Deja Dead Page 0,58
ready to share my thoughts.
“There’s someone else I want to talk to before I reach a conclusion.”
“Anything else?”
I flipped to the first page of my notes, and summarized the observations I’d made.
“The false starts are on the anterior surfaces of the long bones. Where there are breakaway spurs, they’re on the posterior aspects. That means the body was probably lying on its back when it was cut up. The arms were detached at the shoulders, and the hands were cut off. The legs were removed at the hips and the knee joints were severed. The head was removed at the level of the fifth cervical vertebrae. The thorax was opened with a vertical slash that penetrated all the way to the vertebral column.”
He shook his head. “Guy was a real whiz with a saw.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“More complicated?”
“He also used a knife.”
I adjusted the ulna and refocused. “Take another look.”
He bent over the scope, and I couldn’t help noticing his nice, tight butt. Jesus, Brennan . . .
“You don’t have to press quite so hard against the eyepieces.”
His shoulders relaxed somewhat, and he shifted his weight.
“See the kerfs we’ve been talking about?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, look to the left. See the narrow slash?”
He was silent for a moment as he adjusted the focus. “Looks more like a wedge. Not square. It’s not as wide.”
“Right. That’s made by a knife.”
He stood up. Goggles.
“The knife marks have a definite pattern. A lot of them parallel the saw false starts, some even cross them. Also, they’re the only kind I see in the hip joint and on the vertebrae.”
“Meaning?”
“Some of the knife marks overlie saw marks and some are underneath, so the cutting probably came before and after the sawing. I think he cut the flesh with the knife, separated the joints with the saw, then finished with the knife, maybe disconnecting any muscles or tendons that still held the bones together. Except for the wrists, he went right into the joints. For some reason he just sawed the hands off above the wrists, going right through the lower arm bones.”
He nodded.
“He decapitated Isabelle Gagnon and opened her chest using just the knife. There are no saw marks on any of the vertebrae.”
We were both silent for a few moments thinking about that. I wanted all this to sink in before I dropped the bombshell.
“I also examined Trottier.”
The brilliant blue eyes met mine. His gaunt face looked tense, stretched, as he prepared it to receive what I was about to say.
“It’s identical.”
He swallowed and took a deep breath. Then he spoke very quietly. “This guy must run Freon through his veins.”
Ryan pushed off from the counter just as a janitor poked his head through the door. We both turned to look at him, and, seeing our somber expressions, the man left quickly. Ryan’s eyes reengaged mine. His jaw muscles flexed.
“Run this by Claudel. You’re getting there.”
“I’ve got a couple of other things I want to check out first. Then I’ll approach Capitaine Congenial.”
He departed without saying good-bye, and I finished repacking the bones. I left the boxes on the table and locked the lab behind me. As I passed through the main reception area, I noted the clock above the elevators: 6:30 P.M. Once again it was me and the cleaning crew. I knew it was too late to accomplish either of the last two things I’d planned to do, but decided to try anyway.
I walked past my own office and down the corridor to the last door on the right. A small plaque said, INFORMATIQUE, with the name LUCIE DUMONT printed neatly below.
It had been long in arriving, but the LML and LSJ were finally coming on-line. Complete computerization had been achieved in the fall of ’93, and data were continually being fed into the system. Current cases could now be tracked, with reports from all divisions coordinated into master files. Cases from years past were gradually being entered into the database. L’Expertise Judiciaire had roared into the computer age, and Lucie Dumont was leading the charge.
Her door was closed. I knocked, knowing there would be no answer. At 6:30 P.M. even Lucie Dumont was gone.
I trudged back to my office, pulled out my membership directory for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and found the name I was looking for. I glanced at my watch, quickly calculating. It would be only four-forty there. Or would it be five-forty? Was Oklahoma on Mountain or Central time?
“Oh hell,” I said, punching in the area code