Kingdom of the Blind (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #14) - Louise Penny Page 0,118
asked the man at the other end. “Arnold Gamache?”
“Armand. Oui.”
“My name is Dr. Harper. I’m one of the coroners in Montréal. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”
Gamache felt light-headed. Physically sick.
Annie? He thought. Honoré? Had there been an accident?
He stood straight but put out his hand to steady himself against the desk. Preparing for the blow.
“Go on.”
“We found your name and phone number on a body that was just brought in. There was no other identification.”
“Go on,” said Armand. He felt his extremities going cold and tingling. He wondered if he might pass out.
“Male. Over six feet. Slender. Emaciated, really. Dressed in women’s clothing.”
Armand sat down and closed his eyes, lifting a trembling hand to his forehead. He exhaled.
Not Annie. Not Honoré.
“Seems to be a pre-op transsexual,” the coroner was saying. “He had your name on a piece of paper in his pocket.”
“She,” said Gamache, sighing.
“Sorry?”
“She. Does she have on a pink coat? Frilly?”
“Not anymore. No coat. No boots, no gloves. He—”
“She.”
“She was almost stripped. Do you know her?”
“Was she the only one?” asked Gamache, realizing what this might mean. “Was there anyone else with her when she was found?”
“Another body, you mean?”
“A little girl. About six years old.”
“I don’t know, I was only given this body.”
“Well, check,” said Gamache, fighting to keep from snapping at the coroner. “Please.”
Normally the coroner, new to the job, wouldn’t have taken orders from a stranger on the phone, but this man spoke with such authority he found himself saying, “Just a moment.”
And going to check.
Gamache was put on hold. He got to his feet and paced as he waited. And waited. Finally Dr. Harper came back on.
“No. No little girl. Not in the morgue at least. Are you that Gamache? Head of the Sûreté?”
“I am.”
“Do you know who this body is?”
“I think I do, but I’d have to see her. What did she die of?”
“Looks like an overdose. We’re running tests.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Yessir.”
Armand headed for the door but changed his mind, and, returning to his study, he grabbed some syringes from the locked drawer in his desk.
Then he left.
* * *
Gamache stood beside the metal autopsy table, looking over at the clothing, tagged and piled on a side table. Bright purple nylon blouse, bought because it resembled silk, he suspected. Faux-leather miniskirt. Torn fishnet stockings.
Then he turned his attention to the thin body and saw the care she’d taken, for people who wouldn’t care. Her bouffant blond wig was askew. The thick makeup, now smeared, had, that morning, been skillfully applied. Though nothing could cover the scabs and sores on her face.
In that wretched place, she’d made a stab at beauty.
He looked down at the body and felt overwhelming sadness.
The coroner and the technician, on hearing the head of the Sûreté muttering what sounded like the last rites, stepped away.
More from embarrassment than respect for privacy.
Gamache crossed himself and turned to them.
“Her name’s Anita Facial,” he said. When there was the beginning of a guffaw from the technician, he stifled it with a stern look. “Not, of course, her birth name. I don’t know what that is. If you need help finding her next of kin, let me know. I’ll do what I can.”
Gamache noticed the mottled skin, the blue veins. The terror in the eyes, red from burst blood vessels. This was not a blissful death. Anita hadn’t drifted away on a cloud of ecstasy. She had been torn from this life.
“It’s carfentanil,” he said.
“What?” asked the coroner.
“It’s an analogue of fentanyl. An opioid.”
“He’s right, sir,” said the technician, who’d gone to the computer. “We just got the blood work back. He has—”
“She,” said the coroner.
“She has carfentanil in her system. Though not much.”
“Doesn’t take much,” said Gamache.
“Never heard of it,” said Dr. Harper. “You know it? A new opioid?”
“Newish,” said Gamache. “New to the streets.”
The coroner gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Goddamned drugs.”
“May I?” Gamache reached out, then asked permission before touching Anita’s arm.
Her body was marked with what looked like homemade tattoos. Hearts. Butterflies. On the back of one hand was Esprit.
Spirit.
And on the other, Espoir.
Hope.
Esprit. Espoir.
But it was her left forearm that interested him. More writing, in a different, though familiar, hand.
Not a tattoo, it was written in Magic Marker.
David.
And after the name there was a number: 2.
Dr. Harper went over to the computer and said something to the technician, who tapped on a few keys.
“Holy shit,” he said, and turned to the coroner, who studied the screen, then turned to Gamache.