Deja Dead Page 0,28
a real sick bastard,” said Charbonneau, the practiced nonchalance of the homicide detective overridden by the emotion of the moment.
His vehemence surprised me. I was unsure if the atrocity alone had stirred something in him, or if the religious nature of the offending object was contributing to his reaction. Like most Québecois, Charbonneau had no doubt had a childhood permeated with traditional Catholicism, the rhythm of his daily life inextricably ruled by church dogma. Though many of us throw off the outward trappings, reverence for the symbols often lingers. A man might refuse to wear a scapular, but neither will he burn it. I understood. Different city, different language, but I, too, was a member of the tribe. Atavistic emotions die hard.
There was another long silence. Finally, LaManche spoke, choosing his words carefully. I couldn’t tell if he realized the full implications of what we were seeing. I wasn’t sure I did. Though he used milder tones than I’d have chosen, he voiced my thoughts perfectly.
“Monsieur Charbonneau, I believe you and your partner need to meet with Dr. Brennan and me. As I am sure you know, there are some unsettling aspects to this case and several others.”
He paused to allow that to sink in, and to consult a mental calendar.
“I will have the results of this autopsy by later tonight. Tomorrow is a holiday. Would Monday morning be convenient?”
The detective looked at him, then at me. His face was neutral. I couldn’t tell if he understood LaManche’s meaning, or if he was truly unaware of the other cases. It was not beyond Claudel to have dismissed my comments without sharing them with his partner. If so, Charbonneau could not admit his ignorance.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
LaManche held his melancholy eyes on Charbonneau and waited.
“Okay. Okay. We’ll be here. Now I better get my ass back on the street and start looking for this shithook. If Claudel turns up, tell him I’ll meet him back at headquarters around eight.”
He was rattled. He’d failed to switch over to French when addressing LaManche. It was clear he would have a long talk with his partner.
LaManche resumed the autopsy before the door closed behind Charbonneau. The rest was routine. The chest was opened with a Y-shaped incision. The organs were removed, weighed, sliced, and inspected. The statue’s position was determined, the internal damage assessed and described. Using a scalpel, Daniel cut the skin across the crown of the head, peeled the face forward and the scalp backward, and removed a section of skullcap with a Stryker saw. I took a step backward and held my breath as the air filled with the whine of the saw and the smell of burnt bone. The brain was structurally normal. Here and there gelatinous globs clung to its surface, like black jellyfish on a slick, gray globe. Subdural hematoma from the blows to her head.
I knew what the essence of LaManche’s report would be. The victim was a healthy young woman with no abnormalities or signs of disease. Then, that day, someone had bludgeoned her head with enough force to fracture her skull and cause her cerebral vessels to bleed into her brain. At least five times. He had then rammed a statue into her vagina, partially disemboweled her, and slashed off her breast.
A shudder ran through me as I considered her ordeal. The wounds to her vagina were vital. Her torn flesh had bled extensively. The statue had been inserted while her heart still beat. While she was alive.
“. . . tell Daniel what you want, Temperance.”
I hadn’t been listening. LaManche’s voice brought me back to the present. He’d finished, and was suggesting I take my bone samples. The sternum and front portions of the ribs had been removed early in the autopsy, so I told Daniel they were to be sent upstairs for soaking and cleaning.
I stepped close to the body and peered into the thoracic cavity. A number of small gashes meandered up the belly side of the vertebral bodies. They appeared as a trail of faint slits in the tough sheath covering the spine.
“I want the vertebrae from about here to here. Ribs, too.” I indicated the segment containing the gashes. “Send it up to Denis. Tell him to soak it, no boiling. And be very careful in removing it. Don’t touch it with any kind of blade.”
He listened, holding his gloved hands out. His nose and upper lip jumped as he tried to adjust his glasses. He nodded