Deadly Descisions

by Kathy Reichs

  "As soon as hydrocephalus is diagnosed. As much as thirty-six inches of tubing can be placed in the abdomen of a neonate. As the child grows, the tubing unwinds to accommodate the increased length of the torso."

  "I found a small hole in the skull, near the parieto-temporal junction."

  "That's a burr hole. It's drilled during surgery to insert the upper end of the shunt into the brain. They're usually made behind the hairline, either at the top of the head, behind the ear, or in the back."

  Russell's eyes flicked to a round metal clock on her desk, then back to mine. I was anxious to learn what difficulties might be caused by hydrocephaly, but knew the woman's time was limited. That research would be up to me.

  I gathered my jacket and she returned the shunt to its jar, curling the paper and allowing the device to slide gently into place. We rose simultaneously and I thanked her for her help.

  "Do you have any idea who your young lady is?" she asked.

  "Not yet."

  "Would you like me to send you some reading material on hydrocephalus? There are problems associated with the condition that you might find helpful."

  "Yes, very much. Thank you."

  Chapter 12

  I left the neuro and went directly to Carajou headquarters for the second of Roy's review sessions. The meeting was already in progress, so I slipped into a back seat, my brain still processing what I'd learned from Carolyn Russell. Our conversation had raised as many questions as it had answered.

  How had the hydrocephaly affected my unknown girl? Had she been sickly? Disabled? Retarded? How did a teenager with that condition end up buried near a biker headquarters? Was she a willing participant, or another innocent, like Emily Anne Toussaint?

  This time Roy was using transparencies, and a bulleted list filled the screen. I forced myself to focus.

  "Outlaw motorcycle clubs are characterized by a number of common elements. Most OMC's are organized according to the Hells Angels model. We'll come back and look at that structure in some detail."

  He indicated the second item.

  "All clubs have membership which is very selective, and 'prospects' or 'strikers' are required to prove themselves to earn their colors."

  He moved down the list.

  "The colors, or club patch, are the member's most valued possession. Not everyone wears colors, however. Individuals who are useful to the gang are allowed to interact as associates without actually joining.

  "The primary focus of an OMC is criminal activity. Each club has rules that condone violence to further the interests of the club and its members. Intelligence gathering is intensive, including the monitoring of other gangs and of law enforcement personnel."

  Roy pointed his pen at the last item on the list.

  "The clubhouse, which is often strongly fortified and elaborately outfitted, is the meeting place for club activities."

  I thought of the Vipers' house in St-Basile, and wondered what activities could have included a sixteen-year-old girl with hydrocephaly.

  Roy removed the transparency and replaced it with another, this one a tree titled "Political Structure of an OMC National."

  Roy explained the hierarchy, starting at the bottom.

  "The basic element of the OMC structure is the chapter An independent outlaw motorcycle club becomes part of a larger organization, such as the Hells Angels, only after a charter has been approved by vote of the national membership. This involves a long process that we can discuss later if we have time.

  "Each chapter operates in a specific local area and maintains a certain degree of autonomy, but must live by the rules set out by the organization. These rules, either in the form of bylaws or a constitution, define the rights and obligations of the members and the gang.

  Roy slid a new transparency onto the projector. This chart was labeled "Political Structure of an OMC Chapter."

  "Each chapter has its own controlling body, or executive, elected by the members. Typically there's a president, vice president, secretary-treasurer, and sergeant at arms. These are the guys responsible for maintaining order within and peace outside the group.

  "Guess none of our local morons will make the Nobel short list this year." Kuricek was up to form.

  Roy waved down the laughter.

  "There's also an elected road captain who takes charge of the runs. Then there are the rank-and-file members-"

  "And he does mean rank." Kuricek held his nose.

  "who have a say in matters affecting the group, but the president makes the final decisions. Some of the larger clubs also have a security officer whose duty it is to keep up-to-date information on rival gangs, reporters, lawyers, judges, public officials, witnesses, and, of course, on yours truly."

  Roy swept his arm across the room.

  "What kind of information?"

  "Personal, financial, family members, girlfriends, boyfriends, phone numbers, birth dates, addresses, vehicle descriptions, license plates, places of employment, daily habits, you name it, these guys get it. Their photo collections make the National Portrait Gallery look sparse. If there's an intended victim, his dossier may include tips on the best places to kill him."

  "Merde!"

  "Esti!"

  Roy worked his pen from left to right across three boxes on the next to lowest line of the diagram.

  "At the bottom of the chapter hierarchy are the prospects, the hang-arounds, and the women."

  Roy pointed to the box marked "Probationary Member."

  "The 'prospect' or 'striker' must be nominated by a full patch member. He does all the shitwork around the clubhouse and during runs. Prospects can't vote and they can't attend church."

  "Church?" Today the ponytailed investigator wore a silver skull in his ear.

  "The mandatory weekly chapter meeting."

  "How long does it take to get in?"

  "The prospect period averages six months to one year. You can spot these guys because they wear only the bottom rocker of the patch."

  "Which gives the chapter location." Ponytail.

  "C'est ca. There are several pages showing club colors in the manuals I gave you. Some of them are true artistic marvels."

  Roy's pen moved sideways to the box marked "Associates.~~

  "A hang-around must also be sponsored by a full patch member. Some go on to prospect, others never do. Hang-arounds do all kinds of menial jobs, and act as a support structure for the club in the community. They are excluded from all club business.~

  Two boxes hung from the one at the far right marked "Female Associates."

  "Women are at the lowest level of the hierarchy and fall into one of two categories. The ole ladies are wives, either common-law or legal, and are off-limits to other gang members, except by invitation. The club 'mamas' or 'sheep' are a different story. How shall I put it?" He raised eyebrows and shoulders. "They mingle freely."

  "Warm-hearted ladies, all." Kuricek.

  "Very Mamas are fair game to any color-wearing member While the ole ladies enjoy a certain degree of protection, have no doubt about it, outlaw motorcycle gangs are male-dominated and highly chauvinistic. Women are bought, sold, and swapped like hardware."

  "The biker's idea of women's lib is to take the cuffs off after he's through. Maybe." Kuricek.

  "That's pretty close. Women are definitely used and abused." Roy.

  "Used how?" I asked.

  'Aside from sex, there's what we might call wage sharing. They get the women into exotic dancing, drink hustling, street-level drug trafficking, prostitution, then rake back the earnings. One hooker from Halifax claimed she had to turn over forty percent of her take to the Hells Angel who pimped for her."

  "How do they find these women?" I felt a knot forming in my stomach.

  "The usual. They pick them up in bars, hitchhiking, runaways.

  "Wanna ride my Harley, sweet thing?" Kuricek.

  I pictured the skull and shunt.

  "Amazingly, there's never a shortage," Roy continued. "But don't
get me wrong. While many are victimized, some held against their wills, a good number of these ladies embrace the lifestyle with gusto. Macho men, drugs, alcohol, guns, round-the-mountain sex, It's a wild ride and they go along gladly.

  "The women also make themselves useful in ways not strictly sexual or economic. Often it's the ladies who carry concealed drugs or weapons, and they're very good at ditching when a bust comes down. Some make very effective spies. They hire on with government agencies, the phone company, records offices, any place they might have access to useful information. Some ole ladies have guns or property registered in their names, either because hubby is prohibited, or to protect his assets from seizure by the government.

  Roy glanced at his watch.

  "On that note, I think we'll call it a day. Some folks have just joined us from the CUM, so I may hold one more of these sessions.

  CUM. Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police. I wondered why Claudel had not been present at today's meeting

  "If so, I'll post the date."

  As I drove to the lab my thoughts went back to the teenager from St-Basile, and to Russell's explanation. Could the girl have been a victim of this biker insanity? Something about her resonated in me, and I tried again to piece together what I knew about her.

  She died in her teens, no longer a child but not yet a woman. Her bones revealed nothing about how she had died, but they did disclose something of how she had lived. The hydrocephalus might help identify her.

  The well-healed burr hole suggested that the shunt had been there awhile. Did she hate the shunt? Did she lie in her bed at night and palpate the tube running under her skin? Was she plagued by other physical problems? Did her peers torment her? Was she an honor student? A dropout? Would we find medical records associated with a missing girl that would help identify this skull?

  Unlike many of my nameless dead, I had no sense of who she was. The Girl. That's how I'd come to think of her. The Girl in the Viper pit.

  And why was she buried at the biker clubhouse? Was her death linked to the murders of Gately and Martineau, or was she just another victim in the grim tradition of biker violence against women? Was her life interrupted for a premeditated reason, or had she merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like little Emily Anne Toussaint?

  As I wound my way through rush hour traffic I again felt pain and anger. Pain over a life only partly lived, anger at the callousness of those who had taken it.

  And I considered Andrew Ryan, with his sky blue eyes and burning intensity. Even the smell of him used to make me happy. How could I have missed his other side, his double life? Gould it really be so? My brain told me yes. Bertrand swore it was true. Why did my heart refuse to budge?

  My thoughts ran in useless circles. My neck hurt and I could feel a pounding behind my left eye.

  I turned onto Parthenais and pulled into an empty spot. Then I leaned back and called a time-out. I needed a respite.

  I would tell Ciaudel what I'd learned, then there would be no bones or thoughts of Ryan for an entire weekend. I would do nothing more serious than peruse Roy's biker manual. I would read, shop, and go to Isabelle's party. But come Monday, I would make a second vow. I would continue my search for Emily Anne's killers and I would also find a name for The Girl in the Viper pit.

  Chapter 13

  It was after seven when I got home. At the lab I'd secured the bones and shunt, then phoned Claudel to pass aiong what I'd learned from Russell. We decided that I'd research all cases from the past ten years involving partial skeletons. He'd continue with his list of missing girls. If neither of us had a hit by the end of the day on Monday, we'd enter the case into CPIC. That failing, we'd send it south into the NCIC system.

  That sounded like a plan.

  Following a change of clothes and a brief conversation with Birdie, I walked to McKay, climbed to the gym on the top floor, and worked out for an hour. Afterward I bought a rotisserie chicken from the butcher, and loaded up on veggies and fruit.

  Back home I microwaved green beans and split the chicken, stashing half in the refrigerator for Saturday lunch. Then I got out my bottle of Maurice's Piggy Park barbecue sauce.

  Montreal is a veritable smorgasbord, home to many of the world's finest restaurants. Chinese. German. Thai. Mexican. Lebanese. No ethnic group is unrepresented. For a fast-food lunch or a lingering gourmet supper the city is unsurpassed. Its one failing lies in the art of barbecue.

  In Quebec what poses as barbecue sauce is a brown gravy, as tasteless and odorless as carbon monoxide. A diligent seeker can find the tomato-based Texas variety, but the vinegar-and-mustard concoction of the eastern Carolinas is a delicacy I am forced to import. Montreal friends eyeing the golden potion are skeptical. One taste and they're hooked.

  I poured Maurice's sauce into a small bowl, carried everything to the living room, and dined in front of the tube. By 9 P.M. the weekend was still going well. The hardest decision up to that point involved sports allegiance. Though the Cubs were taking on the Braves, I opted for the NBA play-offs, and cheered the Hornets to a 102-87 victory over the Knicks.

  Bird was torn, attracted by the smell of chicken, but alarmed by the outbursts and arm waving. He spent the night across the room, chin on his paws, eyes flying open every time I yelled. At eleven he followed me to bed, where he circled twice before settling behind my knees. We were both asleep in minutes. I was awakened by the sound of the doorbell. Door chirp would be more correct. When a visitor buzzes for entry to my building, the system twitters like a sparrow with hiccups.

  The window shade was a pale gray, and the digits on the clock glowed eight-fifteen. Bird was no longer pressed to my legs. I threw back the covers and grabbed a robe.

  When I stumbled into the hall I was greeted by an enormous green eye. My hands flew to my chest and I took an involuntary step back from the security monitor.

  Chirrrrrrrrup.

  The eye withdrew and was replaced by my nephew's face. He mugged at the camera, tipping his head from side to side and stretching the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

  I pressed the button to allow him in. Birdie brushed my legs, then looked up with round yellow eyes.

  "Don't ask me, Bird."

  Kit rounded the corner with a duffel bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other, and a backpack slung from each shoulder. He wore a multicolored knit hat that looked as though it would be big in Guatemala.

  'Auntie T," he boomed in his rowdy Texas drawl.

  "Shhh." I held a finger to my lips. "It's Saturday morning." I stepped back and held the door wide. As he brushed past I could smell wood smoke and mildew and something like mushrooms or moss.

  He dropped the duffel and packs and gave me a hug. When he released me and pulled off the hat his hair did an Edward Scissorhands impression.

  "Nice do, Auntie."

  "You are not in a position to talk," I said, tucking strands behind my ears.

  He held out the paper bag.

  'A little something from the waters of Vermont." He spotted Birdie. "Hey, Bird. How's my bud?"

  The cat bolted for the bedroom. I peered down the empty hallway. "Is Howard with you?" "Nope. He headed his heinie south." "Oh?" As I closed the door I felt a tickle of apprehension.

  "Yes sir needed to get back to the oil game. But I'm going to hang for a while, if that's cool with you?"

  "Sure, Kit. That's great." Awhile? I eyed the mound of luggage and remembered my last visit from his mother. My sister Harry had come for a five-day conference and ended up staying for weeks.

  "But right now I'm bushed. Is it O.K. if I shower and siesta for a few? We broke camp before the sun was even thinking about getting up."

  "Sleep as long as you like. Then I want to hear about your trip." And definitely bathe, I thought.

  I got towels and showed him the guest room. Then I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt and walked to the corner depanneur to buy a Gazette. When I returned wet towels lay on the bathroom floor and the bedroom door
was shut.

  I went to the kitchen and sniffed Kit's package. Definitely fish. Adding an outer wrapper of plastic, I stashed it in the refrigerator pending further instructions. Then I made coffee and settled with the paper at the dining room table.

  That's when the weekend went off course.

  DEATH TOLL REACHES 120: BODIES OF TWO MORE BIKERS IDENTIFIED

  The story was on the third page of the front section. I'd expected some coverage. What I hadn't expected was the photo. The image was grainy, shot from a distance with a powerful telephoto lens, but the subject was recognizable.

  I was kneeling by a grave with skull in hand. As usual the caption identified me as… an American forensic anthropologist working for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legate."

  The shot was so poorly focused I was unsure if it had been snapped at the Vipers' clubhouse, or if it was an old file photo taken at another site. My appearance and equipment vary little from dig to dig, and there was nothing in the frame to identify a specific location.

  The article was accompanied by three other photos: the usual head shots of the victims, and a view of the entrance to the Vipers' clubhouse. It described the exhumation of Gately and Martineau, and recounted the story of their disappearance. There was a brief recap of the biker war, and an explanation of the revised body count.

  O.K. Those facts might have been released through official channels. What followed was what shocked me.

  The text went on to discuss a baffling third victim, accurately describing the partial remains found in the other pit. It concluded by stating that, to date, the young woman's identity remained a mystery

  How the hell had they gotten that?

  I felt the beginnings of agitation. While I am not fond of media attention, I am particularly uneasy when it threatens to jeopardize one of my cases. Who would have released the information?

  I took along, deep breath and got up to reheat my coffee.

  O.K. Someone leaked information. So what?

  So that shouldn't happen, that's what.

  I punched the quick-timer button on the microwave.