Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  “The next day she was gone and I never saw her again. She and another woman. They just disappeared.”

  “Don’t people come and go from the group?”

  Her eyes locked on to mine.

  “She worked in the office. I think she was the one taking the calls you were asking about.” I could see her chest rise and fall as she fought back the tears. “She was Heidi’s best friend.”

  I felt the knot tighten in my stomach. “Was her name Jennifer?”

  Kathryn nodded.

  I took a deep breath. Stay calm for Kathryn’s sake.

  “Who was the other woman?”

  “I’m not sure. She hadn’t been there long. Wait. Maybe her name was Alice. Or Anne.”

  My heart changed speed. Oh, God. No.

  “Do you know where she came from?”

  “Somewhere up North. No, maybe it was Europe. Sometimes she and Jennifer spoke a different language.”

  “Do you think Dom Owens had Heidi and her babies killed? Is that why you’re afraid for Carlie?”

  “You don’t understand. It isn’t Dom. He’s just trying to protect us and get us across.” She gazed at me intently, as though trying to reach inside my head. “Dom doesn’t believe in Antichrists. He just wants to transport us out of the destruction.”

  Her voice had grown tremulous and short gasps punctuated the spaces between her words. She rose and crossed to the window.

  “It’s the others. It’s her. Dom wants us all to live forever.”

  “Who?”

  Kathryn paced the kitchen like a caged animal, her fingers twisting the front of her cotton blouse. Tears slid down her face.

  “But not now. It’s too soon. It can’t be now.” Pleading.

  “What’s too soon?”

  “What if they’re wrong? What if there isn’t enough cosmic energy? What if there’s nothing out there? What if Carlie just dies? What if my baby dies?”

  Fatigue. Anxiety. Guilt. The mix won over and Kathryn began to weep uncontrollably. She was growing incoherent and I knew I would learn nothing further.

  I went to her and hugged her with both arms. “Kathryn, you need rest. Please, come and lie down for a while. We’ll talk later.”

  She made a sound I couldn’t interpret, and allowed herself to be led upstairs to the guest room. I got towels and went down to the parlor for her pack. When I returned, she lay on the bed, one arm thrown across her forehead, eyes shut, tears sliding into the hair at her temples.

  I left the pack on the dresser and pulled the window shades. As I was closing the door she spoke softly, eyes still closed, lips barely moving.

  Her words frightened me more than anything I had heard in a long time.

  “‘ETERNAL LIFE’? THOSE WERE HER EXACT WORDS?”

  “Yes.” I clutched the phone so tightly the tendons in my wrist ached.

  “Give it to me again.”

  “‘What if they go and we’re left behind?’ ‘What if I deny Carlie eternal life?’”

  I waited while Red considered Kathryn’s words. When I switched hands I could see a print where my palm had sweated onto the plastic.

  “I don’t know, Tempe. It’s a tough call. How can we ever know when a group will turn violent? Some of these marginal religious movements are extremely volatile. Others are harmless.”

  “Are there no predictors?”

  What if my baby dies?

  “There are a number of factors that feed back on each other. First there’s the sect itself, its beliefs and rituals, its organization and, of course, its leader. Then there are the outside forces. How much hostility is directed toward the members? How stigmatized are they by society? And the mistreatment doesn’t have to be real. Even perceived persecution can cause an organization to become violent.”

  He just wants to transport us out of the destruction.

  “What types of beliefs push these groups over the line?”

  “That’s what concerns me about your young lady. Sounds like she’s talking about a voyage. About going somewhere for eternal life. That sounds apocalyptic.”

  He’s just trying to protect us and get us across.

  “The end of the world.”

  “Exactly. The last days. Armageddon.”

  “That’s not new. Why does an apocalyptic worldview encourage violence? Why not just hunker in and wait?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t always. But these groups believe the last days are imminent, and they see themselves as having a key role in the events that are about to unfold. They’re the chosen ones who will give birth to the new order.”

  She was terrified because the baby wouldn’t be sanctified.

  “So what develops is a kind of dualism in their thinking. They are good, and all others are hopelessly corrupt, totally lacking in moral virtue. Outsiders come to be demonized.”

  “You’re with me or you’re against me.”

  “Exactly. According to these visions the last days are going to be characterized by violence. Some groups go into a sort of survivalist mode, stockpiling weapons and setting up elaborate surveillance systems against the evil social order that’s out to get them. Or the Antichrist, or Satan, or whatever they see as the perceived threat.”

  Dom doesn’t believe in Antichrists.

  “Apocalyptic beliefs can be especially volatile when embodied in a charismatic leader. Koresh saw himself as the Lord’s appointed.”

  “Go on.”

  “You see, one of the problems for a self-appointed prophet is that he has to constantly reinvent himself. There’s no institutional support for his long-term authority. There are also no institutional restraints on his behavior. The leader runs the show, but only as long as his disciples follow. So these guys can be very volatile. And they can do whatever they choose within their sphere of power.

  “Some of the more paranoid respond to perceived threats to their authority by becoming oppressively dictatorial. They make increasingly bizarre demands, insisting their followers comply in order to show loyalty.”

  “Such as?”

  “Jim Jones had tests of faith, as he called them. Members of the People’s Temple would be forced to sign confessions or suffer public humiliations to prove their devotion. One little ritual required the participant to drink unidentified liquids. When told it was poison, the testee wasn’t supposed to show fear.”

  “Charming.”

  “Vasectomy is another favorite. It’s said that the leadership of Synanon required some of the male members to go under the knife.”

  Her procreation partner was Jason.

  “What about arranging marriages?”

  “Jouret and DiMambro, Jim Jones, David Koresh, Charles Manson. They all used controlled coupling. Diet, sex, abortion, dress, sleep. It really doesn’t matter what the idiosyncrasy is. As a leader conditions his followers to abide by his rules he breaks down their inhibitions. Eventually this unquestioning acceptance of bizarre behaviors may habituate them to the idea of violence. At first it’s small acts of devotion, seemingly harmless requirements like hairstyles or meditation at midnight, or sex with the messiah. Later his demands may become more lethal.”

  “Sounds like the deification of insanity.”

  “Well put. The process has another advantage for the leader. It weeds out the less committed, since they get fed up and leave.”

  “O.K., fine. You have these fringe groups living a life orchestrated by some nutcase. What makes them turn violent at any given time? Why today and not next month?”

  It’s too soon. It can’t be now.

  “Most outbreaks of violence involve what sociologists refer to as ‘escalating boundary tensions.’ ”

  “Don’t feed me jargon, Red.”

  “O.K. These fringe groups usually are concerned with two things, getting members and keeping members. But if a leader feels threatened the emphasis often shifts. Sometimes recruitment stops and existing members are monitored more closely. The demand for commitment to eccentric r
ules may intensify. The theme of doom may become more pronounced. The group can grow increasingly isolated and increasingly paranoid. Tensions with the surrounding community, or with the government, or law enforcement may escalate.”

  “What could possibly threaten these megalomaniacs?”

  “A member who leaves could be seen as a defector.”

  We woke up and Heidi and Brian were gone.

  “The leader might feel he’s losing control. Or if the cult exists in more than one place, and he can’t always be there, he might feel his authority is slipping during his absences. More anxiety. More isolation. More tyranny. It’s a paranoid spiral. Then all it takes is some external factor to pull the pin.”

  “How disruptive would the outside event have to be?”

  “It varies. At Jonestown it took only the visit by a congressman and his press entourage, and their attempt to return to the U.S. with a handful of defectors. At Waco it took a military-style raid by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, and the eventual insertion of CS gas and the breaching of the compound walls by armored vehicles.”

  “Why the difference?”

  “That has to do with ideology and leadership. The settlement at Jonestown was more internally volatile than the community at Waco.”

  My fingers felt cold on the handset.

  “Do you think Owens has a violent agenda?”

  “He definitely bears watching. If he’s holding your friend’s baby against her will that should get you a warrant.”

  “It’s unclear whether she agreed to leave him there. She’s very reluctant to talk about the cult. She’s been raised by these people since she was eight years old. I’ve never seen anyone so torn. But the fact that Jennifer Cannon was living at the Owens compound when she was killed should do it.”

  For a while neither of us spoke.

  “Could Heidi and Brian have sent Owens over the edge?” I asked. “Could he have ordered someone to kill them and their babies?”

  “Could be. And don’t forget, he’s had some other blows. Sounds like Jennifer Cannon may have concealed those phone calls from Canada, then refused to go along with something Owens wanted when he found out. And of course there’s you.”

  “Me?”

  “Brian gets Heidi pregnant against cult orders. Then the couple splits. Then the thing with Jennifer. Then you and Ryan show up. Odd coincidence in names, by the way.”

  “What?”

  “The congressman who showed up in Guyana. His name was Ryan.”

  “Give me a prediction, Red. Based on what I’ve told you, what do you see in your crystal ball?”

  There was a long pause.

  “From what you’ve told me Owens may fit the profile of a charismatic leader with a messianic self-image. And it sounds like his followers have accepted that vision. Owens may feel he’s losing control over his members. He may see your investigation as an additional threat to his authority.”

  Another pause.

  “And this Kathryn is talking about crossing over to eternal life.”

  I heard him take a deep breath.

  “Given all of that, I’d say there is a high potential for violence.”

  I disconnected and dialed Ryan’s pager. While I waited for him to phone back I returned to the Hardaway report. I’d just pulled it from the envelope when the phone rang. Had I not been so agitated it might have been amusing. I seemed destined never to read that document.

  “You must have hit the floor running this morning.” Ryan’s voice sounded tired.

  “I’m always up early. I have a visitor.”

  “Let me guess. Gregory Peck.”

  “Kathryn showed up this morning. She says she spent the night at UNCC and found me through the faculty directory.”

  “Not smart to list your home address.”

  “I don’t. Jennifer Cannon lived at the Saint Helena compound.”

  “Damn.”

  “Kathryn overheard an argument between Jennifer and Owens. The next day Jennifer was gone.”

  “Good stuff, Brennan.”

  “It gets better.”

  I told him about Jennifer’s access to the phone and her friendship with Heidi. He came back with his own shocker.

  “When you talked to Hardaway you asked when Jennifer Cannon was last seen alive. What you didn’t ask was where. It wasn’t Calgary. Jennifer hadn’t lived there since she went off to school. According to the mother they kept in close contact until shortly before she disappeared. Then her daughter’s calls became less frequent, and when they spoke Jennifer seemed evasive.

  “Jennifer called home at Thanksgiving two years ago, then nothing. The mother phoned the school, contacted her daughter’s friends, even visited the campus, but she never discovered where Jennifer had gone. That’s when she filed the missing person report.”

  “And?”

  I heard him draw a deep breath.

  “Jennifer Cannon was last seen leaving the McGill University campus.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. She didn’t take her finals or withdraw from her classes. She just packed up and left.”

  “Packed up?”

  “Yeah. That’s why the police didn’t pursue the case too vigorously. She packed her belongings, closed her bank account, left a note for her landlord, and vanished. It didn’t look like an abduction.”

  My mind threw up an image, then resisted bringing it into focus. A face with bangs. A nervous gesture. I forced my lips to form the words.

  “Another young woman disappeared from the compound at the same time Jennifer Cannon did. Kathryn didn’t know her since she was a newcomer.” I swallowed. “Kathryn thought the girl’s name might have been Anne.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Anna Goyette was”—I corrected myself—“is a McGill student.”

  “Anna is a common name.”

  “Kathryn heard Jennifer and this girl speak a foreign language.”

  “French?”

  “I’m not sure Kathryn would know French if she heard it.”

  “You think the second Murtry victim could be Anna Goyette?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Brennan, just because some girl showed up on Saint Helena who may have been called Anna doesn’t mean it was a McGill class reunion. Cannon left the university over two years ago. Goyette is nineteen. She wasn’t there yet.”

  “True. But everything else fits.”

  “I don’t know. And even if Jennifer Cannon lived with Owens it doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “They fight. She disappears. Her body turns up in a shallow grave.”

  “Maybe she was into dope. Or her friend Anne was. Maybe Owens found out and threw them out. They’ve got nowhere to go so they squeeze their business associates. Or they take off with a bag of the merchandise.”

  “Is that what you think happened?”

  “Look, all we know for sure is that Jennifer Cannon left Montreal a couple of years ago and her body turned up on Murtry Island. She may have spent time with the community on Saint Helena. She may have argued with Owens. If so, those facts may or may not be relevant to her death.”

  “They’re sure as hell germane to the question of her whereabouts for the past several years.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “First I’m going to visit Sheriff Baker to see if this gets us a warrant. Then I’m going to light a fire under the boys in Texas. I want to know about every cell this Owens has ever shed. Then it’s back out to Happy Acres for some high-visibility surveillance. I want to see what color the guru sweats, and I don’t have much time. They want me in Montreal on Monday.”

  “I think he’s dangerous, Ryan.”

  He listened without interrupting as I outlined my conversation with Red Skyler. When I’d finished there was a long silence as Ryan integrated the sociologist’s words with what we’d just discussed.

  “I’ll call Claudel and get a status on Anna Goyette.”
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  “Thanks, Ryan.”

  “Keep an eye on Kathryn,” he said solemnly.

  “I will.”

  I didn’t get that opportunity. When I went upstairs, Kathryn was gone.

  “DAMN!” I SAID TO THE EMPTY AIR.

  Birdie had followed me up the stairs. He froze at my outburst, lowered his head, and regarded me with a steady gaze.

  “Damn!”

  No one answered.

  Ryan was right. Kathryn was not stable. I knew I couldn’t assure her safety, or that of her baby, so why did I feel responsible?

  “She split, Bird. What can you do?”

  The cat had no suggestions, so I followed my usual pattern. When anxious, I work.

  I returned to the kitchen. The door was ajar and wind had scattered the autopsy photos.

  Or had it? Hardaway’s report lay exactly as I’d left it.

  Had Kathryn viewed the pictures? Had the grisly tableau sent her fleeing in panic?

  Feeling another surge of guilt, I sat down and sorted through the stack.

  Cleaned of its shroud of maggots and sediment, Jennifer Cannon’s body was better preserved than I’d expected. Though decomposition had ravaged her face and viscera, wounds were clearly evident in the bloated and discolored flesh.

  Cuts. Hundreds of them. Some circular, others linear, measuring one to several centimeters. They clustered near her throat, in her thorax, and ran the length of her arms and legs. All over her body I could see what looked like superficial scratches, but skin slippage made these lesions difficult to observe. The mottling of hematoma was everywhere.

  I examined several close-ups. While the chest wounds had smooth, clean edges, the other cuts looked jagged and uneven. A deep gash circled her upper right arm, exposing torn flesh and splintered bone.

  I moved to the cranial photos. Though sloughing had begun, most of the hair was still in place. Oddly, the posterior views showed bone gleaming through the tangled mat, as though a section of scalp were missing.

  I’d seen that pattern before. Where?

  I finished with the photos and opened Hardaway’s report.

  Twenty minutes later I leaned back and closed my eyes.

  Probable cause of death: exsanguination due to stabbing. The smooth-bordered chest wounds were made by a blade that had severed critical vessels. Due to decomposition, the pathologist was uncertain as to the cause of the other lacerations.