Deadly Descisions

by Kathy Reichs

"By whom?"

  He gave a palms-up gesture.

  "So how did the killer get in?"

  "He must have let them in."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Cherokee was wily as a pit bull and just a little less friendly But he'd outlived the stats and was probably starting to feet immortal."

  "Except for the cancer

  "Right. Let me show you something."

  Charbonneau crossed to the body and I followed. Close up the smell was stronger, a nauseating blend of charred wool, gasoline, excrement, and putrefying flesh. He pulled out his hankie and held it across his nose.

  "Check out the tattoos." Muffled.

  Cherokee's right hand was in his lap, his left flung at an odd angle across the arm of the chair, fingers hanging toward the carpet. Despite a thick layer of soot, a cluster of skulls was clearly visible on his right wrist. There were fifteen in all, arranged in a pyramid like the mysterious offerings found in European caves. But these trophies showed a distinction our Neanderthal ancestors had failed to make. Thirteen of the skulls had black eyes, two had red.

  "They're like notches on a gun." Charbonneau took the cloth from his mouth lust long enough to speak. "Black means he killed a male, red a female."

  "Pretty stupid to advertise."

  "Yeah, but our boy here was old school. Today they're listening more to their lawyers."

  From the amount of bloating and skin slippage I guessed the victim had been dead a couple of days.

  "How was he found?"

  "The usual. A neighbor complained about a foul odor Amazing anyone would notice in this shithole."

  I looked at the body again. Other than the bad teeth and mustache it was impossible to tell what the man had looked like. What was left of his head rested against the back of the chair, a dark blossom staining the upholstery around it. I could see shotgun pellets in the flesh that had been his face.

  "Like the special effects?"

  Charbonneau pointed at the small braided carpet below the victim's feet. It was badly charred, as was the underside of the chair Cherokee himself was smoke-blackened, and his dangling left hand, jean cuffs, and boots were singed. But beyond that there was little damage due to burning.

  A fire had been set in front of the chair, and the lingering smell of gasoline suggested the use of an accelerant. Flames had probably engulfed the body, but then, lacking fuel, petered out. By then the killers were long gone.

  Charbonneau lifted the hankie again.

  "Typical biker shit. Blast the target then torch the body Only this team must have failed Arson 101."

  "Why would this guy open the door if he was dealing coke in someone else's backyard?"

  "Maybe his colon backed up into his brain. Maybe he was smacked on drugs. Maybe he suffered from delusions of normalcy Hell, who knows how they think? Or if they think."

  "Could it have been his own club?"

  "Ain't without precedent."

  Claudel arrived at that moment and Charbonneau excused himself to join his colleagues. While I was curious about the suspect he'd been interrogating, I didn't want to take on a ClaudelQuickwater tag team, so I moved to the far side of the room and resumed observation of the blood-spatter analysts. By now they'd finished the xvest wall and were rounding the corner onto the north.

  Though I'd positioned myself as far from the body as I could get, the smell in the room was becoming unbearable. And Charbonneau was right. The corpse was only one element in the sickening cocktail of mildew motor oil, stale beer, perspiration, and years of bad cooking. It was hard to imagine how anyone could have lived in such a putrid atmosphere.

  I looked at my watch. Two-fifteen. Starting to think about a taxi, I turned to the window at my back.

  Cherokee lived on the first floor, his balcony not six feet above the sidewalk. Through the filthy glass I could see the usual armada of cruisers, vans, and unmarked cars. Neighbors stood in clumps or observed from the stoops of neighboring buildings. Press cars and minivans added to the confusion on the small street.

  The morgue vehicle pulled up as I was surveying the assemblage, and two attendants hopped out, released the rear doors, and withdrew a gurney They snapped the wheels into place and pushed the cart up the short front walk to the building's entrance, passing between rutted patches of mud, each furrow filled with standing water. An iridescent slick shone atop the surface of each. Nice. The front yard du Soleil.

  In seconds the transport team knocked on the door. Claudel admitted them, then rejoined the group. Steeling myself, I crossed to the detectives. Claudel did not interrupt his account of the interview with the prime suspect.

  "You think that wall is a mess?" Claudel gestured toward the northwest corner where the recovery team was still measuring and filming bloodstains. "This guy's Iacket looks like he wore it in the slaughtering house at a stockyard. Of course the little roach hasn't the brains to pull the wings off a moth."

  "Why did he hang on to it?" Charbonneau.

  "He was probably too cheap to part with the leather. And he figured we'd never link him. But he'd taken the time to wipe it off and stash it under the bed, just in case.

  "He was spotted here Monday night?"

  "Just after midnight."

  "That squares with LaManche's estimated time of death. What's his story?"

  "He's having a little trouble remembering. It seems George drinks a bit."

  "Any ties to the vic?"

  "George has been a Heathens hang-around for years. They let him drive and deal a little grass, so he thinks he's hot stuff. But he's so low in the hierarchy he needs a snorkel lust to breathe."

  A transporter called to Claudel, and the detective gave a go ahead gesture. One of the men unfolded a body bag and laid it on the gurney, while the other placed a brown paper bag on Cherokee's left hand.

  Watching Claudel, I was struck by how out of place he appeared. His brow was sweat free, his hair perfect, the creases on his trousers sharp as razor blades. A spot of Armani in the midst of a nightmare.

  "Maybe he saw the hit as his big chance for upward mobility" said Charbonneau.

  "Undoubtedly But George Dorsey isn't going to be mobile for a long time." Claudel.

  "Is there enough to hold him?" Quickwaterv

  "I'll hold him on suspicion of spitting if I have to. My sources tell me Dorsey recently sent out word he was looking for work, and that no job was off-limits. We've got him pegged for another hit, so I showed his picture around. A witness put Dorsey right here when the shoot went down, and when I dropped in to discuss this fact, I found Dorsey's outerwear covered with blood. Does that sound dirty to you?"

  At that moment Claudel's radio erupted in static. He stepped toward the door, listened, spoke into the mouthpiece, then gestured to Quickwater The two men exchanged words, then Quickwater turned to Charbonneau, pointed at me then at the door When Charbonneau gave a thumbs-up Quickwater waved and exited into the hall, and Claudel rejoined us.

  Great. I'd been passed off like someone's kid sister.

  There are two emotions that cause me agitation: feeling trapped and feeling useless. I was experiencing both, and it was making me restless.

  And something about the scene bothered me. I knew I was out of my element, but I kept remembering the slides I'd seen at Carcajou headquarters. What I was seeing didn't ring true.

  What the hell. I hadn't asked to come here.

  "Isn't this a little different from their normal method of dispatch?"

  Claudel turned in my direction, his face pinched into its usual chilly expression.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Isn't the shotgun off from the MO for a biker hit? And the botched fire?"

  Charbonneau cocked an eyebrow and shrugged both shoulders. Claudel said nothing.

  "This seems so messy," I pressed on, determined to make a contribution. "In the cases I've reviewed the hits were pretty efficient."

  "Things happen," said Charbonneau. "Maybe the perp was interrupted."

  "
I guess that's my point. Don't bikers research their victims and pick settings where they know they won't be interrupted?"

  "With a dead biker who was freelancing in the drug trade, we do not need to search the membership roster at the Unitarian church to find our hit man." Claudel's voice was cool.

  "Nor should we slam our brains shut after the first theory drifts into them," I said caustically

  Claudel gave me a look implying infinitely strained patience.

  "You may be very good at digging up bodies and measuring bones, Ms. Brennan. But those skills are not at the heart of this homicide investigation."

  "It's hard to find a hit man if you don't know who's been hit, Monsieur Claudel. Are you going to put his face back together?" Anger made my face burn.

  "That will not be a problem here. Fingerprints should suffice."

  I knew that, but Claudel's arrogance was bringing out the worst in me.

  Charbonneau crossed his arms and blew out a deep breath.

  Claudel checked his watch and I saw the flash of a gold cuff link. Then the arm dropped to his side.

  "Sergent-detective Charbonneau and I will drop you off." His voice indicated he would not be discussing the case further on this occasion.

  "Thank you."

  We crossed the room and I took one last look at the chair where Yves "Cherokee" Deslardins had died. It was empty now, but a port-colored cloud marked the place where his head had rested. Dark rivulets curved from each lobe, like the talons on a raptor greedy for a kill.

  Claudel held the door and I exited to the corridor, gripping my bags so tightly my nails bit into the heels of my hands. Still annoyed with Claudel's superior attitude, as I swept past him I couldn't resist one last gibe.

  'As you know, Monsieur Claudel, I am the lab's liaison to Carcajou. You have a professional obligation to share ideas and information with me, like it or not, and I expect nothing less."

  With that I strode down the hall and descended into sunlight.

  Chapter 20

  Though we drove through bright sunlight, my thoughts were dark. When I had volunteered for the Carcajou unit it had been to help solve the Emily Anne shooting, not to join the murder-of-the-day club. I rode in back, my mind shifting between Yves "Cherokee" Desjardins and Savannah Claire Osprey, victims as differcnt as Charlie Manson and the Sugarplum Fairy.

  But Savannah hadn't danced off with Ariel or Puck, and I couldn't shake the image of the spider-legged girl in the baggy swimsuit. I kept wondering about the poisonous web into which she'd been drawn.

  I was also haunted by the horror we'd just left. Though the dynamic duo in the front seat were convinced Cherokee's killing was a biker hit, something about the scene seemed out of sync. It was not my call, but my uneasiness remained, prickling my brain.

  Savannah and Cherokee. Cherokee and Savannah. And Ronald and Donald Vaillancourt, Robert Cately and Felix Martineau. And Emily Anne Toussaint, the little girl who danced, and skated, and loved waffles. These lives seemed unconnected, the only tie a posthumous one, created by homicide files.

  No one spoke. Now and then the radio sputtered as it scanned channels, diligent in its attention to police matters.

  In the Ville-Marie Tunnel we were snared briefly by the clog of traffic exiting onto Bern. I looked at the flow of cars heading toward the old city and experienced a return to melancholy. Why was I trapped with Señor Surly and his partner, the bones of a dead girl at my feet and visions of mutilated bikers in my head? Why wasn't I heading for Place Jacques Cartier, thinking about dinner, dancing, or drinks with a lover?

  But I couldn't handle the pleasure of drink,

  And I had no loves

  Ryan.

  Put it away, Brennan. That line of thought will take you from melancholy to depression. The simple fact is you chose this life. You could be limiting your bone analysis to archaeological digs and your professional commentaries to textbooks or classrooms in which you talk and they listen. You asked for this and you got it, so stop brooding and do your work.

  When Charbonneau pulled up at the SQ building I said a terse thank you, slammed the door, and headed up the block toward the main entrance. Before I got to the end of the wrought-iron fence my cell phone rang, so I set the athletic bag on the sidewalk and dug the phone out of my purse.

  'Aunt Tempe?"

  "Hey, Kit."

  I was relieved and annoyed to hear his voice. Though I'd called several times since leaving for Raleigh, Kit hadn't once picked up.

  "Did you get my messages?"

  "Yeah. Bad timing. I was out, then when I got in I hit the sack. Figured you wouldn't want me to call that late.

  I waited.

  "I was with Lyle."

  "For two days?"

  "The guy's O.K."

  O.K.?

  "We went to that cycle shop. Man, he wasn't exaggerating. They've got more shit than the Harley factory. Oops, sorry."

  I placed the briefcase next to the athletic bag and rotated my shoulder to work out a kink. Hip-hop music pounded from a Caravan on the opposite side of Parthenais. The driver sat sideways, one arm draped around the wheel, the other drumming the back of the seat.

  "I'll be home by six," I told Kit. "Tell me what you'd like and I'll throw something together for dinner."

  "That's why I'm calling. Lyle said he'd take me to the TV studio so I can watch them do the show tonight."

  A man emerged from an apartment building across the street and did a slow crawl down the steps, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hair looked as if he'd gotten his head too close to an explosion. Some of it stuck out in clumps, some strands lay in knots against his head. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket that showed arms so fully tattooed that from where I stood they looked blue.

  The man took a deep drag as he scanned the street. His eyes locked onto me then narrowed, like those of a terrier sighting on a rat. Two smoke streams shot from his nose, then he flicked the butt, crossed the sidewalk, and climbed into the van with the music loves As the pair drove off I felt a chill, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

  "…ever seen it in person?"

  "What?"

  "The news. Have you ever been at the station when they actually do it?"

  "Yes. It's very interesting."

  "So if you don't mind, I'd really like to go.

  "Sure. That sounds like fun. I'm pretty beat anyway.

  "Did you find out who she is?" The switch left me behind.

  "The girl. Did she turn out to be who you thought she was?"

  "Yes."

  "That's cool. Can I tell Lyle?"

  "It's not official yet. Better wait until the coroner releases her name.

  "No sweat. So, I'll see you later, "O.K."

  "You're sure?"

  "Kit, it's fine. I've been ditched by tougher men than you."

  "Ooh. Hit me where I bleed."

  "Bye."

  Lyle Crease. Was that bastard going to use my nephew to wheedle information that he couldn't get directiy from me?

  Upstairs, I secured Savannah's remains in my evidence locker, and gave one set of bone samples to Denis, the histology technician. He would use a microtome to cut slices less than a hundred microns thick, then stain them and mount them on slides for analysis.

  I took the other set to the DNA section, While there I asked about the eyeball. As I waited I felt a band of tension move slowly up the back of my head, and I began to rub my neck.

  "Headache?" asked the technician when she returned.

  "A little."

  The results were not yet in.

  Next I reported to LaManche. He didn't interrupt as I told him of my meeting with Kate, and showed him photos and copies of hospital records.

  When I'd finished he removed his glasses and kneaded two red ovals on the bridge of his nose. Then he leaned back, his face devoid of the emotions normally created by death.

  "I will call the coroner's office."

  "Thank you."

  "Have you disc
ussed this with the people at Carcajou?"

  "I mentioned it to Quickwater, but right now everyone is focused on the Cherokee Desjardins murder."

  That was an understatement. When I'd told him in the car, Quickwater had hardly listened.

  "I'll talk to Roy tomorrow," I added.

  "The agent in North Carolina believes this child was killed by gang members?"

  "Kate Brophy. She believes it's a good possibility."

  "Does she know of any ties between Quebec and Myrtle Beach gangs?"

  "No."

  LaManche inhaled deeply, exhaled.

  "Nineteen eighty-four is a long time ago.

  Sitting across from my boss, listening to his precise French and seeing him backlit by the St. Lawrence River, I had to admit the Carolina theory sounded bizarre even to me. What had seemed so right in Raleigh now felt like a remembered dream in which I couldn't sort reality from fantasy.

  "We had to cut it short when I got the call about Cherokee's body in the fire, but Agent Brophy lent me a great deal of material from the SBI files, including old photos. Tomorrow I'll take everything over to Carcajou and we'll see what falls out."

  LaManche replaced his glasses.

  "This Carolina skeleton may be unrelated."

  "I know."

  "How soon will they have the DNA results?"

  I avoided the impulse to roll my eyes, but I'm sure the frustration showed in my voice.

  "They're backed up because of the bomber twin case, and wouldn't give me an estimate." I remembered the look I'd gotten when the technician spotted Savannah's DOD. "And, as you said, it's not exactly a recent death."

  LaManche nodded.

  "But it is an unexplained death, and the remains were found in Quebec, so we will treat it as a homicide. Hopefully the SQ will do the same," he said.

  At that moment his phone rang. I gathered papers as he spoke. When he'd hung up I said, "The Cherokee case doesn't fit the recent pattern here, but who knows why people kill."

  He answered as he scribbled something on a small yellow pad, his mind still on the phone conversation. Or perhaps he thought I was talking about something else.

  "Occasionally Monsieur Claude] can be abrupt, but in the end he will get it right."

  What the hell did that mean?