“You have chosen a slightly inconvenient time, Miss . . . ?” Soft. Tennessee, maybe Georgia.
“Dr. Brennan.” I stood.
“Dr. Brennan.”
“I apologize for coming unannounced. Your secretary told me that this is your time for office hours.”
She took a long time to look me over. Her eyes were deep-set, the irises so pale they were almost without color. Jeannotte accentuated this by darkening her lashes and brows. Her hair, too, was an unnatural, dense black.
“Well,” she said finally, “since you are here. What is it you are seeking?” She remained motionless in the doorway. Daisy Jeannotte was one of those people who possess an air of total calm.
I explained about Sister Julienne, and about my interest in Élisabeth Nicolet, without revealing the reasons for my interest.
Jeannotte thought a moment, then shifted her gaze to the teaching assistant. Without a word the young woman laid down the journals and hurried from the office.
“You’ll have to excuse my assistant. She’s very high-strung.” She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “But she is an excellent student.”
Jeannotte moved to a chair opposite me. We both sat.
“This time of the afternoon I normally reserve for students, but today there seem to be none. Would you like some tea?” Her voice had a honeyed quality, like the country club ladies back home.
“No, thank you. I’ve just had lunch.”
“You are a medical examiner?”
“Not exactly. I’m a forensic anthropologist, on the faculty at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. I consult to the coroner here.”
“Charlotte is a lovely city. I’ve visited there often.”
“Thank you. Our campus is quite different from McGill, very modern. I envy you this beautiful office.”
“Yes. It is charming. Birks dates to 1931 and was originally called Divinity Hall. The building belonged to the Joint Theological Colleges until McGill acquired it in 1948. Did you know that the School of Divinity is one of the oldest faculties at McGill?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Of course, today we call ourselves the Faculty of Religious Studies. So, you are interested in the Nicolet family.” She crossed her ankles and settled back. I found the lack of color in her eyes unsettling.
“Yes. I’d particularly like to know where Élisabeth was born and what her parents were doing at the time. Sister Julienne has been unable to locate a birth certificate, but she’s certain the birth was in Montreal. She felt you might be able to lead me to some references.”
“Sister Julienne.” She laughed again, a sound like water running over rocks. Then her face sobered. “There’s been a great deal written about and by members of the Nicolet and Bélanger families. Our own library has a rich archive of historic documents. I’m sure you will find many things there. You could also try the Archives of the Province of Quebec, the Canadian Historical Society, and the Public Archives of Canada.” The soft, Southern tones assumed an almost mechanical quality. I was a sophomore on a research project.
“You could check journals such as the Report of the Canadian Historical Society, the Canadian Annual Review, the Canadian Archives Report, the Canadian Historical Review, the Transactions of the Quebec Literary and Historical Society, the Report of the Archives of the Province of Quebec, or the Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada.” She sounded like a tape. “And, of course, there are hundreds of books. I myself know very little about that period in history. ”
My face must have reflected my thoughts.
“Don’t look so daunted. It just takes time.”
I’d never find enough hours to wade through that volume of material. I decided to try another tack.
“Are you familiar with the circumstances surrounding Élisabeth’s birth?”
“Not really. As I said, that’s not a period for which I’ve done research. I do know who she is, of course, and of her work during the smallpox epidemic of 1885.” She paused a moment, choosing her words carefully. “My work has focused on messianic movements and new belief systems, not on the traditional ecclesiastical religions.”
“In Quebec?”
“Not exclusively.” She circled back to the Nicolets. “The family was well known in its day, so you might find it more interesting to go through old newspaper stories. There were four English language dailies back then, the Gazette, Star, Herald, and Witness.”
“Those would be in the library?”
“Yes. And, of course, there was the French press, La Minerve, Le Monde, La Patrie, L’Etendard, and La Presse. The French papers were a bit less prosperous and somewhat thinner than the English, but I believe they all carried birth announcements.”
I hadn’t thought of press accounts. Somehow that seemed more manageable.
She explained where the newspapers were stored on microfilm, and promised to draw up a list of sources for me. For a while we spoke of other things. I sated her curiosity about my job. We compared experiences, two female professors in the male-dominated world of the university. Before long a student appeared in the doorway. Jeannotte tapped her watch and held up five fingers, and the young woman disappeared.
We both stood at the same time. I thanked her, slipped on my jacket, hat, and scarf. I was halfway through the door when she stopped me with a question.
“Do you have a religion, Dr. Brennan?”
“I was raised Roman Catholic, but currently I don’t belong to a church.”
The ghostly eyes looked into mine.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”
After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Bélanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.
It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.
The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.
During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.
I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.
I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.
The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.
“Brennan, if you’re there, pick up. This is important.” Pause. “There’s been a development in the St-Jovite case.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “When we tossed the outbuildings we found four more bodies behind a stairway.” I could hear him pull smoke deep i
nto his lungs, release it slowly. “Two adults and two babies. They’re not burned, but it’s grisly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to go into details, but we’ve got a whole new ball game, and it’s a shitpot. See you tomorrow.”
7
RYAN WASN’T ALONE IN HIS REVULSION. I HAVE SEEN ABUSED AND starved children. I have seen them after they were beaten, raped, smothered, shaken to death, but I had never seen anything like what had been done to the babies found in St-Jovite.
Others had received calls the night before. When I arrived at eight-fifteen several press vans had taken up stations outside the SQ building, windows fogged, exhaust billowing from tailpipes.
Although the workday normally begins at eight-thirty, activity already filled the large autopsy room. Bertrand was there, along with several other SQ detectives and a photographer from SIJ, La Section d’Identité Judiciare. Ryan hadn’t arrived.
The external exam was under way, and a series of Polaroids lay on the corner desk. The body had been taken to X-ray, and LaManche was scribbling notes when I entered. He stopped and looked up.
“Temperance, I am glad to see you. I may need help in establishing the age of the infants.”
I nodded.
“And there may be an unusual”—he searched for a word, his long, basset face tense—“. . . tool involved.”
I nodded and went to change into scrubs. Ryan smiled and gave a small salute as I passed him in the corridor. His eyes were teary, his nose and cheeks cherry red, as though he’d walked some distance in the cold.
In the locker room I steeled myself for what was to come. A pair of murdered babies was horror enough. What did LaManche mean by an unusual tool?
Cases involving children are always difficult for me. When my daughter was young, after each child murder I’d fight an urge to tether Katy to me to keep her in sight.
Katy is grown now, but I still dread images of dead children. Of all victims, they are the most vulnerable, the most trusting, and the most innocent. I ache each time one arrives in the morgue. The stark truth of fallen humanity stares at me. And pity provides small comfort.
I returned to the autopsy room, thinking I was prepared to proceed. Then I saw the small body lying on the stainless steel.
A doll. That was my first impression. A life-size latex baby that had grayed with age. I’d had one as a child, a newborn that was pink and smelled rubbery sweet. I fed her through a small, round hole between her lips, and changed her diaper when the water flowed through.
But this was no toy. The baby lay on its belly, arms at its sides, fingers curled into the tiny palms. The buttocks were flattened, and bands of white crisscrossed the purple livor of the back. A cap of fine red down covered the little head. The infant was naked save for a bracelet of miniature blocks circling the right wrist. I could see two wounds near the left shoulder blade.
A sleeper lay on the adjacent table, blue and red trucks smiling from the flannel. Spread next to it were a soiled diaper, a cotton undershirt with crotch snaps, a long-sleeved sweater, and a pair of white socks. Everything was bloodstained.
LaManche spoke into a recorder.
“Bébé de race blanche, bien développé et bien nourri. . . .”
Well developed and well nourished but dead, I thought, the outrage beginning to build.
“Le corps est bien préservé, avec une légère macération épidermique. . . .”
I stared at the small cadaver. Yes, it was well preserved, with only slight skin slippage on the hands.
“Guess he won’t have to check for defense wounds.”
Bertrand had come up beside me. I didn’t respond. I was not in the mood for morgue humor.
“There’s another one in the cooler,” he continued.
“That’s what we’d been told,” I said crisply.
“Yeah, but, Christ. They’re babies.”
I met his eyes and felt a stab of guilt. Bertrand was not trying to be funny. He looked as if his own child had died.
“Babies. Someone wasted them and stashed them in a basement. That’s about as cold as a drive-by. Worse. The bastard probably knew these kids.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Makes sense. Two kids, two adults who are probably the parents. Someone wiped out the whole family.”
“And burned the house as a cover?”
“Possible.”
“Could be a stranger.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Wait. You’ll see.” He refocused on the autopsy proceeding, hands clutched tightly behind his back.
LaManche stopped dictating and spoke to the autopsy technician. Lisa took a tape from the counter and stretched it the length of the baby’s body.
“Cinquante-huit centimètres.” Fifty-eight centimeters.
Ryan observed from across the room, arms crossed, right thumb grating the tweed on his left bicep. Now and then I saw his jaw tense and his Adam’s apple rise and fall.
Lisa wrapped the tape around the baby’s head, chest, and abdomen, calling out after each measurement. Then she lifted the body and laid it in a hanging scale. Normally the device is used to weigh individual organs. The basket swung slightly and she placed a hand to steady it. The image was heartrending. A lifeless child in a stainless steel cradle.
“Six kilos.”
The baby had died weighing only six kilos. Thirteen pounds.
LaManche recorded the weight, and Lisa removed the tiny corpse and placed it on the autopsy table. When she stepped back my breath froze in my throat. I looked at Bertrand, but his eyes were now fixed on his shoes.
The body had been a little boy. He lay on his back, legs and feet splayed sharply at the joints. His eyes were wide and button round, the irises clouded to a smoky gray. His head had rolled to the side, and one fat cheek rested against his left collarbone.
Directly below the cheek I saw a hole in the chest approximately the size of my fist. The wound had jagged edges, and a deep purple collar circled its perimeter. A star burst of slits, each measuring one to two centimeters in length, surrounded the cavity. Some were deep, others superficial. In places one slit crossed another, forming L- or V-shaped patterns.
My hand flew to my own chest and I felt my stomach tighten. I turned to Bertrand, unable to form a question.
“Do you believe that?” he said dismally. “The bastard carved his heart out.”
“It’s gone?”
He nodded.
I swallowed. “The other child?”
He nodded again. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you learn that you haven’t.”
“Christ.” I felt cold all over. I hoped fervently the children were unconscious when the mutilation took place.
I looked across at Ryan. He was studying the scene on the table, his face without expression.
“What about the adults?”
Bertrand shook his head. “Looks like they were stabbed repeatedly, throats slashed, but nobody harvested their organs.”
LaManche’s voice droned on, describing the external appearance of the wounds. I didn’t have to listen. I knew what the presence of hematoma meant. Tissue will bruise only if blood is circulating. The baby had been alive when the cut was made. Babies.
I closed my eyes, fought the urge to run from the room. Get a grip, Brennan. Do your job.
I crossed to the middle table to examine the clothing. Everything was so tiny, so familiar. I looked at the sleeper with its attached footies and soft, fleecy collar and cuffs. Katy had worn a dozen of them. I remembered opening and closing the snaps to change her diaper, her fat little legs kicking like mad. What were these things called? They had a specific name. I tried to recall but my mind refused to focus. Perhaps it was protecting me, urging me to stop personalizing and get back to business before I began to weep or simply went numb.
Most of the bleeding had been while the baby lay on his left side. The right sleeve and shoulder of the sleeper were spattered, but blood had soaked the left side, darkening the flann
el to shades of dull red and brown. The undershirt and sweater were similarly stained.
“Three layers,” I said to no one in particular. “And socks.”
Bertrand crossed to the table.
“Someone took care that the child would be warm.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Bertrand agreed.
Ryan joined us as we stared at the clothing. Each garment displayed a jagged hole surrounded by a star burst of small tears, replicating the injuries on the baby’s chest. Ryan spoke first.
“The little guy was dressed.”
“Yeah,” said Bertrand. “Guess clothing didn’t interfere with his vicious little ritual.”
I said nothing.
“Temperance,” said LaManche, “please get a magnifying glass and come here. I’ve found something.”
We clustered around the pathologist, and he pointed to a small discoloration to the left and below the hole in the infant’s chest. When I handed him a glass, he bent close, studied the bruise, then returned the lens to me.
When I took my turn I was stunned. The spot did not show the disorganized mottling characteristic of a normal bruise. Under magnification I could see a distinct pattern in the baby’s flesh, a cruciate central feature with a loop at one end like an Egyptian ankh or Maltese cross. The figure was outlined by a crenulated rectangular border. I handed the glass to Ryan and looked a question at LaManche.
“Temperance, this is clearly a patterned injury of some kind. The tissue must be preserved. Dr. Bergeron is not here today, so I would appreciate your assistance.”
Marc Bergeron, odontologist to the LML, had developed a technique for lifting and fixing injuries in soft tissue. Initially he’d devised it to remove bite marks from the bodies of victims of violent sexual assault. The method had also proved useful for excising and preserving tattoos and patterned injuries on skin. I’d seen Marc do it in hundreds of cases, had assisted him in several.
I got Bergeron’s kit from a cabinet in the first autopsy room, returned to room two, and spread the equipment on a stainless steel cart. By the time I’d gloved, the photographer had finished and LaManche was ready. He nodded that I should go ahead. Ryan and Bertrand watched.
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