Deja Dead Page 0,121

angle. Probably married . . .”

“Pourquoi?” Rousseau, St. Lambert.

“The hidey-hole. Can’t bring the victims home to wifey.”

“Or Mommy.” Claudel.

Back to the report.

“Probably selects, prepares isolated location in advance.”

“The basement?” Ketterling, St. Lambert.

“Hell, Gilbert sprayed the shit out of that place with Luminol. If there was any blood there, it would have lit up like Tomorrowland.” Charbonneau.

Report. “Excessive violence and cruelty suggest extreme anger. Possible revenge orientation. Possible sadistic fantasies involving domination, humiliation, pain. Possible religious overlay.”

“Pourquoi, ça?” Rousseau.

“The statue, the body dumps. Trottier was at a seminary, so was Damas.”

For the next few moments no one said a word. The wall clock buzzed softly. In the corridor, a pair of high heels clicked closer, receded. Claudel’s pen made short, tense strokes.

“Beaucoup de ‘possibles’ et ‘probables.’” Claudel.

Claudel’s continued resistance to the one-killer theory annoyed me.

“It’s also possible and probable we’re going to have another murder soon,” I snapped.

Claudel’s face hardened into its usual mask, which he pointed at his tablet. The lines in his cheeks tensed, but he said nothing.

Buzz.

“Does Dr. Dobzhansky have a long-term forecast?” I asked, calmer.

“Short term,” Ryan said somberly and returned to the profile. “Indications of loss of control. Increasing boldness. Intervals shortening.” He closed the folder and shoved it toward the center of the table. “Will kill again.”

Silence again.

Eventually, Ryan looked at his watch. We all followed suit, like assembly line robots.

“So. Let’s get into these files. Add anything you have that’s not here. Luc, Michel, Gautier was CUM, so you guys might have more on that one.”

Nods from Charbonneau and Claudel.

“Pitre fell to the SQ. I’ll double-check her. The others are more recent, should be pretty complete.”

Since I was all too familiar with the five recents, I started with Pitre and Gautier. The files had been open since ‘88 and ‘89 respectively.

Constance Pitre’s semi-nude, badly decomposed body was found in an abandoned house at Khanawake, an Indian reserve upriver from Montreal. Marie-Claude Gautier was discovered behind the Vendôme Métro, a switching point for trains to the western suburbs. Both women had been savagely beaten, their throats slashed. Gautier had been twenty-eight, Pitre thirty-two. Neither had been married. Each lived alone. The usual suspects had been questioned, the usual leads pursued. Dead end in each case.

I spent three hours going over the files, which, compared to those I’d studied for the past six weeks, were relatively sparse. Both women had been prostitutes. Was that the reason for the limited investigations? Exploited in life, ignored in death? Good riddance? I refused to allow myself to pursue it.

I looked at family snapshots of each victim. Their faces were different, yet similar in some disturbing way. The yeasty white pallor, the lavish makeup, the cold, flat stare. Their expressions brought to recall my night on the Main, when I’d viewed the street production from a front-row seat. Resignation. Desperation. There I’d seen it live. Here it was in stills.

I spread the crime scene photos, knowing beforehand the story they’d tell. Pitre: the yard, the bedroom, the body. Gautier: the station, the bushes, the body. Pitre’s head was almost severed. Gautier’s throat had also been slashed, her right eye stabbed into pulpy mush. The extreme savagery of the attacks had prompted their inclusion in our investigation.

I read the autopsy, toxicology, and police reports. I dissected each interview and investigator’s summary. I pulled out every detail of the victims’ comings and goings, every particular of their lives and deaths. All the minutiae I could suck from each folder went onto a crude spreadsheet. It wasn’t much.

I heard the others moving around, scraping chairs, exchanging banter, but I paid no attention. When I finally closed the files, it was past five. Only Ryan remained. I looked up to see him watching me.

“Wanna see the Gypsies?”

“What?”

“Heard you like jazz.”

“Yeah, but the festival is over, Ryan.” Heard from whom? How? Was this a social invitation?

“True. But the city isn’t. Les Gitanes are playing in the Old Port. Great group.”

“Ryan, I don’t think so.” But I did think. Had thought. That’s why I’d refuse. Not now. Not until the investigation was over. Not until the animal was netted.

“Good enough.” The electric eyes. “But you gotta eat.”

That was true. Another frozen dinner, solo, was decidedly unappealing. No. Don’t even give Claudel the appearance of impropriety.

“It’s probably not a g—”

“We could chew over some of your thoughts on this stuff while we put away a pizza.”

“Business meeting.”

“Certainement.”

Buzz.

Did I want to discuss the cases? Of course. Something about the added two didn’t ring true. Even more, I was