Deja Dead Page 0,145
Numb us. Make it go away.
But I didn’t. That would have been easy. You’re down love-forty, so lob one in, shake hands at the net, and it’s Miller time. Except this wasn’t tennis. If I gave up in this game, I would lose my career, my friends, my self-respect. Hell, I might as well let St. Jacques/Tanguay do me in.
I would not give in. Not to the bottle, and not to the maniac. I owed it to Gabby. I owed it to myself and to my daughter. So I stayed sober and waited, desperately wishing I had Gabby to talk me through. I checked frequently to be sure the surveillance team was in place.
On Monday Ryan called around eleven-thirty. LaManche had completed the autopsy. Cause of death: ligature strangulation. Though the body was decomposed he’d found a groove buried deep in the flesh of Gabby’s neck. Above and below it the skin was torn in a series of gouges and scratches. The vessels in the throat tissue showed hundreds of tiny hemorrhages.
Ryan’s voice receded. I pictured Gabby desperately clawing to breathe, to live. Stop. Thank God we found her so quickly. I couldn’t have faced the horror of Gabby on my autopsy table. The pain of losing her was unbearable enough.
“. . . hyoid was broken. Also, whatever he used had links or loops or something, left a spiral pattern in the skin. ”
“Was she raped?”
“He couldn’t tell because of the decomposition. Negative for sperm.”
“Time of death?”
“LaManche is giving it a minimum of five days. We know the upper limit is ten.”
“Pretty wide window.”
“Given this heat and the shallow burial, he thinks the body should be in worse shape.”
Oh, God. She may not have died the day she disappeared.
“Have you checked her apartment?”
“No one saw her, but she’d been there.”
“What about Tanguay?”
“Ready for this? The guy’s a teacher. Small school out on the west island.” I heard the rustle of paper. “St. Isidor’s. Been there since 1991. He’s twenty-eight. Single. For next of kin on his application he put ‘none.’ We’re checking it. He’s been living on Séguin since ’91. Landlady thinks he was somewhere in the States before that.”
“Prints?”
“Lots. We ran them, came up empty. Sent them south this morning.”
“Inside the glove?”
“At least two readable and a smudged palm.”
An image of Gabby. The plastic bag. Another glove. I jotted down a single word. Glove.
“He has a degree?”
“Bishops. Bertrand’s out in Lennoxville now. Claudel’s trying to roust someone at St. Isidor’s, not having much luck. The caretaker is about a hundred and no one else is around. They’re closed for the summer.”
“Any names turn up in the apartment?”
“None. No pictures. No address books. No letters. Guy must live in a social vacuum.”
A long silence as we mulled that over, then Ryan said,
“Might explain his unusual hobbies.”
“The animals?”
“That. And the cutlery collection.”
“Cutlery?”
“This squirrel had more blades than an orthopedic surgeon. Surgical tools mostly. Knives. Razors. Scalpels. Kept them stashed under the bed. Along with a box of surgical gloves. Original.”
“A loner with a blade fetish. Great.”
“And the standard porn gallery. Well thumbed.”
“What else?”
“Guy’s got a car.” More rustling. “A 1987 Ford Probe. It’s not in the neighborhood. They’re looking for it. We got the driver’s license photo this morning and sent that out too.”
“And?”
“I’ll let you judge for yourself, but I think Grammama was right. He’s not memorable. Or maybe the Xerox/fax reproduction doesn’t do him justice.”
“Could it be St. Jacques?”
“Could be. Or Jean Chrétien. Or the guy that sells hot dogs on Rue St. Paul. Richard Petty’s out. He’s got a mustache.”
“You’re a laugh riot, Ryan.”
“This guy doesn’t even have a parking ticket. He’s been a real good boy.”
“Right. A real good boy who collects knives and porn and carves up small mammals.”
Pause.
“What were they?”
“We’re not sure yet. They’re asking some guy over at U of M.”
I looked at the word I’d written, swallowed hard.
“Any prints inside the glove we found with Gabby?” It was difficult to say her name.
“No.”
“We knew there wouldn’t be.”
“Yeah.”
I heard squad room noises in the background.
“I want to drop off a copy of this license photo so you’ll have some idea what he looks like in case you meet him up close and personal. I still think it’s better if you stick near home until we pop this asshole.”
“I’m coming in. If ident is done with the gloves I want to take them over to biology. Then Lacroix.”
“I think you sh—”
“Cut the macho crap, Ryan.”
A breath drawn deeply, expelled.
“Are you holding out on me?”
“Brennan, what