Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

  “How y’all doin’? he said, putting one finger to his brim.

  “Good.” I breathed in the smell of fresh-cut grass and wished it were true.

  Baker was on the phone when we entered his office. He gestured us to chairs, spoke a few more words, and hung up.

  “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “It isn’t,” said Ryan. “Nobody knows squat.”

  “How can we help?”

  Ryan lifted his jacket, pulled a Ziploc bag from the pocket, and laid it on Baker’s desk. Inside was the red plastic disk.

  “You can run this for prints.”

  Baker looked at him.

  “I accidentally dropped it. Owens was kind enough to pick it up for me.”

  Baker hesitated a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “You know it may not be usable.”

  “I know. But it may tell us who this puke is.”

  Baker laid the bag aside. “What else?”

  “How about a wiretap?”

  “No way. You haven’t got enough.”

  “Search warrant?”

  “What’s your probable cause?”

  “Phone calls?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Ryan let out a breath and stretched his legs.

  “Then I’ll do it the hard way. I’ll start with deeds and tax records, see who owns the country club on Adler Lyons. I’ll check the utilities, find out who pays the bills. I’ll talk to the postal boys, see if anyone gets Hustler or orders from J. Crew. I’ll run Owens for a Social Security number, former wife, that sort of thing. I assume he has a driver’s license, so that should take me somewhere. If the reverend’s ever taken an illegal piss, I’ll nail him. Maybe I’ll do a little surveillance, see what cars go in and out of the compound, run the tags. Hope you don’t mind my hanging around for a while.”

  “You are welcome in Beaufort for as long as it takes, Mr. Ryan. I’ll assign a detective to help you. And, Dr. Brennan, what are your plans?”

  “I’m heading out shortly. I have classes to prepare for and Mr. Colker’s cases from Murtry to look at.”

  “Baxter will be glad to hear that. He called to say that Dr. Hardaway would like to speak with you as soon as possible. In fact, he’s rung us three times today. Would you like to use my phone to call up there?”

  No one can say I can’t take a hint.

  “Please.”

  Baker asked Ivy Lee to get Hardaway on the line. In a moment the phone rang and I picked it up.

  The pathologist had finished with what he felt he could do. He was able to determine the gender of the corpse in the bottom of the grave, and that the race was probably white. The victim had died of what he thought were incised injuries, but the body was too badly decomposed to determine their exact nature.

  The burial had been shallow enough that insects had gained access, probably using the body above as a conduit. The open wounds had also encouraged colonization. The skull and chest contained the largest maggot masses he’d ever seen. The face was not recognizable and he was unable to estimate an age. He thought he might have some usable prints.

  In the background Ryan and Baker discussed Dom Owens.

  Hardaway went on. The upper body was largely skeletonized, though some connective tissue remained. He could do little with it, and asked me to do a full analysis.

  I told him to send me the skull, the hip blades, the clavicles, and the chest ends of the third through fifth ribs from the bottom body. I would need the entire skeleton from the upper burial. I also asked for a series of X-rays on each victim, a copy of his report, and a full set of autopsy photos.

  Last, I explained how I preferred to have the bones processed.

  Hardaway was familiar with the routine and said both sets of remains and all documents would arrive in my lab in Charlotte on Friday.

  I hung up and looked at my watch. If I had any hope of getting everything done before my conference trip to Oakland, I had to get moving.

  Ryan and I crossed to the lot, where I had left my car that morning. The sun was hot and the shade felt good. I opened the door and leaned my arm on the upper edge.

  “Let’s have dinner,” said Ryan.

  “Sure. Then I’ll put on pasties and we’ll take pics for the New York Times.”

  “Brennan, for two days now you’ve been treating me like I’m gum on the sidewalk. Actually, now that I think about it, you’ve had some kind of burr up your ass for a couple of weeks. Fine. I can live with that.”

  He took my chin in his hands and looked straight into my eyes.

  “But I want you to know one thing. That was not just a chemical event last night. I care about you and I was enjoying the hell out of being close. I’m not sorry it happened. And I can’t say I won’t try again. Remember, I might be the wind, but you control the kite. Drive safely.”

  With that he released my chin and walked to his car. Unlocking the door, he threw his jacket on the passenger seat and turned back to me.

  “By the way, you never told me why you doubt the Murtry victims are dealers.”

  For a moment I could only stare. I wanted to stay, but I also wanted to be continents away from him. Then my mind snapped back.

  “What?”

  “The bodies from the island. Why do you question the drug burn theory?”

  “Because they’re both girls.”

  21

  DURING THE DRIVE I PLAYED SOME TAPES, BUT THE NEWS FROM Lake Wobegon didn’t hold my attention. I had a million questions and very few answers. Had Anna Goyette returned home? Who were the women buried on Murtry Island? What would their bones tell me? Who killed Heidi and her babies? Was there a connection between St-Jovite and the commune on Saint Helena? Who was Dom Owens? Where had Kathryn gone? Where the hell had Harry gone?

  My mind spun off thoughts of all I had to do. And wanted to do. I hadn’t read a word about Élisabeth Nicolet since leaving Montreal.

  By eight-thirty I was back in Charlotte. In my absence the grounds at Sharon Hall had put on their finest springtime attire. Azaleas and dogwoods were in full bloom, and a few Bradford pears and flowering crabapples still retained blossoms. The air smelled of pine needles and bark chips. Inside, my arrival at the Annex was a replay of the week before. The clock was ticking. The message light was flashing. The refrigerator was empty.

  Birdie’s bowls were in their usual place under the bay window. Odd that Pete hadn’t emptied them. Disorderly with everything else, my estranged husband was fastidious about foodstuffs. I did a quick patrol to see if the cat was skulking under a chair or in a closet. No Bird.

  I called Pete, but, as before, he wasn’t in. Neither was Harry at the condo in Montreal. Thinking perhaps she’d gone home, I tried her number in Texas. No answer.

  After unpacking, I fixed a tuna sandwich and ate it with dill pickles and chips while I watched the end of a Hornets’ game. At ten I turned off the TV and tried Pete again. Still no answer. I considered driving over to collect Birdie, but decided to let it go until morning.

  I showered, then propped myself in bed with the Bélanger photocopies and escaped into the world of nineteenth-century Montreal. The hiatus had not improved Louis-Philippe, and within an hour my lids were drooping. I turned off the light and curled into a tuck position, hoping a good long rest would bring order to my mind.

  Two hours later I was sitting bolt upright, my heart hammering, my brain struggling to know why. I clutched the blanket to my chest, barely breathing, straining to identify the threat that had sent me into full alert.

  Silence. The only light in the room came from my bedside clock.

  Then the sound of shattering glass sent the hairs straight up on my arms and neck. My adrenals went to high tide. I had a flashback to another break-in, reptilian eyes, a knife flashing in moonlight. A single thought crackled in my brain.

  Not again!

  Crash! Thud!

  Yes, again!

  The noise wasn’t outside! I
t was downstairs! It was in my house! My mind sprinted through options. Lock the bedroom. Check it out. Call the police.

  Then I smelled smoke.

  Shit!

  I threw back the covers and fumbled across the room, digging below the terror for elements of rational thought. A weapon. I needed a weapon. What? What could I use? Why did I refuse to keep a gun?

  I stumbled to the dresser and felt for a large conch I’d collected on the Outer Banks. It wouldn’t kill, but the point would penetrate flesh and do damage. Turning the sharp end forward, I wrapped my fingers inside and braced my thumb against the outer surface.

  Hardly breathing, I crept toward the door, my free hand sliding over familiar surfaces as if seeking guidance in Braille. Dresser. Doorjamb. Hallway.

  At the top of the stairs I froze and peered downward into the blackness. Blood pounded in my ears as I clutched the shell and listened. Not a sound from below. If there was someone there I should stay upstairs. Phone. If there was fire downstairs, I needed to get out.

  I took a breath and placed one foot on the top stair, waited. Then the second. Third. Knees bent, shell raised to shoulder level, I crept toward the first floor. The acrid smell grew stronger. Smoke. Gasoline. And something else. Something familiar.

  At the bottom I stopped, my mind playing back a scene from Montreal less than a year ago. That time he’d been inside, a killer, waiting to attack.

  That isn’t going to happen again! Call 911! Get out!

  I rounded the banister and looked into the dining room. Blackness. I doubled back toward the parlor. Darkness, but strangely altered.

  The far end of the room looked bronzed in the surrounding gloom. The fireplace, the Queen Anne chairs, all the furnishings and pictures glimmered gently, like objects in a mirage. Through the kitchen door I could see orange light dancing on the front of the refrigerator.

  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

  My chest constricted as the silence was split by a high-pitched wail. I jerked and the shell struck plaster. Trembling, I pressed backward against the wall.

  The sound was from the smoke detector!

  I watched for signs of movement. Nothing but darkness and the eerie flickering.

  The house is on fire. Move!

  My heart drumming, my breath coming in short gasps, I lunged toward the kitchen. A fire crackled in the center of the room, filling the air with smoke and reflecting off every shiny surface.

  My shaking hand found the switch and I threw on the light. My eyes darted left and right. The burning bundle lay in the middle of the floor. The flames hadn’t spread.

  I put down the shell and, holding the hem of my nightie across my mouth and nose, I bent low and circled to the pantry. I pulled the small extinguisher from the top shelf. My lungs drew in smoke and tears blurred my vision, but I managed to squeeze the handle. The extinguisher only hissed.

  Damn!

  Coughing and gagging, I squeezed again. Another hiss, then a stream of carbon dioxide and white powder burst from the spout.

  Yes!

  I aimed the nozzle at the flames and in less than a minute the fire was out. The alarm still screamed, the sound like shards of metal piercing my ears and dragging across my brain.

  I opened the back door and the window above the sink, then crossed to the table. No need to open that one. The panes were shattered, and glass and splintered wood covered the sill and floor. Tiny gusts of wind played with the curtains, tugging them in and out of the jagged opening.

  Circling the thing on the floor, I turned on the ceiling fan, grabbed a towel, and fanned smoke from the room. Slowly, the air began to clear.

  I wiped my eyes and made an effort to control my breathing.

  Keep fanning!

  The alarm shrieked on.

  I stopped waving the towel and looked around the room. A cinder block lay beneath the table, another rested against the cabinet below the sink. Between them were the charred remains of the bundle that had been burning. The room reeked of smoke and gasoline. And another odor I knew.

  With shaky legs, I crossed to the smoldering heap. I was staring, not comprehending, when the alarm stopped. The silence seemed unnatural.

  Dial 911.

  It wasn’t necessary. As I reached for the phone I heard a distant siren. It grew louder, very loud, then stopped. In a moment a fireman appeared at my back door.

  “You O.K., ma’am?”

  I nodded and folded my arms across my chest, self-conscious about my state of undress.

  “Your neighbor called.” His chin strap dangled.

  “Oh.” I forgot my nightie. I was back in St-Jovite.

  “Everything under control?”

  Another nod. St-Jovite. Almost a synapse.

  “Mind if I make sure?”

  I stepped back.

  He sized it up in one look.

  “Pretty mean prank. Know who might have heaved this through your window?”

  I shook my head.

  “Looks like they broke the glass with the cinder blocks, then chucked that thing in.” He walked over to the smoldering mound. “They must’ve soaked it in gasoline, lit it, and pitched it.”

  I heard his words but couldn’t speak. My body had locked up as my mind tried to rouse some shapeless notion sleeping in the core of my brain.

  The firefighter slipped a shovel from his belt, snapped open the blade, and poked at the heap on my kitchen floor. Black flecks shot upward, then rejoined the rubble below. He slid the blade below the object, flipped it over, and leaned in.

  “Looks like a burlap sack. Maybe a seed bag. Damned if I can tell what’s inside.”

  He scraped the object with the tip of the shovel and more charred particles spiraled up. He prodded harder, rolling the thing from side to side.

  The smell grew stronger. St-Jovite. Autopsy room three. Memory broke through and I went cold all over.

  With trembling hands I opened a drawer and withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors. No longer concerned about my nightie, I squatted and cut the burlap.

  The corpse was small, its back arched, its legs contracted by the heat of the flames. I saw a shriveled eye, a tiny jaw with blackened teeth. Anticipation of the horror that the sack held made me begin to feel faint.

  No! Please no!

  I leaned in, my mind recoiling from the smell of burned flesh and hair. Between the hind legs I saw a curled and blackened tail, its vertebrae protruding like thorns on a stem.

  Tears slid down my cheeks as I cut further. Near the knot I saw hairs, scorched now, but white in spots.

  The half-full bowls.

  “Nooooooooooooooooo!”

  I heard the voice, but did not connect it to myself.

  “No! No! No! Birdie. Please God, no!”

  I felt hands on my shoulders, then on my hands, taking the scissors, gently pulling me to my feet. Voices.

  Then I was in the parlor, a quilt around me. I was crying, shaking, my body in pain.

  I don’t know how long I’d been sobbing when I looked up to see my neighbor. She pointed at a cup of tea.

  “What is it?” My chest heaved in and out.

  “Peppermint.”

  “Thanks.” I drank the tepid liquid. “What time is it?”

  “A little past two.” She wore slippers and a trench coat that didn’t cover her flannel gown. Though we’d waved to each other across the lawn, or exchanged hellos on the walk, I hardly knew her.

  “I’m so sorry you had to get up in the middle of the nigh—”

  “Please, Dr. Brennan. We’re neighbors. I know you’d do the same for me.”

  I took another sip. My hands were icy, but trembled less.

  “Are the firemen still here?”

  “They left. They said you can fill out a report when you feel better.”

  “Did they take—” My voice broke and I felt tears behind my eyes.

  “Yes. Can I get you anything else?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine. You’ve been very
kind.”

  “I’m sorry about your damage. We put a board across the window. It’s not elegant, but it will keep the wind out.”

  “Thank you so much. I—”

  “Please. Just get some sleep. Perhaps this won’t seem so bad in the morning.”

  I thought of Birdie and dreaded the morning. In desperate hope I picked up the phone and dialed Pete’s number. No answer.

  “You will be O.K.? Shall I help you upstairs?”

  “No. Thank you. I’ll manage.”

  When she’d gone I crawled into bed and cried myself to sleep with great, heaving sobs.

  I awoke with the feeling that something was wrong. Changed. Lost. Then full consciousness, and with it, memory.

  It was a warm spring morning. Through the window I could see blue sky and sunlight and smell the perfume of flowers. But the beauty of the day could not lift my depression.

  When I called the fire department I was told the physical evidence had been sent to the crime lab. Feeling leaden, I went through the morning motions. I dressed, applied makeup, brushed my hair, and headed downtown.

  The sack contained nothing but the cat. No collar. No tags. A hand-lettered note was found inside one of the cinder blocks. I read it through the plastic evidence bag.

  Next time it won’t be a cat.

  “Now what?” I asked Ron Gillman, director of the crime lab. He was a tall, good-looking man with silver-gray hair and an unfortunate gap between his front teeth.

  “We’ve already checked for prints. Zippo on the note and blocks. Recovery will be out to your place, but you know as well as I do they won’t find much. Your kitchen window is so close to the street the perps probably pulled up, lit the bag, then threw everything in from the sidewalk. We’ll look for footprints, and we’ll ask around, of course, but at one-thirty in the morning it’s not too likely anyone was awake in that neighborhood.”

  “Sorry I don’t live on Wilkinson Boulevard.”

  “You get into enough trouble wherever you are.”

  Ron and I had worked together for years. He knew about the serial murderer who had broken into my Montreal condo.

  “I’ll have recovery go over your kitchen, but since these guys never went inside, there won’t be any trace. You didn’t touch anything, I assume.”