Deja Dead Page 0,92
my hand. What the hell. Things couldn’t get worse.
“Monsieur Charbonneau, do you remember a woman named Francine Morisette-Champoux?”
“Morisette-Champoux.” He repeated the name several times, twirling through his mental Rolodex. “That was several years ago, eh?”
“Almost two. January of 1993.” I handed him the photos.
He thumbed through them, nodding his head in recognition. “Yeah, I remember. So?”
“Think, Charbonneau. What do you recall about the case?”
“We never got the turd that did it.”
“What else?”
“Brennan, tell me you’re not trying to hook this one in, too?”
He went through the photos again, the nodding transformed to negative shaking.
“No way. She was shot. Doesn’t fit the pattern.”
“The bastard slit her open and cut her hand off.”
“She was old. Forty-seven, I think.”
I gave him an icy stare.
“I mean, older than the others,” he mumbled, reddening.
“Morisette-Champoux’s killer drove a knife up her vagina. According to the police report there was extensive bleeding.”
I let that sink in.
“She was still alive.”
He nodded. I didn’t need to explain that a wound inflicted after death will bleed very little since the heart is no longer pumping and blood pressure is gone. Francine Morisette-Champoux had bled profusely.
“With Margaret Adkins it was a metal statue. She was also alive.”
Silently, I reached behind me and pulled the Gagnon file. I withdrew the scene photos and spread them in front of him. There was the torso lying on its plastic bag, dappled by the four o’clock sunlight. Nothing had been moved but the covering of leaves. The plunger lay in place, its red rubber cup snug against the pelvic bones, its handle projecting toward the body’s severed neck.
“I believe Gagnon’s killer shoved that plunger into her with enough force to drive the handle through her belly and clear up to her diaphragm.”
He studied the photos for a long time.
“Same pattern with all three victims,” I hammered on. “Forceful penetration with a foreign object while the victim is alive. Body mutilation after death. Coincidence, Monsieur Charbonneau? How many sadists do we want out there, Monsieur Charbonneau?”
He ran his fingers through the bristle on his head, then drummed them on the arm of the chair.
“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?”
“I just realized the Morisette-Champoux connection today. With only Adkins and Gagnon, it seemed a bit thin.”
“What does Ryan say?”
“Haven’t told him.”
Unconsciously I fingered the scab on my cheek. I still looked like I’d gone to a TKO with George Foreman.
“Shit.” He said it with little force.
“What?”
“I think I’m beginning to agree with you. Claudel’s going to bust my balls about this.” More drumming. “What else?”
“The saw marks and pattern of dismemberment are almost identical for Gagnon and Trottier.”
“Yeah. Ryan told us that.”
“And the unknown from St. Lambert.”
“A fifth?” It came out “fit.”
“You’re very quick.”
“Thanks.” Back to drumming. “Know who she is yet?”
I shook my head. “Ryan’s working on it.”
He ran a meaty hand over his face. His knuckles were covered with patches of coarse gray hair, miniature versions of the crop on his head.
“So what do you think about victim selection?”
I gave a palm up gesture. “They’re all female.”
“Great. Ages?”
“Sixteen to forty-seven.”
“Physicals?”
“A mix.”
“Locations?”
“All over the map.”
“So what’s the sicko bastard go for? The way they look? The boots they wear? The place they shop?”
I replied with silence.
“You find anything common to all five?”
“Some sonofabitch beat the crap out of them, then killed them.”
“Right.” Tilting forward, he placed his hands on his knees, hunched and lowered his shoulders, and gave a deep sigh. “Claudel’s going to shit flaming bullets.”
When he’d gone I called Ryan. Neither he nor Bertrand was in, so I left a message. I went through the other dossiers, but found little of interest. Two drug dealers blasted and sawed up by former friends in crime. A man killed by his nephew, dismembered with a power saw, then stored in the basement freezer. A power failure had brought him to the attention of the rest of the family. A female torso washed up in a hockey bag, with head and arms found downriver. The husband was convicted.
I closed the last file and realized I was starving—1:50 P.M. No wonder. I bought a ham and cheese croissant and a Diet Coke in the cafeteria on the eighth floor, and returned to my office, ordering myself to take a break. Ignoring the order, I tried Ryan again. Still out. A break it would be. I bit the sandwich and allowed my thoughts to meander. Gabby. Nope. Out of bounds. Claudel. Veto. St. Jacques. Off limits.
Katy. How could I get through to her? Right now, no way. By