Deja Dead Page 0,38
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Bertrand came from behind his desk, and extended his hand, nodding and smiling. I shook it. Claudel continued not to look at me. I needed him here like I needed a yeast infection.
“I wondered if I could take a look at a file from last year. Chantale Trottier. She was killed in October of ‘93. The body was found in St. Jerome.”
Bertrand snapped his fingers into a pointing gesture, which he aimed at me.
“Yes. I remember that one. The kid in the dump. We still haven’t nailed the bastard that did that one.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Claudel’s eyes go to Ryan. Though the movement was almost imperceptible, it triggered my curiosity. I doubted Claudel was there on a social call, was certain they’d talked about yesterday’s murder. I wondered if they’d discussed Trottier or Gagnon.
“Sure,” said Ryan, his face smiling but impassive. “Whatever you need. You think there’s something in there we missed?”
He reached for a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Placing it in his mouth, he extended the pack toward me. I shook my head.
“No, no. Nothing like that,” I said. “I’ve got a couple of cases upstairs I’m working on, and they keep making me think of Trottier. I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I’d just like to go over the scene photos and maybe the incident report.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said, blowing a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. If he knew any of my cases were also Claudel’s, he didn’t let on. “Sometimes you just have to follow a hunch. What do you think you’ve got?”
“She thinks there’s a psychopath out there responsible for every murder since Cock Robin.”
Claudel’s voice was flat, and I saw that his eyes were back on the tassles. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. It seemed to me that he did not try to disguise his contempt. I turned away and ignored him.
Ryan smiled at Claudel. “Come on, Luc, ease back, it never hurts to take another look. We sure aren’t setting any speed records clipping this worm.”
Claudel snorted and shook his head. Again he consulted his watch.
Then, to me, “What’ve you got?”
Before I could answer the door flew open and Michel Charbonneau burst into the far end of the room. He jogged toward us, weaving through the desks and waving a paper in his left hand.
“We’ve got him,” he said. “We’ve got the sonofabitch.” His face was red and he was breathing hard.
“About time,” said Claudel. “Let’s see.” He addressed Charbonneau as one would a delivery boy, his impatience obliterating any pretense of courtesy.
Charbonneau’s brow furrowed, but he handed the paper to Claudel. The three men huddled, their heads bent close, like a team consulting the playbook. Charbonneau spoke to their backs.
“The dumb fucker used her bank card an hour after he iced her. Apparently he hadn’t had enough fun for the day, so he went to the corner dépanneur to score some change. Only this place don’t cater to the quiche and Brie crowd, so they’ve got a video camera pointed at the money machine. Ident hammered the transaction and, voilà, we’ve got us a Kodak moment.”
He nodded at the photocopy.
“He’s a real beauty, eh? I took it by there this morning, but the night clerk didn’t know the guy’s name. Thought he recognized the face. Suggested we talk to the guy comes in after nine. Apparently our boy’s a regular.”
“Holy shit,” said Bertrand.
Ryan just stared at the picture, his tall, lean frame hunched over that of his shorter partner.
“So this is the cocksucker,” said Claudel, scrutinizing the image in his hand. “Let’s get this asshole.”
“I’d like to ride along.”
They’d forgotten I was there. All four turned toward me, the SQ detectives half amused and curious as to what would happen next.
“C’est impossible,” said Claudel, the only one now using French. His jaw muscles bunched and his face went taut. There was no smile in his eyes.
Showdown.
“Sergeant Detective Claudel,” I began, returning his French and choosing my words carefully. “I believe I see significant similarities in several homicide victims whom I have been asked to examine. If this is so, there may be one individual, a psychopath as you call him, behind all of their deaths. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. Do you really want to assume responsibility for ignoring the possibility and risking the lives of more innocent victims?”
I was polite but unyielding. I, too, was unamused.
“Oh hell, Luc, let