Deja Dead Page 0,160
you do to pull up everything there is on this guy. Can you do that?”
“It’s late and I wa—”
“This is critical, Lucie. My daughter may be in danger. I really need this!”
I made no attempt to hide the desperation in my voice.
“I can link through to the SQ files and see if he’s there. I have clearance. What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“What can you give me?”
“Just a name.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Who is it?”
“Fortier. Leo Fortier.”
“I’ll call you back. Where are you?”
I gave her the number and hung up.
I paced the apartment, crazy with fear for Katy. Was it Fortier? Had his psychotic rage fixed on me because I had thwarted him? Had he killed my friend to vent this rage? Did he plan the same for me? For my daughter? How did he know about my daughter? Had he stolen the photo of Katy and me from Gabby?
The cold, numbing fear went deep into my soul. I had the worst thoughts I’ve ever known. I pictured Gabby’s last moments, imagined what she must have felt. The phone exploded into my train of thought.
“Yes!”
“It’s Lucie Dumont.”
“Yes.” My heart was pounding so hard I thought she might hear it.
“Do you know how old your Leo Fortier is?”
“Uh . . . thirty, forty.”
“I came up with two; one has a date of birth 2/9/62, so he’d be about thirty-two. The other was born 4/21/16, so he’d be, what . . . seventy-eight.”
“Thirty-two,” I said.
“That’s what I thought, so I ran him. He’s got a big jacket. Goes back to juvenile court. No felonies, but a string of misdemeanor problems and psychiatric referrals.”
“What kind of problems.”
“Caught for voyeurism at age thirteen.” I could hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard “Vandalism. Truancy. There was an incident when he was fifteen. Kidnapped a girl and kept her for eighteen hours. No charges. You want it all?”
“What about recent things?”
Click. Clickety. Click. I could picture her leaning into the monitor, her pink lenses bouncing back the green glow.
“The most recent entry is 1988. Arrested for assault. Looks like a relative, victim has the same name. No jail time. Did six months in Pinel.”
“When did he get out?”
“The exact date?”
“Do you have it?”
“Looks like November 12, 1988.”
Constance Pitre died in December of 1988. The room was hot. My body was slick with sweat.
“Does the file list the name of his attending psychiatrist at Pinel?”
“There’s reference to a Dr. M. C. LaPerrière. Doesn’t say who he is.”
“Is his number there?”
She gave it to me.
“Where is Fortier now?”
“The file ends in 1988. You want that address?”
“Yes.”
I was on the verge of tears as I punched in a number and listened to a phone ring on the far northern end of the island of Montreal. Composer, they say in French. Composer le numéro. Compose yourself, Brennan. I tried to think what to say.
“L’hôpital Pinel. Puis-je vous aider?” A female voice.
“Dr. LaPerrière, s’il vous plaît.” Please let him still work there.
“Un instant, s’il vous plaît.”
Yes! He was still on staff. I was put on hold, then led through the same ritual by a second female voice.
“Qui est sur la ligne, s’il vous plaît?”
“Dr. Brennan.”
The sound of more empty air. Then.
“Dr. LaPerrière.” A female voice, this one sounding tired and impatient.
“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice, “forensic anthropologist at the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale, and I’m involved in the investigation of a series of murders which have taken place over the past several years in the Montreal area. We have reason to believe one of your former patients may be involved.”
“Yes.” Wary.
I explained about the task force, and asked what she could tell me about Leo Fortier.
“Dr. . . . Brennan, is it? Dr. Brennan, you know I can’t discuss a patient file on the basis of a phone call. Without court authorization, that would be a breach of confidentiality.”
Stay cool. You knew that would be the response.
“Of course. And that authorization will be forthcoming, but we are in an urgent situation, Doctor, and we cannot delay in speaking with you. And at this point that authorization really isn’t necessary. Women are dying, Dr. LaPerrière. They’re being brutally murdered and disfigured. The individual doing this is capable of extreme violence. He mutilates his victims. We think he’s someone with tremendous rage against women, and someone with enough intelligence to plan and carry out these killings. And we think he’ll strike again soon.” I swallowed, my mouth dry from fear. “Leo Fortier is a suspect, and