to, she spoke slowly.

  “I met Dr. Jeannotte when I signed up for her seminar. She . . .” Another long pause. It was hard to see her expression because of the backlighting. “. . . inspired me.”

  “How so?”

  Another pause.

  “She made me want to do things right. To learn how to do things right.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but this time no prompt was necessary to keep her talking.

  “She made me realize that a lot of the answers have already been written, we just have to learn to find them.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “It’s hard, it’s really hard, but I’ve come to understand what a mess people have made of the world, and that only a few enlightened . . .”

  She turned slightly, and I could see her face again. Her eyes had widened and her mouth was tense.

  “Dr. Jeannotte. We were just talking.”

  A woman stood in the doorway. She was no more than five feet tall, with dark hair pulled tightly back from her forehead and knotted at the back of her head. Her skin was the same eggshell color as the wall behind her.

  “I was at the copy machine before. I was only out of the office for a few seconds.”

  The woman remained absolutely still.

  “She wasn’t in here by herself. I wouldn’t allow that.” The student bit her lip and dropped her eyes.

  Daisy Jeannotte never wavered.

  “Dr. Jeannotte, she wants to ask you a few questions so I thought it would be O.K. if she came in to wait. She’s a medical examiner.” Her voice was almost trembling.

  Jeannotte did not look in my direction. I had no idea what was going on.

  “I . . . I’m shelving the journals. We were just making conversation.” I could see drops of sweat on her upper lip.

  For a moment Jeannotte continued her gaze, then, slowly, she turned in my direction.

  “You have chosen a slightly inconvenient time, Miss . . . ?” Soft. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.

  “Dr. Brennan.” I stood.

  “Dr. Brennan.”

  “I apologize for coming unannounced. Your secretary told me that this is your time for office hours.”

  She took a long time to look me over. Her eyes were deep-set, the irises so pale they were almost without color. Jeannotte accentuated this by darkening her lashes and brows. Her hair, too, was an unnatural, dense black.

  “Well,” she said finally, “since you are here. What is it you are seeking?” She remained motionless in the doorway. Daisy Jeannotte was one of those people who possess an air of total calm.

  I explained about Sister Julienne, and about my interest in Élisabeth Nicolet, without revealing the reasons for my interest.

  Jeannotte thought a moment, then shifted her gaze to the teaching assistant. Without a word the young woman laid down the journals and hurried from the office.

  “You’ll have to excuse my assistant. She’s very high-strung.” She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “But she is an excellent student.”

  Jeannotte moved to a chair opposite
me. We both sat.

  “This time of the afternoon I normally reserve for students, but today there seem to be none. Would you like some tea?” Her voice had a honeyed quality, like the country club ladies back home.

  “No, thank you. I’ve just had lunch.”

  “You are a medical examiner?”

  “Not exactly. I’m a forensic anthropologist, on the faculty at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I consult to the coroner here.”

  “Charlotte is a lovely city. I’ve visited there often.”

  “Thank you. Our campus is quite different from McGill, very modern. I envy you this beautiful office.”

  “Yes. It is charming. Birks dates to 1931 and was originally called Divinity Hall. The building belonged to the Joint Theological Colleges until McGill acquired it in 1948. Did you know that the School of Divinity is one of the oldest faculties at McGill?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Of course, today we call ourselves the Faculty of Religious Studies. So, you are interested in the Nicolet family.” She crossed her ankles and settled back. I found the lack of color in her eyes unsettling.

  “Yes. I’d particularly like to know where Élisabeth was born and what her parents were doing at the time. Sister Julienne has been unable to locate a birth certificate, but she’s certain the birth was in Montreal. She felt you might be able to lead me to some references.”

  “Sister Julienne.” She laughed again, a sound like water running over rocks. Then her face sobered. “There’s been a great deal written about and by members of the Nicolet and Bélanger families. Our own library has a rich archive of historic documents. I’m sure you will find many things there. You could also try the Archives of the Province of Quebec, the Canadian Historical Society, and the Public Archives of Canada.” The soft, Southern tones assumed an almost mechanical quality. I was a sophomore on a research project.

  “You could check journals such as the Report of the Canadian Historical Society, the Canadian Annual Review, the Canadian Archives Report, the Canadian Historical Review, the Transactions of the Quebec Literary and Historical Society, the Report of the Archives of the Province of Quebec, or the Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada.” She sounded like a tape. “And, of course, there are hundreds of books. I myself know very little about that period in history. ”

  My face must have reflected my thoughts.

  “Don’t look so daunted. It just takes time.”

  I’d never find enough hours to wade through that volume of material. I decided to try another tack.

  “Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding Élisabeth’s birth?”

  “Not really. As I said, that’s not a period for which I’ve done research. I do know who she is, of course, and of her work during the smallpox epidemic of 1885.” She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “My work has focused on messianic movements and new belief systems, not on the traditional ecclesiastical religions.”

  “In Quebec?”

  “Not exclusively.” She circled back to the Nicolets. “The family was well known in its day, so you might find it more interesting to go through old newspaper stories. There were four English language dailies back then, the Gazette, Star, Herald, and Witness.”

  “Those would be in the library?”

  “Yes. And, of course, there was the French press, La Minerve, Le Monde, La Patrie, L’Etendard, and La Presse. The French papers were a bit less prosperous and somewhat thinner than the English, but I believe they all carried birth announcements.”

  I hadn’t thought of press accounts. Somehow that seemed more manageable.

  She explained where the newspapers were stored on microfilm, and promised to draw up a list of sources for me. For a while we spoke of other things. I sated her curiosity about my job. We compared experiences, two female professors in the male-dominated world of the university. Before long a student appeared in the doorway. Jeannotte tapped her watch and held up five fingers, and the young woman disappeared.

  We both stood at the same time. I thanked her, slipped on my jacket, hat, and scarf. I was halfway through the door when she stopped me with a question.

  “Do you have a religion, Dr. Brennan?”

  “I was raised Roman Catholic, but currently I don’t belong to a church.”

  The ghostly eyes looked into mine.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Bélanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.

  It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.

  The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.

  During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.

  I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.

  I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.

  The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.

  “Brennan, if you’re there, pick up. This is important.” Pause. “There’s been a development in the St-Jovite case.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “When we tossed the outbuildings we found four more bodies behind a stairway.” I could hear him pull smoke deep into his lungs, release it slowly. “Two adults and two babies. They’re not burned, but it’s grisly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to go into details, but we’ve got a whole new ball game, and it’s a shitpot. See you tomorrow.”

  RYAN WASN’T ALONE IN HIS REVULSION. I HAVE SEEN abused and starved children. I have seen them after they were beaten, raped, smothered, shaken to death, but I had never seen anything like what had been done to the babies found in St-Jovite.

  Others had received calls the night before. When I arrived at eight-fifteen several press vans had taken up stations outside the SQ building, windows fogged, exhaust billowing from tailpipes.

  Although the workday normally begins at eight-thirty, activity already filled the large autopsy room. Bertrand was there, along with several other SQ detectives and a photographer from SIJ, La Section d’Identité Judiciare. Ryan hadn’t arrived.

  The external exam was under way, and a series of Polaroids lay on the corner desk. The body had been taken to X-ray, and LaManche was scribbling notes when I entered. He stopped and looked up.

  “Temperance, I am glad to see you. I may need help in establishing the age of
the infants.”

  I nodded.

  “And there may be an unusual”—he searched for a word, his long, basset face tense—“. . . tool involved.”

  I nodded and went to change into scrubs. Ryan smiled and gave a small salute as I passed him in the corridor. His eyes were teary, his nose and cheeks cherry red, as though he’d walked some distance in the cold.

  In the locker room I steeled myself for what was to come. A pair of murdered babies was horror enough. What did LaManche mean by an unusual tool?

  Cases involving children are always difficult for me. When my daughter was young, after each child murder I’d fight an urge to tether Katy to me to keep her in sight.

  Katy is grown now, but I still dread images of dead children. Of all victims, they are the most vulnerable, the most trusting, and the most innocent. I ache each time one arrives in the morgue. The stark truth of fallen humanity stares at me. And pity provides small comfort.

  I returned to the autopsy room, thinking I was prepared to proceed. Then I saw the small body lying on the stainless steel.

  A doll. That was my first impression. A life-size latex baby that had grayed with age. I’d had one as a child, a newborn that was pink and smelled rubbery sweet. I fed her through a small, round hole between her lips, and changed her diaper when the water flowed through.

  But this was no toy. The baby lay on its belly, arms at its sides, fingers curled into the tiny palms. The buttocks were flattened, and bands of white crisscrossed the purple livor of the back. A cap of fine red down covered the little head. The infant was naked save for a bracelet of miniature blocks circling the right wrist. I could see two wounds near the left shoulder blade.

  A sleeper lay on the adjacent table, blue and red trucks smiling from the flannel. Spread next to it were a soiled diaper, a cotton undershirt with crotch snaps, a long-sleeved sweater, and a pair of white socks. Everything was bloodstained.

  LaManche spoke into a recorder.