by Kathy Reichs
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 jacket 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 just 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?” Quickwater.
“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-détective 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” Desjardins 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.
THOUGH WE DROVE THROUGH BRIGHT SUNSHINE, 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 different 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 Gately and Félix 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 Berri. 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 w
ith a lover?
But I couldn’t handle the pleasure of drink.
And I had no lover.
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.”
“Hm.”
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 lover. 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 directly 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 discussed 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 Claudel can be abrupt, but in the end he will get it right.”
What the hell did that mean?
Before I could ask, the phone rang again. LaManche reached for the receiver, listened, then held it to his chest.
“Was there anything else?”
A polite dismissal.
I was so preoccupied by LaManche’s comment about Claudel that I almost collided with Jocelyn the temp as I left his office and headed toward my own. She wore large beaded loops in her ears, and the hair streaks were now the color of purple African violets.
As we circled each other, readjusting our armloads of papers, I again was struck by the whiteness of her skin. Under the harsh fluorescent light, her lower lids looked plum, her skin as pale as the underbelly of a lemon peel. It crossed my mind Jocelyn might be albino.
For some reason, I felt compelled to speak to her.
“How are you getting along, Jocelyn?”
She stared at me with a look I couldn’t interpret.
“I hope you’re not finding t
he lab too overwhelming.”
“I can do the job.”
“Yes, of course you can. I just meant it’s hard to be the new kid on the block.”
As she opened her mouth to say something, a secretary emerged from an adjacent office. Jocelyn hurried off down the hall.
Jesus, I thought. This one could use a bit of charm school. Maybe she could get a two-for-the-price-of-one deal for her and Quickwater.
I spent the rest of the afternoon clearing my desk of message slips. Calls from the media I threw away, those from law enforcement I returned.
I scanned a request from Pelletier, the oldest of the lab pathologists. Bones had been found by a homeowner in Outremont when he dug a hole in his cellar floor. The remains were old and brittle, but Pelletier was unsure if they were human.
Nothing urgent.
My desk reasonably clear, I drove home and spent another glamorous evening in the oldest French city in North America.
Pizza. Bath. Baseball.
Birdie stayed through the eighth inning, then curled into a ball on the guest room bed. When I turned in at eleven-fifteen he stretched and relocated to my bedroom chair.
I fell asleep almost immediately and dreamed piecemeal scenarios that made no sense. Kit waved from a boat, Andrew Ryan by his side. Isabelle served dinner. A headless Cherokee Desjardins tweezered pieces of flesh and dropped them into a plastic sack.
When Kit came in I floated to the surface, but was too groggy to call out. He was still fumbling in the kitchen when I sank back into oblivion.
• • •
The next morning I was going through Pelletier’s bones when Denis came into my lab.
“C’est la vedette!”
The star?
Oh no.
He opened a copy of Le Journal de Montréal and showed me a picture of myself at the Vipers’ clubhouse. Beside it was a short story recounting the recovery of Gately and Martineau, and identifying the mysterious third skeleton as that of sixteen-year-old Savannah Claire Osprey, according to the coroner, an American missing since 1984. The caption described me as a member of the Carcajou unit.
“C’est une promotion ou une réduction?”
I smiled, wondering if Quickwater and Claudel would see the error as a promotion or demotion, then resumed sorting. So far I was up to two lamb dinners, a pot roast, and more grilled chicken than I planned to count.
