by Kathy Reichs
Deputy Chief Denise Salter kept her eyes level on mine. They were brown, darker than her caramel skin, lighter than the black hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her shirt was eye-scorching white, the creases on its long sleeves sharp enough to perform microsurgery. Black tie, black pants, black patent-leather shoes gleaming like marble.
Salter had rescheduled another meeting to make time for us. She was listening, her expression neither kind nor unkind.
“Over the same seven-year period, at least two others girls have disappeared in North Carolina. Avery Koseluk from Kannapolis in 2011. Colleen Donovan from Charlotte in late 2013 or early 2014.”
Barrow placed five photos on the desk facing Salter. She slipped reading glasses onto her nose and scanned the lineup. Then looked pointedly at me.
I went on, “Koseluk was thought to be a noncustodial-parent abduction, Donovan a runaway. Both remain open MP files.”
“Cut to the chase.” Behind the lenses, Salter’s eyes looked E.T. huge.
“Identical DNA was found on Gower and Nance.”
Barrow added the age-progressed pic of Pomerleau to the blotter. Salter picked it up and studied the face. “Hers?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where’d you get the hit?”
“The NDDB, the Canadian equivalent of CODIS.”
If that surprised Salter, she hid it well.
“Who is she?”
“A Canadian national named Anique Pomerleau. She and an accomplice, Neal Wesley Catts, aka Stephen Menard, are wanted for the deaths of at least three individuals. Their MO was to imprison, torture, and rape young women. Angela Robinson, Menard’s first victim, was kidnapped in Corning, California, in 1985. Marie-Joëlle Bastien and Manon Violette were taken in Montreal in 1994. All three died in captivity.”
“You know this because?”
“I identified their remains.”
“Go on.”
“In 2004, Pomerleau slipped the net just as the Montreal cops closed in. She’s been in the wind ever since. Until now.”
“And Menard?”
“She either killed him or he killed himself just before she disappeared.”
“You think Pomerleau is now murdering kids on my turf?”
“No.”
Salter’s brows floated up in question.
“Two days ago I assisted at Pomerleau’s autopsy.”
I summarized my trip to Montreal and St. Johnsbury. Ryan. The interviews with the Kezerians, Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes.
I described the Corneau property, the barrel, the autopsy. The furnace mechanic who’d seen a second person present at the farm.
“You think Pomerleau and an accomplice killed Nellie Gower. Then, a year and a half later, the pair came here and killed Lizzie Nance.”
“We do.”
Barrow and I exchanged glances. He nodded. “And we believe there were others,” I added.
A flick of Salter’s wrist told me to continue.
“A skeleton was discovered in Belmont in 2010. I determined that the bones were those of a twelve- to fourteen-year-old female, probably fully clothed when her body was dumped.”
“Probably?”
“The remains had been scavenged by animals.”
Salter tossed her glasses to the blotter and leaned back into her chair.
“During Shelly Leal’s autopsy, Larabee pulled hair from her throat,” I said.
“The child just discovered under the I-485 overpass.”
I nodded. “DNA sequencing says at least one of those hairs came from Anique Pomerleau.”
“That’s big.”
“But puzzling. Circumstantial evidence suggests Pomerleau died in 2009.”
“Explanation?”
“The hairs could have transferred from Pomerleau to her accomplice,” Barrow said. “Maybe via a shared article of clothing. Or his ritual could include wearing something Pomerleau wore.”
“Larabee also found a lip print on Leal’s jacket,” I said. “It contained DNA. Amelogenin testing indicated the DNA came from a male.”
“I’m guessing lip boy is not in the system.”
“No.”
Silence filled the room for a very long moment. Salter broke it. “Let me get this straight. Pomerleau and a male accomplice operated out of a farm in Vermont until 2009.”
“Yes.”
“Was anything found to suggest kids were held there? A soundproof room? Handcuffs bolted to a wall?”
“No.”
“Uh-huh.” Neutral. “This mysterious accomplice eventually kills Pomerleau and stashes her body in a barrel of syrup.”
“Yes.”
“Motive?”
“We have none.”
“He then moves south. Does Nance, Estrada, maybe Koseluk, Donovan, and the kid found near Belmont. Now Leal.”
“Yes.”
“Why shift his blood sport here?”
I described the Health Science article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.
“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”
“Why?”
“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”
Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.
“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.
I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.
“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.
“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”
“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”
“So it appears.”
“And the intervals are decreasing.”
“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”
I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”
“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.
“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.
“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”
“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”
“Not exactly.”
Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”
CHAPTER 27
THE WEATHER HAD turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.
Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.
The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.
I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.
Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.
As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.
“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.
Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.
“So who did?”
The cat rendered no opinion.
“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”
I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.
“Donovan’s killer, that’s who. It’s classic felon behavior. Like returning to a crime scene.”
Bird and I looked at each other, thoughts definitely not on the same page.
My mobile rang.
�
��Your flight went well?” Ryan sounded as exhausted as I felt.
“I can’t remember that far back.”
“I’m beat, too.”
“Any progress?” I offered Bird another scrap of fowl. He repeated his pat-and-snatch maneuver.
“None. Where are you?”
“Home. I spent the day with Slidell.”
“And?”
“He often addressed me in an ill-mannered fashion.”
“Any breaks?”
“Maybe.”
I described the visit with Lonergan and the meeting with Salter. Explained Tasat’s notation and Lonergan’s denial about making the call. “Slidell’s convinced there’s nothing to it.”
“Has he agreed to subpoena the phone records?”
“Grudgingly. Says it could take weeks. Meanwhile, we—” A bottle rocket exploded in my head. “Shit!”
“What?”
“How did I miss it? I must be totally brain-dead.”
“Earth to Brennan.”
“Tia Estrada.”
“The kid from Salisbury.”
“I was distracted by Slidell and Tinker sniping at each other.”
“Stay on point.”
“According to the case log, a journalist called six months after Estrada went missing.”
“And?”
“I’m almost certain that was the last entry in the chronology. And the file contained no news clipping dating to 2013.”
“You’re thinking that call might also be bogus?”
“It’s identical to Donovan. Someone calls six months after the child vanishes. Maybe it was the same person who phoned for info on Donovan. If so, there’s a pattern. Something linking the cases.”
“Worth some following through.”
Suddenly, I was on fire to hang up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Slow down.”
“Slow down?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Jesus, Ryan. You sound like Slidell.”
There was a long empty pause on the line. Then he asked, “Anson County, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you remember who caught the case?”
“Cock.”
“Very helpful.” Actually, it was. “Henrietta something, right?”
“I think so.”
“And I thought of something else. We need to compare pics of the Gower, Nance, and Leal scenes. See if any gawker makes a repeat appearance.”
“No one’s done that?”
“Not that I know of.”
I disconnected, my weariness dispelled by the prospect of a big bang.
After clearing the table, I grabbed my purse and jacket, and bolted.
The second floor of the LEC was quiet. I went straight to the conference room and spread the Estrada file on the table.
The last article ran in the Salisbury Post on December 27, 2012, roughly three weeks after Tia was found. At least that was the last one saved.
The story was little more than a summary of facts. The child’s disappearance. The discovery of the body four days later, near the Pee Dee National Wildlife Refuge. The mother’s deportation to Mexico. It ended with an appeal to the public for further information. There was no byline credit.
I got online and Googled the Salisbury Post. A woman named Latoya Ring seemed to be covering a lot of the crime beat. A link provided her email address. I composed a brief message, explaining my interest in the Estrada case and asking that she call me.
Setting aside the Post clipping, I reread the entire file. Every few minutes checking my iPhone. When finished, I’d learned nothing.
But I had the name I needed. Henrietta Hull, Anson County Sheriff’s Office.
My head was pounding from struggling over lousy handwriting and blurry text. And the fatigue was back double-time.
I closed my eyes and rubbed circles on my temples. Call Hull? Or wait to hear from Ring?
It was after nine on a Friday. Unless Hull was working the night shift, she was probably home enjoying a beer. Maybe at church or bowling with her kids. Better to talk to Ring first. If she or a colleague had phoned about Estrada, end of story.
Screw it.
I dialed.
“Anson County Sheriff’s Office. Is this an emergency?”
“No. I—”
“Hold, please.” I held.
“All right, ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan.”
“The purpose of your call?”
“I’d like to speak to Deputy Hull.”
“All right, can I tell her what it’s about?”
“The Tia Estrada homicide.”
“Okay. May I ask for specifics?”
“No.”
A slight hesitation. Then, “Hold, please.”
I held. Longer than before.
Things clicked.
“Deputy Hull.” The voice was guarded. Husky but softer than I’d expected. Perhaps a bias on my part due to the nickname.
I explained who I was and my reason for contacting her.
“Suddenly, everyone’s interested.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Two years go by, nothing. Then three queries in a week.” I could hear dialogue in the background, the cadence of a sitcom laugh track.
“You’ve spoken to Detectives Ryan and Slidell.”
“Slidell. He’s a pip.”
“Did he mention Colleen Donovan?”
“No.”
“Donovan was reported missing in Charlotte last February. We suspect her case may be linked to that of Tia Estrada.”
“Who did you say you’re with?”
“The medical examiner. And the CMPD cold case unit.”
“Okay.”
“Six months after Colleen Donovan vanished, an aunt phoned asking for an update. Donovan’s only aunt denies making that call. Six months after Estrada was abducted, a journalist contacted your office. We’re wondering if that call was also a sham.”
“Who’s the journalist?”
“The notation is handwritten, one line that provides no name or number. And there’s no clipping in the file.”
“I’m not surprised. Estrada was killed on Bellamy’s watch, and he already had one flip-flop out the door. I inherited the case when he retired to Boca.”
“I’ve left a message for Latoya Ring. Do you know her?”
“Ring is solid.”
“This might turn out to be nothing. Donovan’s aunt is a tweaker and pretty wasted. But if no one at the Post made the call, do you think you can find and trace the number?”
Twice, canned laughter cued me that something was funny. Finally, “Done. Now tell me what you know.”
I did. Along the way remembered another loose end. “According to the autopsy report, the local ME found hair in Estrada’s throat. Do you know if that hair was tested for DNA?”
“I’ll check.”
“If not, find out what happened to it.”
“Will do.”
A long silence came down from Wadesboro.
“Thanks, Dr. Brennan. This kid deserves better.”
“Tempe,” I said. “I’ll call if I hear back from Ring.”
“You’ll hear back.”
I spent another hour going over photos from the Gower, Nance, Estrada, and Leal scenes. Scrutinizing faces with a handheld magnifier. Comparing features, body shapes, clothing, silhouettes. It was no good. The vessels in my head were trying to blast through my skull. Someone with superior skills and equipment would have to do it.
At ten I packed up and headed home. I’d just pulled in at the annex when my mobile launched into “Joy to the World.” I’d switched the ringtone to try to be festive.
The number was blocked. I hesitated a moment, then clicked on. “Brennan.” Shifting into park.
“It’s Latoya Ring. I’ve just spoken with Hen Hull.”
“Thanks for returning my call.”
“No one here at the Post phoned the sheriff.”
> I felt an electric shock fire through my body. “You’re certain?”
“We’re not The New York Times. Only two of us cover the crime beat. He didn’t call, I didn’t call.”
Across the yard, something rippled the tangle of shadows thrown by an enormous magnolia. A dog? A late-night walker? Or did I imagine it?
“And I phoned my editor just to make sure,” Ring continued. “A move that will not contribute to my being named employee of the month. He green-lighted no follow-up on Estrada.”
“You’re certain of that?” Straining to see through the dark.
“The assignment would have fallen to me. I’d asked several times. Was repeatedly told no.”
“Why?”
“There was no point. The cops had zip—no suspects, no leads. The mother wasn’t even in the country by then.”
Tia Estrada wasn’t a blue-eyed darling with Shirley Temple curls.
“Thanks for jumping on this,” I said.
There. Was that movement just past the coach house? A deer?
“The whole thing stinks.”
I waited for Ring to elaborate.
“Some bastard murdered this kid. Then the system let her fall through the cracks.”
“We’ll get him,” I said, squinting into the thick vegetation surrounding my car.
“Take care.”
I sat a moment, mildly uneasy. Then got out and scurried to the annex.
I was in bed in seconds.
Unconscious in minutes.
Unaware of what I’d set in motion.
CHAPTER 28
THAT WEEKEND IT rained in Charlotte, not hard but constantly. At times a mist, at times ramping up to a halfhearted drizzle. A cold dampness saturated the air, and water dripped from the eaves and off the broad green leaves of the magnolias outside.
On Saturday, Mary Louise dropped by to see Birdie. That day’s hat was a striped bucket affair with a tassel on top.
Maybe I was lonely for Ryan. Maybe just lonely. Or maybe I was avoiding a stack of reports that needed my attention. Hell, maybe it was the weather. I surprised myself by asking Mary Louise to stay for lunch.
After gaining parental clearance, we made and ate ham and cheese sandwiches. Then we baked cookies and decorated them with M&M’s. Mary Louise talked about her desire for a dog. Her problems with math. Her love of Katniss. Her goal of becoming a fashion designer. The kid was good company.