by Ann Benson
“Tell me what happened when you made the discovery that your cat—uh, Farfel—had died.”
She sighed heavily. “Oh, it was awful. I found him outside my storage bin in the cellar. We all have our own little locked places to put things. He’d been missing a couple of days and I was already frantic. I had to go downstairs to get something out of my bin, and when I turned on the light in that section, there he was. Hanging right in front of me.”
“Hanging?” It wasn’t in the report. “How?”
“His back legs were tied together with some kind of twine.” Her voice began to waver and her eyes started to glisten. “He’d been cut in the stomach and his—his innards were hanging out.”
Yuck. “I’m very sorry,” I said. “It’s too bad you had to see that.”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded lost and distant. “I have nightmares of it still.”
“Was there anything specific that led you to conclude that Durand did this?”
“He hated me, and he hated my cats, especially that one.”
It was logical. The placement of the carcass had been a message. But there was no other evidence that Durand had anything to do with it.
“Are you going to arrest him?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the statute of limitations had run out thirteen years earlier. “I can’t do that based on what I have so far. And in the long run, that will be up to the prosecutor, not me. But I am going to go talk to him.”
Pandora would require dynamite to blow the lid off the box that Wilbur Durand was hiding in. He was Nowhere Man.
I called the main number of his studio; for some strange reason it was actually listed in the phone book. Someone’s head had probably rolled for that oversight.
I’m sorry, Detective, but Mr. Durand is out of the country right now working on a film.
What film?
I’m afraid I can’t talk about that just yet.
What country is he in?
I can’t say for sure; there are a number of different locations and he could be in any one of them.
When is he expected to return?
We’re not quite sure yet.
Roughly.
That depends on how the project progresses. Sometimes there are delays, so I can’t say just yet when he’ll get back. But I’ll try to have him call you when he does, and perhaps you can set something up.
It was the first time I’d ever been penciled in for a phone call. There was no way to tell if he was really out of the country, because we don’t require our citizens to present their passports when they leave; I would have to wait until he showed his passport to get back in.
“Detective Bureau. Moskal speaking.”
I was jealous of his distinctive Boston accent. We don’t have an accent in L.A., and my Midwestern nasality had disappeared long ago. “This is Detective Lorraine Dunbar calling from Los Angeles, the Crimes Against Children division. I know this is a stretch, but I’d like to speak to a detective who was on the force about twenty to twenty-five years ago. I’m working on a group of child-disappearance cases and I’m looking into a suspect who lives in L.A. now but lived in South Boston at that time. I was just wondering if there were any crimes that fit the description of the ones I’m working on. I thought maybe a detective could help me out.”
“I’m the senior detective here, but I’ve only been in the division for about fifteen years. One of the retired guys might be able to help you, though.”
A retired detective could speak from recall but would not have access to old files and case records. “Would you happen to know who’s the most senior cop in your precinct?”
“Yeah, I know him.”
There was a pause; I thought I heard a little chuckle.
“And could I have that person’s name?”
“It’s me.”
“Oh. Well, that’s convenient.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?”
“How long, if you don’t mind me asking . . .”
“Twenty-six years.”
“Yikes,” I said, disbelieving. “And you’re not retired?”
“Go figure.”
Some guys just can’t ever leave. “I suppose I could talk to you, then.”
“Well, if you’re looking for an intelligent answer, you might want to try one of the younger guys. But go ahead,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I have a bunch of young boys who have gone missing,” I said. It took almost five minutes to relate the details, including my initial look at Wilbur Durand, during which the Southie detective remained attentively quiet.
“He came out to California for college,” I told him.
Moskal figured the dates aloud. He was strangely silent for a moment before saying, “I know of one missing-kid case from about that time. We did find the body, about a week later. We never caught a killer, though.”
I could feel my pulse speeding up. “So it’s still officially unsolved?”
“Technically. No one’s working on any of the old unsolveds right now, though. We just don’t have the manpower. Oh, excuse me, the human resources.”
I liked him.
“We don’t either, but I took the call on the most recent one, which led to the others landing in my lap. Otherwise, they’d just be sitting there too. What about any kids who went missing and were never found—remember any of those?”
He laughed and then neatly sidestepped the question. “Detective Dunbar, with all due respect, at my age do you think I can remember what I had for breakfast?”
“Well . . .”
“I’m sorry. I’m the butt of all the geriatric jokes around here. We probably have dozens of missing kids who were never found. As you no doubt understand, that doesn’t mean they came to a bad end. Why don’t you give me a little time to take a look and get back to you. We’re in the process of computerizing the old stuff, and some of it may already be in the database. If it is, it’ll be easy to get. If nothing comes up, it might take a while. With a little luck I’ll be able to get to it before the day is out.”
I was making some notes in the files when he surprised me with a call an hour later.
“I don’t know if any of this is going to be what you’re looking for. I’ve got two dead boys and three missing in a two-year period about that time. They’re all white, ages range from eleven to fourteen.”
One of our service aides was from somewhere in New England.
“Hey, Donna, how long does it take to drive from New York to Boston?”
“About five hours, depending on traffic.”
Damn.
“But they got a fast train now that does it in two and a half. And there’s an air shuttle, takes forty-five minutes. But by the time you get to the airport and all that, it’s faster to take the train.”
I went over the time line in my mind. It was doable.
“Fred,” I said as casually as I could, “are there any slots left in that computer-training thing in New York?”
“I don’t think so, Dunbar.” He sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “What’s the matter, you running out of cases?”
“No. But I’m hitting some walls and I feel like I need to get my searching skills up a little. It’s this weekend, so I wouldn’t lose much investigation time. . . .”
He looked decidedly unenthusiastic, but said, “I’ll check for you. It was closed last time I looked. But, hey, you never know.”
Half an hour later I knew that Jimmy Trainor’s wife was having difficulties in mid-pregnancy, necessitating the young cop’s withdrawal from the two-day course. “We already bought his airline ticket. Good news is that you can use it. You’d have to leave on Thursday night and come back on Sunday morning. Classes run all day Friday and Saturday.”
I called Kevin. He would be happy to take the kids a day early. Fred had me booked into the course. Thursday was the day after tomorrow. I had some preparing to do.
nineteen
Inquiry and inquest toward pro
ving, should such be possible, that Lord Gilles de Rais and his accomplices, followers, and devotees transported a certain number of children, small and otherwise, and had them struck down and killed to have their blood, heart, liver, or other parts, to make of those parts a sacrifice to the devil or to perform other conjurings with them, on which subject we have heard numerous complaints.
It was said without emotion, by Dominican cleric Jean de Touscheronde, without so much as a hint of the gravity that ought to accompany such accusations. Milord himself was not in attendance on this eighteenth day of September, but the purpose of this hearing was not to make him answer for their loss—that would come in time—but rather to legally document their taking, so that when his ecclesiastical trial began, Jean de Malestroit would have all the required mandates, from God and King, to tighten the noose of guilt directly around Milord’s neck.
Among those who waited to give testimony were the same people we had encountered in Saint-Etienne, who had traveled the distance to Nantes so their memory of the child Guillaume Brice would not be carried off in the wind like the dust he himself had likely become. But in this rendition of their story, a new twist was added—an abductress.
A man from our village says that around last Saint John’s Day he encountered an old woman with a rosy face, aged perhaps fifty to sixty; she wore a short linen tunic over her gown. Previously he had seen her passing through the woods of Saint-Etienne, heading in the direction of Nantes. On the same day that he saw her last, this man saw the child Guillaume Brice near the road where he saw the old woman. He says the location was an arrow’s flight from the presbytery, near which there resided a man named Simon Lebreton, who is known to be an adherent of Milord Gilles de Rais. We complain on behalf of this child, with the hope that some means to explain his loss might be discovered. . . .
Oh, Michel, I thought that night as I kneeled at my bedside, you were so fortunate to have had a mother and father and brother to mourn you. What fine ways this lost child must have had about him to be so well-remembered. He had taken clear shape in my mind as one of those children whose spirit was joyful, whose heart was pure, who always found the means to meet the challenges God laid before him despite his numerous disadvantages, which placed him squarely in the path of whatever evil might lurk in the forest shadows and made him want to trust that evil when it presented itself. One wonders if this old woman took the beautiful little boy by the hand and, with a reassuring smile, made him irresistible promises: decent clothing to replace his rags, a clean warm bed to sleep in, enough food to stop the constant grinding of his belly, shoes to keep his feet from bleeding in the winter. All you need do is come with me to my master, who adores sweet little boys such as yourself and wishes very sincerely to meet you.
His parents, both now in God’s keeping, would never even know he was gone—perhaps that was a blessing. At least I knew what might have happened to my son. For me there was something tangible, a boar, for my hatred to settle on.
Why, then, did I suddenly feel so uncertain?
On Monday, the nineteenth day of September, Gilles de Rais was required to face his Eminence in the great hall of la Tour Neuve. None of those who stood to gain by Milord’s imminent downfall were permitted to attend—Jean de Malestroit would not have it said of him that he eased their way, nor would he allow any one of them to enter the courtroom until the general public was admitted.
He very nearly did not allow me to be there. He entered the antechamber while I was seeing to his sacred vestments and announced, “Guillemette, I do not believe it is a good idea for you to be present in court today.”
My voice went shrill in a heartbeat. “You gave me your promise that I would be present—for all of it—when I agreed to end my own inquiries in favor of yours.”
“I made no specific promise.”
“Eminence, this is shameful! Do you mean to separate me by trickery from that inquiry which I began without your help, which was well enough executed for you to find it fit to be taken up after me?”
He winced at my harshly delivered protests; Jean de Malestroit was not accustomed to hearing anyone shriek at him. Nor were his guards, who came running. He sent them off again with one quick look, and we were alone once more—me with my growing fury, he with his damnable patience.
“You cast this in such an unflattering light. I meant only to protect you from harm.”
“You know me well, Brother; I am not delicate of constitution. God has worked enough of His whimsies upon me that I have grown strong.”
“I would keep you from the whimsy He would work on you now. It may be considerable.”
“You often remind me that our Lord did not refuse the bitter cup—now I shall remind you.”
“I have it in my power to deny this to you. You know that.”
It was a devastating betrayal. “Naturally, Eminence, you may do to me as you see fit while I am your handmaid. But do not be surprised if I throw off this accursed veil and take myself out from under your power.”
“You would not. You could not.”
I yanked the veil off my head and threw it to the ground. “I have lived without this tent before and I will do so again if necessary. By whatever means.”
For a few seconds he said nothing, just stared at me with an expression that seemed both sad and wishful at the same time.
“You may not care what becomes of you, Guillemette,” he said finally, “but I assure you, I do. Greatly.”
“Then you must keep the promise you made to me before God,” I said. “Or I shall take myself away from here.”
And so when Jean de Malestroit set out for the secular court that morning, I was at his side. As we progressed through the palace, my mood was tainted by the jolt of what had just passed between us, so the huge angry crowd that greeted us in the square outside the palace was a jarring sight. As soon as they saw us, there rose up a shout, and then the multitude surged forward. These angry souls shouted in frustration, railing in complaint against the secrecy and slow pace of the proceedings. The intricacies of political retribution as nobles practiced it upon one another—that is to say, through gold and possessions—could not be appreciated by such folk. They wanted the same swift and simple justice that was practiced upon them.
But as I peered beyond the shields and the upraised swords of the guard, I saw among the crowd many whose attire betrayed far greater affluence, who I suspected were enticed by the promise of sordid intrigue—it is not often that a great lord and hero plummets so dramatically from grace.
We drew back hastily into the palace and were forced to make our way through a maze of damp, poorly lit tunnels that skirted the perimeter of the whole palace underground. We passed by the site where the English had once broken through, now repaired but still detectable after so much time, and emerged a good while later on the ground floor directly beneath the upper hall.
Light, illumination, air! I sucked in a nonfetid breath and shook the hem of my habit to dislodge any vermin invaders. We climbed hastily to the second-floor balcony and looked down at the crowd, perhaps five or six meters below. Though his Eminence stood back, we could not entirely avoid detection. A chorus of threats and damnation swelled upward and echoed off the flat stone walls.
Hang him! Let him suffer as our sons suffered! May he be damned to an eternity in hell!
Frère Demien found his way through the madness and came up behind us on the balcony. “The crowd,” he gasped, “they are crazed. . . .”
“More so every minute,” his Eminence said. There was a rare hint of fear in his expression as he scanned the growing crowd. “The guard may be outnumbered,” he said. “How diverse in composition they are—rich, poor, commonfolk and nobles.”
Frère Demien was less generous in his assessment of their nature. “Charlatans, pickpockets, hawkers with their worthless trinkets . . .”
He had a better eye for such things than I, but on closer observation it was plain that he was right. Easily noted from our high vant
age point were the scoundrels and hucksters who would prey on those who had little enough to bring with them to Nantes but would depart with even less. Beyond the pickpockets and petty thieves there were dancers, jugglers, minstrels, and fools, gaily clad and in fantastic attire, all working the crowd for the few sous that might be pried loose. There was danger that these proceedings might be turned into some sort of entertainment, that the solemnity and seriousness of what was to come would be lessened by the sheer tawdriness of it all.
But the common desire of these people was unmistakable—they wanted Gilles de Rais. He had been housed temporarily in a suite of rooms in the brothers’ section of the abbey and would be compelled to make his way through that throng in order to enter the palace, where the trial was being conducted.
They were waiting for him.
Not five minutes later, a lady’s curtained litter appeared, borne on the shoulders of six strong porters instead of the usual four.
Something was clearly out of right. We all stared; Frère Demien finally managed to articulate our suspicions. “That is an excessively corpulent lady.”
The crowd was no more fooled than he. They surged inward and began to tear at the curtains. The bearers increased their pace and gripped the carrying bars much more firmly, while their escorts pressed the crowd back.
“Surely he could enter through the passageways as we did,” I said quietly.
“He shall enter in this manner,” Jean de Malestroit said with quiet determination.
I stepped back and regarded him as he watched the scene below. It was not precisely enjoyment that I saw on his face, but an emotion more akin to satisfaction. He was giving these people what they wanted, which was the presence of Milord Gilles in their midst. Hence his concern for the guard, the need for which he might well have underestimated. I looked below and saw that they were managing, but just barely.