Déjà Dead

by Kathy Reichs

  I printed the data from the screen, made a choice, and dialed. A man answered on the third ring. He was surprised but agreed to see me. Grabbing my purse, I fled into the summer sunshine.

  It was hot again, the air so thick with humidity you could take your finger and write your initials in it. The haze refracted the sun’s glare and spread it all around like a cloak. I drove toward the home Francine Morisette-Champoux had shared with her husband. I’d chosen her case for no other reason than proximity. She had lived just below Centre-ville, not ten minutes from my condo. If I bombed, well, I was on my way home.

  I found the address and pulled to a stop. The street was lined with brick town houses, each with its iron balcony, below-ground garage, and brightly colored door.

  Unlike most communities in Montreal, this one had no name. Urban renewal had transformed what had been part of the Canadian National yards, replacing tracks and toolsheds with residences, barbecue grills, and tomato plants. The neighborhood was neat and middle class, but suffered from an identity crisis. It was too close to the city core to be truly suburban, but just a hair outside the arc defining trendy downtown. It wasn’t old and it wasn’t new. Functional and convenient, it lacked bouquet.

  I rang the bell and waited. Fresh-cut grass and ripe garbage tinged the hot air. Two doors down a sprinkler arced water across a Chiclet-sized lawn. A central air compressor hummed to life, its sound challenging the sprinkler’s steady click.

  When he opened the door I thought of the Gerber baby grown up. His hair was blond and receding, the center patch swirling into a curl on his forehead. His cheeks and chin were round and padded, his nose short and angled upward. He was a large man, not yet gone to fat, but moving down that road. Though it was ninety degrees, he wore jeans and a sweatshirt. Calgary Stampede—1985.

  “Monsieur Champoux, I’m …”

  He pulled the door wide and stepped back, ignoring the ID I held for his inspection. I followed him down a narrow hall to a narrow living room. Fish tanks lined one wall, tinting the room an eerie aquamarine. At the far end I could see a counter stacked with small nets, boxes of food, and other fish paraphernalia. Louvered doors opened onto the kitchen. I recognized the kitchen work island and looked away.

  Monsieur Champoux cleared a spot on the sofa and indicated I should sit. He dropped into a recliner.

  “Monsieur Champoux,” I began again, “I’m Dr. Brennan from the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale.”

  I left it at that, hoping to avoid further explanations about my precise role in the investigation. I didn’t really have any.

  “Have you found something? I … It’s been so long I don’t let myself think about it anymore.” He spoke to the parquet floor. “It’s been a year and a half since Francine died, and I haven’t heard from you people in over a year.”

  I wondered where he thought I fit in with “you people.”

  “I answered so many questions, talked to so many people. The coroner. The cops. The press. I even hired my own investigator. I really wanted to nail this guy. Didn’t do any good. They never found a clue. We can pinpoint the time he killed her to within an hour, you know. The coroner said she was still warm. This maniac kills my wife, walks out, and disappears without a trace.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Have you finally got something?”

  His eyes held a mixture of anguish and hope. Guilt sliced to my core.

  “No, Monsieur Champoux, not really.” Except four other women may have been killed by the same animal. “I just want to go over a few details, see if there’s anything we overlooked.”

  The hope vanished and resignation surfaced. He leaned back in his chair and waited.

  “Your wife was a nutritionist?”

  He nodded.

  “Where did she work?”

  “All over, really. She was paid by the MAS, but on any given day she could have been anywhere.”

  “The MAS?”

  “Ministère des Affaires Sociales.”

  “She moved around?”

  “Her job was to advise food cooperatives, immigrant groups mostly, about how to buy stuff. She’d help them form these collective kitchens, then teach them how to make whatever it is they like to eat so it would be cheap, but still healthy. She’d help them get produce and meat and things. Usually in bulk. She was always visiting the kitchens to be sure they were running okay.”

  “Where were these collectives?”

  “All over the place. Parc Extension. Côte des Neiges. St. Henri. Little Burgundy.”

  “How long had she been working for the MAS?”

  “Maybe six, seven years. Before that she worked at the Montreal General. Had much better hours.”

  “Did she enjoy her work?”

  “Oh yeah. She loved it.” The words caught briefly in his throat.

  “Were her hours irregular?”

  “No, they were regular. She worked all the time. Mornings. Evenings. Weekends. There was always a problem and Francine was the one to fix it.” His jaw muscles clenched and unclenched.

  “Had you and your wife disagreed about her work?”

  He fell silent for a moment. Then, “I wanted to see more of her. I wished she was still at the hospital.”

  “What do you do, Monsieur Champoux?”

  “I’m an engineer. I build things. Only no one wants much built these days.” He gave a mirthless smile and tipped his head to one side. “I was downsized.” He used the English phrase.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know where your wife was going the day she was killed?”

  He shook his head. “We’d hardly seen each other that week. There was a fire in one of her kitchens and she’d been there day and night. She may have been going back there, or she may have been heading for another one. She didn’t keep any kind of journal or log that I know of. They never found one in her office and I never saw one here. She’d been talking about getting her hair cut. Hell, she may have been going to do that.”

  He looked at me, his eyes tortured.

  “Do you know what that feels like? I don’t even know what my wife was planning to do on the day she died.”

  The circulating water of the tanks murmured softly in the background.

  “Had she spoken about anything unusual? Odd phone calls? A stranger at the door?” I thought of Gabby. “Someone on the street?”

  Another head shake.

  “Would she have?”

  “Probably, if we’d spoken. We really hadn’t had time those last few days.”

  I tried a new tack.

  “It was January. Cold. The doors and windows would have been closed. Was your wife in the habit of keeping them locked?”

  “Yes. She never liked living here, didn’t like being right on the street. I talked her into buying this place, but she preferred high-rise buildings with security systems or guards. We get some pretty seedy characters down here, and she was always on edge. That’s why we were leaving. She liked the extra space, and the little yard out back, but she never really got used to being here. Her work took her to some rough areas, and when she came home she wanted to feel safe. Untouchable. That’s what she said. Untouchable. You know?”

  Yes. Oh yes.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife, Monsieur Champoux?”

  He breathed deeply, exhaled. “She got killed on a Thursday. She’d worked late the night before, because of the fire, so I’d already gone to bed when she got home.”

  He dropped his head and talked again to the parquet. A patch of tiny vessels colored each of his cheeks.

  “She came to bed full of her day, trying to tell me where she’d been and what she’d been doing. I didn’t want to hear it.”

  I saw his chest rise and fall under the sweatshirt.

  “The next day I got up early and left. Didn’t even say good-bye.”

  We were quiet a moment.

  “That’s what I did and there’s no way out. I don’t get another shot.” He raised his eyes and stared into th
e turquoise of the tanks. “I resented her working when I couldn’t, so I froze her out. Now I live with it.”

  Before I could think of a response he turned to me, his face taut, his voice harder than it had been.

  “I went to see my brother-in-law. He had some job leads for me. I was there all morning, then I fou—Then I came back here around noon. She was already dead. They checked all that out.”

  “Monsieur Champoux, I’m not suggesting y—”

  “I don’t see that this is going anywhere. We’re just rehashing old words.”

  He rose. I was being dismissed.

  “I’m sorry to bring up painful memories.”

  He regarded me without comment, then moved toward the hall. I followed.

  “Thanks for your time, Monsieur Champoux.” I handed him my card. “If there’s anything you think of later, please give me a call.”

  He nodded. His face had the numbed look of a person swept into a calamity who can’t forget that his last words and last acts toward the wife he loved were petty and far from a proper good-bye. Is there ever a proper good-bye?

  As I left I could feel his eyes on my back. Through the heat I felt cold inside. I hurried to my car.

  The interview with Champoux left me shaken. As I drove toward home, I asked myself a thousand questions.

  What right had I to dredge up this man’s pain?

  I pictured Champoux’s eyes.

  Such sorrow. Brought on by my forced reminders?

  No. I wasn’t the architect of his house of regret. Champoux was a man living with remorse of his own construction.

  Remorse for what? For harming his wife?

  No. That was not his character.

  Remorse for ignoring her. For leaving her thinking she was not important. Simple as that. On the eve of her death, he rejected conversation, turned his back and went to sleep. He didn’t say good-bye in the morning. Now he never would.

  I turned north onto St. Marc, passing into the shadow of the overpass. Would my inquiries do anything but drag memories to the surface where they would again cause pain?

  Could I really help where an army of professionals had failed, or was I just on a personal quest to show up Claudel?

  “No!”

  I banged the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.

  No, dammit, I thought to myself. That is not my goal. No one but me is convinced that there is a single killer and that he will kill again. If I am to prevent more deaths, I have to dig up more facts.

  I emerged from shadow into sunlight. Instead of turning east, toward home, I crossed Ste. Catherine, doubled back on Rue du Fort, and merged onto the 20 West. Locals called it the 2 and 20, but I’d yet to find anyone who could explain or locate the 2.

  I edged out of the city, drumming my impatience on the steering wheel. It was three-thirty and traffic was already backed up at the Turcot Interchange. Bad timing.

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later I found Geneviève Trottier weeding tomatoes behind the faded green house she had shared with her daughter. She looked up when I pulled onto the drive, and watched me cross the lawn.

  “Oui?” Friendly, sitting back on her heels, squinting up at me.

  She wore bright yellow shorts and a halter too big for her small breasts. Sweat glistened on her body and curled her hair tightly around her face. She was younger than I’d expected.

  When I explained who I was and why I was there, the friendliness turned somber. She hesitated, put down her trowel, then rose, brushing dirt from her hands. The smell of tomatoes hung heavy around us.

  “We’d better go inside,” she said, dropping her eyes. Like Champoux she didn’t question my right to ask.

  She started across the yard and I followed, hating the conversation about to ensue. The knotted halter hung loose across the knobs on her spine. Blades of grass stuck to the backs of her legs and rode the tops of her feet.

  Her kitchen gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, its porcelain and wood surfaces testimony to years of care. Potted kalanchoe lined the windows, framed by yellow gingham. Yellow knobs dotted the cabinets and drawers.

  “I’ve made some lemonade,” she said, her hands already moving to the task. Comfort in the familiar.

  “Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

  I sat at a scrubbed wooden table and watched her twist ice cubes from a plastic tray, drop them into glasses, and add the lemonade. She brought the drinks and slid in across from me, her eyes avoiding mine.

  “It’s hard for me to talk about Chantale,” she said, studying her lemonade.

  “I understand, and I am so sorry for your loss. How are you doing?”

  “Some days it’s easier than others.”

  She folded her hands and tensed, her thin shoulders rising under the halter.

  “Have you come to tell me something?”

  “I’m afraid not, Madame Trottier. And I don’t really have any specific questions for you. I thought there might be something you’ve remembered, perhaps something you didn’t think important earlier?”

  Her eyes stayed on the lemonade. A dog barked outside.

  “Has anything occurred to you since you last spoke with the detectives? Any detail about the day Chantale disappeared?”

  No response. The air in the kitchen was hot and dense with humidity. It smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant.

  “I know this is awful for you, but if we’re to have any hope of finding your daughter’s killer, we still need your help. Is there anything that’s been bothering you? Anything you’ve been thinking about?”

  “We fought.”

  Again. The guilt of nonclosure. The wish to take back words and substitute others.

  “She wouldn’t eat. She thought she was getting fat.”

  I knew all this from the report.

  “She wasn’t fat. You should have seen her. She was beautiful. She was only sixteen.” Her eyes finally met mine. A single tear spilled over each lower lid, and trickled down each cheek. “Like the English song.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, gently as I could. Through the screened window I could smell sun on geraniums. “Was Chantale unhappy about anything?”

  Her fingers tightened around her glass.

  “That’s what’s so hard. She was such an easy child. Always happy. Always full of life, bubbling with plans. Even my divorce didn’t seem to upset her. She took it in stride and never missed a step.”

  Truth or retrospective fantasy? I remembered the Trottiers had divorced when Chantale was nine. Her father was living somewhere in the city.

  “Can you tell me anything about those last few weeks? Had Chantale altered her routine in any way? Had any odd calls? Made any new friends?”

  Her head moved slowly in continuous negation. No.

  “Did she have trouble making friends?”

  No.

  “Were you uneasy about any of her friends?”

  No.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  No.

  “Did she date?”

  No.

  “Did she have problems at school?”

  No.

  Poor interrogation technique. Need to get the witness to do the talking instead of me.

  “What about that day? The day Chantale disappeared?”

  She looked at me, her eyes unreadable.

  “Can you tell me what took place that day?”

  She took a sip of lemonade, swallowed deliberately, set the glass back on the table. Deliberately.

  “We got up around six. I made breakfast.” She clutched the glass so tightly I feared it would shatter. “Chantale left for school. She and her friends rode the train since the school is in Centre-ville. They say she went to all her classes. And then she …”

  A breeze teased the gingham off the window frame.

  “She never came home.”

  “Did she have any special plans that day?”

  “No.”

  “Did she normally come right home
after classes?”

  “Usually.”

  “Did you expect her home that day?”

  “No. She was going to see her father.”

  “Did she do that often?”

  “Yes. Why do I have to keep answering these questions? It’s useless. I’ve told all this to the detectives. Why do I have to keep repeating the same things over and over? It doesn’t do any good. It didn’t then, it won’t now.”

  Her eyes fixed on mine, the pain almost palpable.

  “You know what? All the time I was filling out missing persons forms and answering questions, Chantale was already dead. She was lying in pieces in a dump. Already dead.”

  She dropped her head and the thin shoulders shuddered. She was right. We had nothing. I was fishing. She was learning to bury the pain, to plant tomatoes and live, and I’d ambushed her and forced an exhumation.

  Be kind. Get out.

  “It’s all right, Madame Trottier. If you can’t remember further details, they are probably not important.”

  I left my card and standard request. Call if you think of anything. I doubted she would.

  • • •

  Gabby’s door was closed when I got home, her room quiet. I thought of looking in, resisted. She could be so touchy about her privacy. I got into bed and tried to read, but Geneviève Trottier’s words kept jamming my mind. Déjà mort. Already dead. Champoux had used the same phrase. Yes. Déjà dead. Five. That was the chilling truth. Like Champoux and Trottier, I too had thoughts that would not lie quiet in my mind.

  I WOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE MORNING NEWS. JULY 5. I’D SLIPPED through Independence Day and not even noticed. No apple pie. No “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Not a single sparkler. Somehow the thought depressed me. Every American anywhere on the globe should stand up and strut on the Fourth. I had allowed myself to become a Canadian spectator of American culture. I made plans to go to the ball park at the next opportunity and cheer for whichever American team was in town.

  I showered, made coffee and toast, and scanned the Gazette. Endless talk of separation. What would happen to the economy? To aboriginals? To English speakers? The want ads embodied the fear. Everyone selling, no one buying. Maybe I should go home. What was I accomplishing here?

  Brennan. Stow it. You’re surly because you have to take the car in.