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keep Monsieur Gauvreau and the prosecutor’s office informed of all progress.

Just like that. Done. I returned to my office, more stunned than relieved. Why? Who? I’d been arguing the serial killer theory for almost a month. What had happened to suddenly give it credence? Seven cases? Who were the other two?

Why ask, Brennan? You’ll find out.

And I did. At one-thirty I entered a large room on the second floor. Four tables formed an island in the middle, portable chalk and bulletin boards lined the walls. The detectives were clumped at the back of the room, like buyers at a trade show booth. The board they were viewing held the familiar Montreal and Métro maps, colored pins jutting from each. Seven more boards stood side by side, each topped by a woman’s name and picture. Five were as familiar as my own family, the others I didn’t know.

Claudel favored me with a half second of eye contact, the others greeted me cordially. We exchanged comments about the weather, then moved to the table. Ryan distributed legal pads from a stack in the center, then launched right in.

“You all know why you’re here, and you all know how to do your jobs. I just want to make sure of a few things at this point.”

He looked from face to face, then gestured at a stack of folders.

“I want everyone to study these files. Go through them carefully. Digest everything in them. We’re getting the information on computer, but it’s slow. For now we’ll use the old-fashioned way. If there’s anything you think is relevant, anything at all, get it up on that victim’s board.”

Nods.

“We’ll have an updated printout of the pervert parade today. Divide it up, roust these guys, see where they’ve been partying.”

“Usually in their own shorts.” Charbonneau.

“Could be one of them crossed the line, now finds his shorts lacking.”

Ryan looked at each of us in turn.

“It’s absolutely critical we work as a team. No individuals. No heroes. Talk. Exchange information. Bounce ideas off each other. That’s how we’re going to nail this bastard.”

“If there is one.” Claudel.

“If not, Luc, we’ll clean house, nail a whole lot of bastards. Nothing lost.”

Claudel tucked down the corners of his mouth and drew a series of short, quick lines on his tablet.

“It’s equally important we be concerned about security,” Ryan continued. “No leaks.”

“Patineau going to announce our little civic group?” Charbonneau.

“No. In a sense, we’re working undercover.”

“Public hears the words serial killer, they’ll go ape shit. Surprised they haven’t already.” Charbonneau.

“Apparently the press hasn’t picked up on the connection. Don’t ask me why. Patineau wants to keep it that way for now. That may change.”

“Press has the memory of a gnat.” Bertrand.

“Nah, that’s the IQ score.”

“They’d never make that cutoff.”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s go. Here’s what we’ve got.”

Ryan summarized each case. I listened mutely as my ideas, even my words, filled the air and were scribbled onto legal pads. Okay, some of Dobzhansky’s ideas as well, but passed on by me.

Mutilation. Genital penetration. Real estate ads. Métro stops. Someone had been listening. What’s more, someone had been checking. The boucherie where Grace Damas had once worked was a block off St. Laurent. Close to the St. Jacques apartment. Close to the Berri-UQAM Métro. It plotted. That made four for five. That’s what had tipped the balance. That and J.S.

Following our talk, Ryan had convinced Patineau to forward a formal request to Quantico. J.S. had agreed to give the Montreal cases top priority. A flurry of faxes provided him with what he needed, and Patineau had a profile three days later. That had done it. Patineau had decided to move. Voilà. Task force.

I felt relieved, but also slighted. They’d taken my labor and left me to sweat. On walking into that meeting, I had feared personal censure, had not expected tacit acknowledgment of work well done. Nevertheless. I steadied my voice to hide my anger.

“So what does Quantico tell us to look for?”

Ryan pulled a thin folder from the stack, opened it, and read.

“Male. White. Francophone. Probably not educated beyond secondary level. Probably a history of NSO’s . . .”

“C’est quoi, ça?” Bertrand.

“Nuisance sexual offenses. Peeping. Obscene phone calls. Indecent exposure.”

“The cute stuff.” Claudel.

“Dummy man.” Bertrand.

Claudel and Charbonneau snorted.

“Shit.” Claudel.

“My hero.” Charbonneau.

“Who the hell’s dummy man?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.

“Little maggot busts apartments so he can stuff the lady’s nightie, then slash it. Been working his act about five years.”

Ryan continued, selecting phrases from the report.

“Careful planner. Probably uses ruse to approach victim. Possibly the real estate