I measured five scoops of pink powder from a plastic bottle and placed it in a glass vial, then added 20 cc’s of a clear liquid monomer. I stirred and, within a minute, the mixture thickened until it resembled pink modeling clay. I formed the dough into a ring, and placed it on the tiny chest, completely encircling the bruise. The acrylic felt hot as I patted it into place.
To accelerate the hardening process, I placed a wet cloth over the ring, then waited. In less than ten minutes the acrylic had cooled. I reached for a tube and began squeezing a clear liquid around the edges of the ring.
“What’s that?” asked Ryan.
“Cyanoacrylate.”
“Smells like Krazy Glue.”
“It is.”
When I thought the glue was dry, I tested by tugging gently on the ring. A few more dabs, more waiting, and the ring held fast. I marked it with the date, and case and morgue numbers, and indicated top, bottom, right, and left relative to the baby’s chest.
“It’s ready,” I said, and stepped back.
LaManche used a scalpel to dissect free the skin outside the acrylic doughnut, cutting deep enough to include the underlying fatty tissue. When the ring finally came free, it held the bruised skin tightly in place, like a miniature painting stretched on a circular pink frame. LaManche slid the specimen into the jar of clear liquid that I held ready.
“What’s that?” Ryan again.
“A solution of ten percent buffered formalin. In ten to twelve hours the tissue will be fixed. The ring will ensure that there’s no distortion, so later, if we get a weapon, we’ll be able to compare it to the wound to see if the patterns match. And, of course, we’ll have the photos.”
“Why not just use the photos?”
“With this we can do transillumination if we have to.”
“Transillumination?”
I wasn’t really in the mood for a science seminar, so I kept it simple. “You can shine a light up through the tissue and see what’s going on under the skin. It often brings out details not visible on the surface.”
“What do you think made it?” Bertrand.
“I don’t know,” I said, sealing the jar and handing it to Lisa.
As I was turning away I felt a tremendous sadness, and couldn’t resist lifting the tiny hand. It felt soft and cold in my fingers. I rotated the blocks circling the wrist. M-A-T-H-I-A-S.
I’m so sorry, Mathias.
I looked up to see LaManche gazing at me. His eyes seemed to mirror the despair I was feeling. I stepped back, and he began the internal exam. He would excise and send upstairs the ends of all bones cut by the killer, but I wasn’t optimistic. Though I’d never looked for tool marks on a victim this young, I suspected that an infant’s ribs would be too tiny to retain much detail.
I stripped off my gloves and turned to Ryan as Lisa made a Y-shaped incision on the infant’s chest.
“Are the scene photos here?”
“Just the backups.”
He handed me a large brown envelope containing a set of Polaroids. I took them to the corner desk.
The first showed the largest of the outbuildings at the chalet in St-Jovite. The style was that of the main house: Alpine Tacky. The next photo was taken inside, shot from the top of a staircase looking downward. The passage was dark and narrow, with walls on both sides, wooden handrails on the walls, and junk heaped at both ends of each step.
There were several pictures of a basement taken from different angles. The room was dim, the only light coming from small rectangular windows close to the ceiling. Linoleum floor. Knotty pine walls. Washtubs. A hot water heater. More junk.
Several photos zoomed in on the water heater, then on the space between it and the wall. The niche was filled with what looked like old carpets and plastic bags. The next pictures showed these objects lined up on the linoleum, first unopened, then laid out to expose their contents.
The adults had been wrapped in large pieces of clear plastic, then rolled in rugs and stacked behind the water heater. Their bodies showed abdominal bloating and skin slippage, but were well preserved.
Ryan came and stood over me.
“The water heater must have been off,” I said, handing him the picture. “If it was running the heat would have caused more decomposition.”
“We don’t think they were using that building.”
“What was it?”
He shrugged.
I went back to the Polaroids.
The man and woman were both fully dressed, though barefoot. Their throats had been cut and blood saturated their clothing and stained the plastic shrouds. The man lay with one hand thrown back, and I could see deep slashes across his palm. Defense wounds. He had tried to save himself. Or his family.
Oh, God. I closed my eyes for a moment.
With the infants the packaging had been simpler. They were bundled in plastic, placed in garbage bags, then stuffed in above the adults.
I looked at the little hands, the dimpled knuckles. Bertrand was right. There would be no defense wounds on the babies. Grief and anger merged in my mind.
“I want this son of a bitch.” I looked up into Ryan’s eyes.
“Yeah.”
“I want you to get him, Ryan. I mean it. I want this one. Before we see another baby butchered. What good are we to anyone if we can’t stop this?”
The electric blues stared straight back. “We’ll get him, Brennan. No doubt about that.”
I spent the rest of the day riding the elevator between my office and the autopsies. It would take at least two days to complete them since LaManche was doing all four victims. This is standard procedure in multiple homicides. Using one pathologist provides coherence in a case, and ensures consistency in testimony if it goes to trial.
When I looked in at one o’clock Mathias had been rolled back to the morgue cooler and the autopsy of the second infant was under way. The scene we’d played out in the morning was taking place again. Same actors. Same setting. Same victim. Except this one wore a bracelet that spelled out M-A-L-A-C-H-Y.
By four-thirty Malachy’s belly had been closed, his tiny skullcap replaced, his face repositioned. Save for the Y-incisions and the mutilation to their chests, the babies were ready for burial. As yet we had no idea where that would be. Or by whom.
Ryan and Bertrand had also spent the day coming and going. Prints had been taken from both boys’ feet, but the smudges on hospital birth records are notoriously unreadable, and Ryan was not optimistic about a match.
The bones in the hand and wrist represent over 25 percent of those in the skeleton. An adult has twenty-seven in each hand, an infant far fewer, depending on its age. I’d examined X-rays to see which bones were present and how well they were formed. According to my estimate, Mathias and Malachy were about four months old when they were killed.
This information was released to the media, but, aside from the usual loonies, there was little response. Our best hope lay with the adult bodies in the cooler. We were sure that when the identities of the adults were established, those of the children would follow. For the present the infants remained Baby Malachy and Baby Mathias.
8
ON FRIDAY I SAW NEITHER RYAN NOR BERTRAND. LAMANCHE spent all day downstairs with the adult corpses from St-Jovite. I had the babies’ ribs soaking in glass vials in the histology lab. Any grooves or striations that might be present would be so tiny I didn’t want them damaged by boiling or scraping, and I couldn’t risk introducing nicks with a scalpel or scissors, so all I could do at that point was periodically change the water and tease off flesh.
I was glad for the temporary lull in the level of activity, and was using the time to finalize my report on Élisabeth Nicolet, which I’d promised that day. Since I had to return to Charlotte on Monday, I planned to examine the ribs over the weekend. If nothing else came up, I thought I could get everything that was pressing done before Monday. I had not counted on the call I took at ten-thirty.
“I am very, very sorry to call you
like this, Dr. Brennan.” En-glish, spoken slowly, each word chosen with care.
“Sister Julienne, it’s nice to hear from you.”
“Please. I apologize for the calls.”
“The calls?” I riffled through the pink slips on my desk. I knew she’d phoned back Wednesday, but thought it was a follow-up on our earlier conversation. There were two other slips with her name and number.
“I’m the one who should apologize. I was tied up all day yesterday, and didn’t check my messages. I’m sorry.”
There was no response.
“I’m writing the report now.”
“No, no, it’s not that. I mean, yes, of course, that is terribly important. And we are all anxious . . .”
She hesitated, and I could picture her dark brows deepening the perpetual frown she wore. Sister Julienne always looked worried.
“I feel very awkward, but I don’t know where to turn. I’ve prayed, of course, and I know God is listening, but I feel I should be doing something. I devote myself to my work, to keeping God’s archives, but, well, I have an earthly family too.” She was forming her words precisely, shaping them like a baker molding dough.
There was another long pause. I waited her out.
“He does help those who help themselves.”
“Yes.”
“It’s about my niece, Anna. Anna Goyette. She’s the one I spoke of on Wednesday.”
“Your niece?” I couldn’t imagine where this was going.
“She’s my sister’s child.”
“I see.”
“She’s . . . We’re not sure where she is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s normally a very thoughtful child, very reliable, never stays out without calling.”
“Uh-huh.” I was beginning to get the drift.
Finally, she blurted it out. “Anna didn’t come home last night and my sister is frantic. I’ve told her to pray, of course, but, well . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I wasn’t sure what to say. This was not where I’d expected the conversation to go.
“Your niece is missing?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re worried, perhaps you should contact the police.”
“My sister called twice. They told her that with someone Anna’s age their policy is to wait forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”
“How old is your niece?”
“Anna is nineteen.”
“She’s the one studying at McGill?”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded tense enough to saw metal.
“Sister, there’s really noth . . .”
I heard her choke back a sob. “I know, I know, and I apologize for bothering you, Dr. Brennan.” Her words came out between sharply inhaled breaths, like hiccups. “I know you are busy, I know that, but my sister is hysterical and I just don’t know what to tell her. She lost her husband two years ago and now she feels that Anna is all she has. Virginie is calling me every half-hour, insisting I help her find her daughter. I know this is not your job, and I would never call you unless I was desperate. I’ve prayed, but, oh . . .”
I was startled to hear her burst into tears. They engulfed her speech, obliterating her words. I waited, my mind in a muddle. What should I say?
Then the sobs receded and I heard the sound of tissues pulled from a box, then a nose being blown.
“I . . . I . . . Please forgive me.” Her voice was trembling.
Counseling has never been my strong point. Even with those close to me, I feel awkward and inadequate in the face of emotion. I focus on the practical.
“Has Anna taken off before?” Solve the problem.
“I don’t think so. But my sister and I don’t always . . . communicate well.” She had calmed somewhat and was back to word sifting.
“Has she been having problems at school?”
“I don’t think so.”
“With friends? A boyfriend, perhaps?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you noticed any changes in her behavior lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has she changed her eating habits? Is she sleeping more or less than usual? Has she become less communicative?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. Since she’s been in university I haven’t seen as much of Anna as I used to.”
“Is she attending her classes?”
“I’m not sure.” Her voice faded on the last word. She sounded completely drained.
“Does Anna get along with her mother?”
There was a very long pause.
“There is the usual tension, but I know Anna loves her mother.”
Bingo.
“Sister, your niece might have needed some time to herself. I’m sure if you wait a day or two she’ll either show up or call.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I feel so helpless for Virginie. She is totally distraught. I can’t reason with her, and I thought if I could tell her the police were checking, she might be . . . reassured.”
I heard another tissue pull and feared a second round of tears.
“Let me make a call. I’m not sure it will do any good, but I’ll give it a try.”
She thanked me and we hung up. For a moment I sat there, running through my options. I thought of Ryan, but McGill is located on the island of Montreal. Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police. CUM. I took a deep breath and dialed. When the receptionist answered, I made my request.
“Monsieur Charbonneau, s’il vous plaît.”
“Un instant, s’il vous plaît.”
She came back shortly and said Charbonneau was out for the afternoon.
“Do you want Monsieur Claudel?”
“Yes.” Like I wanted anthrax. Damn.
“Claudel,” said the next voice.
“Monsieur Claudel. It’s Tempe Brennan.”
As I listened to empty air, I pictured Claudel’s beak nose and parrot face, usually set with disapproval of me. I enjoyed talking to this detective as much as I enjoyed boils. But since I didn’t deal with juvenile runaways, I wasn’t sure whom else to ask. Claudel and I had worked CUM cases before, and he had come to tolerate me, so I hoped he would at least tell me where to turn.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur Claudel, I have a rather odd request. I realize this isn’t exactly you—”
“What is it, Dr. Brennan?” Abrupt. Claudel was one of the few who could make the French language sound cold. Just the facts, ma’am.
“I’ve just had a call from a woman who is concerned about her niece. The girl is a student at McGill and she didn’t return home last night. I was wond—”
“They should fill out a missing person report.”
“The mother was told that nothing could be done for forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”
“Age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Name.”
“Anna Goyette.”
“Does she live on campus?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t sound like it. I think she lives with the mother.”
“Did she attend her classes yesterday?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was she last seen?”
“I don’t know.”
Another pause. Then,
“There is a great deal you do not know, it appears. This may not be a CUM case, and, at this point, it is definitely not a homicide matter.” I could picture him tapping something against something, his face pinched with impatience.
“Yes. I would simply like to know who I could contact,” I spat. He was making me feel unprepared, which was making me irritable. And screwing up my grammar. As usual, Claudel did not bring out the best in me, particularly when his criticism of my methodology was in part legitimate.
“Try missing persons.”
I listened to a dial tone.
I was still fuming when the phone rang again.
“Dr. Brennan,” I barked.
“Is this a bad time?” The soft, Southern English w
as a sharp contrast to Claudel’s clipped, nasal French.
“Dr. Jeannotte?”
“Yes. Please call me Daisy.”
“Please excuse me, Daisy. I—it’s been a rough couple of days. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have found some interesting Nicolet materials for you. I hate to send them by courier, since some items are quite old and probably valuable. Would you like to drop by and pick them up?”
I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. Hell, why not. Maybe while on campus I might ask about Anna. At least I’d have something to tell Sister Julienne.
“I could come by about noon. Would that be convenient?”
“That would be just fine.”
Again, I arrived early. Again, the door was open and the office empty except for a young woman shelving journals. I wondered if it was the same stack Jeannotte’s assistant had been clearing on Wednesday.
“Hi. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”
The woman turned and her large loop earrings swung and caught the light. She was tall, perhaps six feet, with dark hair shaved close to her head.
“She’s gone downstairs for a minute. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m a bit early. No problem.”
The office was just as warm and just as cluttered as on my first visit. I took off my jacket and stuffed my mittens into the pocket. The woman indicated a wooden hall tree, and I hung the jacket there. She watched me wordlessly.
“She does have a lot of journals,” I said, indicating the stack on the desk.
“I think I spend my life sorting these things.” She reached up and slid a journal onto a shelf above her head.
“Helps to be tall, I guess.”
“Helps with some things.”
“I met Dr. Jeannotte’s TA on Wednesday. She was reshelving, too.”
“Um-hum.” The young woman picked up another journal and examined its spine.
“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I offered.
She slipped the journal into a row at eye level.
“And you are . . . ?” I coaxed.
“Sandy O’Reilly,” she said without turning. I wondered if my height remark had offended her.
“Nice to meet you, Sandy. After I left on Wednesday I realized I’d never asked the other assistant her name.”
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