Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

  In the final photos the flesh lay in rows, like meat arranged in a butcher’s case. I spotted pieces of skull, a fragment of tibia, a femoral head, and a portion of scalp with a complete right ear. Some close-ups revealed the jagged edges of shattered bone, others showed hairs, fibers, and scraps of fabric adhering to the flesh. The tattoo LaManche had mentioned was clearly visible on a flap of skin. It depicted three skulls, bony hands covering eyes, ears, and mouths. The irony was priceless. This guy would be seeing, hearing, and saying nothing.

  After examining the prints and X rays I’d come to agree with LaManche. I could see bone in the photos, and the radiographs revealed the presence of more. That would allow me to determine the anatomical origin of some tissue. But sorting the jumble of flesh into specific brothers was going to be tough.

  Separating commingled bodies is always hard, especially if the remains are badly damaged or incomplete. The process is infinitely more difficult when the dead are of the same gender, age, and race. I’d once spent weeks examining the bones and decomposing flesh of seven male prostitutes excavated from a crawl space beneath their killer’s home. All were white and in their teens. DNA sequencing had been invaluable in determining who was who.

  In this case that might not work. If the victims were monozygous twins they had developed from a single egg. Their DNA would be identical.

  LaManche was right. It seemed unlikely I’d be able to divide the fragments into separate bodies and attach a name to each.

  A gastric growl suggested it was time to quit. Tired and discouraged, I grabbed my purse, zipped my jacket, and headed out.

  • • •

  Back home, the flashing light told me I had a message. I spread my take-out sushi on the table, popped a Diet Coke, and hit the button.

  My nephew Kit was driving from Texas to Vermont with his father. Intent on bonding, they were coming north to fish for whatever it is one hooks in inland waters in the spring. Since my cat prefers the space and comfort of a motor home to the efficiency of air travel, Kit and Howie had promised to pick him up at my home in Charlotte and transport him to Montreal. The message was that they and Birdie would arrive the next day.

  I dipped a slice of maki roll and popped it in my mouth. I was going for another when the doorbell sounded. Puzzled, I went to the security screen.

  The monitor showed Andrew Ryan leaning against the wall in my hallway. He wore faded blue jeans, running shoes, and a bomber jacket over a black T-shirt. At six foot two, with his blue eyes and angular features, he looked like a cross between Cal Ripkin and Indiana Jones.

  I looked like Phyllis Diller before her makeover.

  Great.

  Sighing, I opened the door.

  “Hey, Ryan. What’s up?”

  “Saw your light and figured you might be back early.”

  He gave me an appraising look.

  “Rough day?”

  “I spent today traveling and sorting flesh,” I said defensively, then tucked my hair behind my ears. “Coming in?”

  “Can’t stay.” I noticed he was wearing his pager and gun. “Just thought I’d inquire as to your dinner plans for tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll be sorting bomb victims all day tomorrow, so I may be a little zonked.”

  “You will have to eat.”

  “I will have to eat.”

  He placed one hand on my shoulder and twirled a strand of my hair with the other.

  “If you’re tired we could skip dinner and just relax,” he said in a low voice.

  “Hmm.”

  “Broaden our horizons?”

  He swept back the hair and brushed his lips across my ear.

  Oh yes.

  “Sure, Ryan. I’ll wear my thong panties.”

  “I always encourage that.”

  I gave him my “yeah, right” look.

  “Will you spring for Chinese?”

  “Chinese is good,” he said, drawing my hair upward and swirling it into a topknot. Then he let it fall and wrapped both arms around my back. Before I could object he pulled me close and kissed me, his tongue teasing the edges of my lips, then gently probing the inside of my mouth.

  His lips felt soft, his chest hard against mine. I started to push away, but knew that was not what I wanted to do. Sighing, I relaxed and my body molded to his. The horrors of the day evaporated, and for that moment I was safe from the madness of bombs and murdered children.

  Eventually we needed air.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come in?” I asked, stepping back and holding the door open. My knees felt like Jell-O salad.

  Ryan looked at his watch.

  “I’m sure a half hour won’t matter.”

  At that moment his pager sounded. He checked the number.

  “Shit.”

  Shit.

  He rehooked the pager to the waist of his jeans.

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “You know I’d really rath—”

  “Go.” Smiling, I placed two palms on his chest and shoved him gently. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Seven-thirty.”

  “Think about me,” he said, as he turned and headed down the hall.

  When he’d gone I went back to the sushi, definitely thinking about Andrew Ryan.

  Ryan is SQ, a homicide detective, and occasionally we work the same cases. Though he’d been asking for years, only recently had I started seeing him socially. It had taken some self-persuasion, but I’d come around to his point of view. Technically, we didn’t work together, so my “no office romance rule” didn’t apply unless I wanted it to.

  Nevertheless, the arrangement made me edgy. After twenty years of marriage, and several as a not-so-swinging single, new relationships just weren’t that easy for me. But I enjoyed Ryan’s company, so I’d decided to give it a whirl. To “date” him, as my sister would say.

  Oh, God. Dating.

  I had to admit that I found Ryan sexy as hell. Most women did. Wherever we went, I’d notice female eyes checking him out. Wondering, no doubt.

  I was wondering, too. But at the moment that ship was still in port, the engines stoked and ready to go. The Jell-O knees had just reconfirmed that. Dinner out was definitely a better idea.

  The phone rang as I was clearing the table.

  “Mon Dieu, you’re back.” Deep, throaty English with a heavy French accent.

  “Hi, Isabelle. What’s up?”

  Though I’d known Isabelle Caillé only two years, in that time we’d grown quite close. We’d met during a difficult time in my life. In the space of one bleak summer I was targeted by a violent psychopath, my best friend was murdered, and I was finally forced to face the reality of a failed marriage. In a display of self-indulgence, I had booked a single at a Club Med, and flown off to play tennis and overeat.

  I’d met Isabelle on the flight to Nassau, and we were later paired for doubles. We won, discovered we were there for similar reasons, and passed an enjoyable week together. We’d been friends ever since.

  “I didn’t expect you until next week. I was going to leave a message about getting together, but since you are home, what about dinner tomorrow?”

  I told her about Ryan.

  “That one’s a keeper, Tempe. You get tired of that chevalier, you send him over and I’ll give him something to think about. Why are you back early?”

  I explained about the bombing.

  “Ah, oui. I read about that in La Presse. Is it just terribly gruesome?”

  “The victims are not in good shape,” I said.

  “Les motards. If you ask me, these outlaw bikers get what they deserve.”

  Isabelle never lacked opinions, and was rarely hesitant to share them.

  “The police should just let these gangsters blow each other up. Then we wouldn’t have to look at their dirty bodies with filthy tattoos anymore.”

  “Hm.”

  “I mean, it’s not like they’re murdering babies.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”


  The next morning Emily Anne Toussaint died while walking to her ballet lesson.

  HOWARD AND KIT HAD ARRIVED AT SEVEN, LEFT BIRDIE, AND continued on their way. Birdie was ignoring me and checking the condo for canine intruders when I left for the lab at eight to resume work on the bomb victims.

  Emily Anne had arrived shortly after noon.

  Since I needed space, I’d chosen the large autopsy room. I’d rolled the gurneys with the bomb victim remains to the center of the room and was attempting to construct corpses on two tables. Being Saturday, I had the place to myself.

  I had identified and sorted all visible bone fragments. Then, using the X rays, I’d pulled the fragments containing bone, and dissected the tissue to search for landmarks. Wherever I found duplicates I divided them between the tables. Two left pubic tubercles, or mastoid processes, or femoral condyles meant two different individuals.

  I’d also spotted evidence of a childhood growth problem in some of the long bone fragments. When health is compromised, a child stops growing and skeletal development goes on hold. Such interruptions are usually caused by disease, or by periods of inadequate diet. When things get better, growth resumes, but the stoppages leave permanent markers.

  The X rays were showing opaque lines on numerous splinters of arm and leg bones. The narrow bands ran transversely across the shafts and indicated periods of arrested growth. I placed tissue with affected fragments on one table, and tissue with normal bone on the other.

  One of the tangles of shattered flesh contained several hand bones. When I teased them out I spotted two metacarpals with irregular shafts. These lumpy areas showed increased density when X-rayed, suggesting one of the victims had broken these fingers at some time in the past. I set that tissue aside.

  Tissue without bone was a different matter. With that I studied the adherent fabric, working backward from the sorted tissue, matching threads and fibers from one table or the other to the pieces of tissue remaining on the gurneys. I thought I could make out a woven plaid, khaki of the kind found in work pants, denim, and white cotton. Later, experts from the hair and fiber section would do a full analysis to see if they could corroborate my matches.

  Following lunch and my discussion with LaManche, I went back to the bomb victims. By five-fifteen I’d divided approximately two thirds of the tissue. Without DNA I saw no hope of associating the remaining fragments with specific individuals. I’d done what I could do.

  I’d also set a goal for myself.

  As I’d waded through the Vaillancourt body parts I’d found it hard to empathize with the persons I was reconstructing. In fact, I felt annoyance at having to do it. These men had been blown up while preparing to blow up others. A rough justice had prevailed, and I felt more bafflement than regret.

  Not so with little Emily Anne. She was lying on LaManche’s autopsy table because she’d been walking to dance class. That reality was not acceptable. The death of an innocent child could not be dismissed as an incidental casualty of maniacal warfare.

  Vipers could kill Heathens, and Outlaws murder Bandidos. Or Pagans. Or Hells Angels. But they must not kill the innocent. I pledged to myself that I would apply every forensic skill I could muster, and however many hours I was able, to develop evidence to identify and convict these homicidal sociopaths. Children had a right to walk the streets of the city without being cut down by bullets.

  I transferred the sorted remains back to the gurneys, rolled them to refrigerated compartments, scrubbed, and changed to street clothes. Then I rode the elevator to search out my boss.

  • • •

  “I want to work this,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “I want to nail these bastard child killers.”

  The tired old eyes stared at me for what seemed a very long time. We’d been discussing Emily Anne Toussaint. And the other youngster. A boy.

  Olivier Fontaine had been on his way to hockey practice when he pedaled too close to a Jeep Cherokee just as the driver turned the key. The bomb exploded with enough force to blast shrapnel into Olivier’s body, killing him instantly. It happened on his twelfth birthday.

  Until seeing Emily Anne I’d forgotten about the Fontaine murder. That incident had taken place in December of 1995 on the West Island, and involved the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine. Olivier’s death had raised a cry of public outrage, which led to the creation of Opération Carcajou, the multiagency task force devoted to the investigation of biker crime.

  “Temperance, I can’t—”

  “I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll work on my own time, between cases. If Carcajou is like everyone else they’re probably short-handed. I could do data entry or historic case searches. I could liaison among agencies, maybe work links to intelligence units in the U.S. I cou—”

  “Temperance, slow down.” He held up a hand. “This is not something I am in a position to do. I will speak with Monsieur Patineau.”

  Stéphane Patineau was director of the LSJML. He made final decisions for the crime and medico-legal labs.

  “I will not let any involvement with Carcajou interfere with my normal duties.”

  “I know that. I promise I will speak with the director first thing Monday morning. Now go home. Bonne fin de semaine.”

  I wished him a good weekend, too.

  • • •

  Quebec winters end much differently from those in the Carolina Piedmont. Back home spring slips in gently, and by the end of March and the beginning of April flowers begin to bloom and the air is soft with the warmth of summertime emerging.

  Les québécois wait six weeks longer to plant their gardens and window boxes. Much of April is cool and gray, and the streets and sidewalks glisten with melted ice and snow. But when spring appears it does so with breathtaking showmanship. The season explodes, and the populace responds with an enthusiasm unmatched on the planet.

  Today that vernal performance was weeks away. It was dark and a light rain was falling. I zipped my jacket, lowered my head, and made a dash for the car. The news came on as I was entering the Ville-Marie Tunnel, the Toussaint murder the lead story. That night Emily Anne was to have received an award in a lower-school writing competition. She’d titled her winning essay: “Let the Children Live.”

  I reached over and turned off the radio.

  I thought of my plans for the evening and was glad I’d have someone to buoy my spirits. I vowed not to talk shop with Ryan.

  Twenty minutes later I opened my apartment door to the sound of a ringing phone. I glanced at my watch. Six-fifty. Ryan would be here in forty minutes and I wanted time for a shower.

  I walked to the living room and threw my jacket on the couch. The machine clicked on and I listened to my voice request a short message. Birdie appeared at the exact moment Isabelle came on.

  “Tempe, if you’re there, pick up. C’est important.” Pause. “Merde!”

  I really didn’t want to talk but something in her voice made me reach for the handset.

  “Hello, Isa—”

  “Turn on the television. CBC.”

  “I know about the Toussaint child. I was at the lab—”

  “Now!”

  I picked up the remote and clicked on the set.

  Then I listened in horror.

  “. . . Lieutenant-détective Ryan had been under investigation for several months. He has been charged with possession of stolen goods and with trafficking and possession of controlled substances. Ryan surrendered peacefully to CUM officers this afternoon outside his home in the Old Port. He has been suspended from duty without pay pending a full investigation.

  “And now some other stories that we’ve been following. In financial news, the proposed merger of—”

  “TEMPE!”

  Isabelle’s bark snapped me back. I raised the receiver to my ear.

  “C’est lui, n’est-ce pas? Andrew Ryan, Crimes contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec?”

  “It’s got to be a mistake.”

  As I said the words my eyes flew to the
message light. Ryan hadn’t called.

  “I’d better go. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Tempe. He’s in jail.”

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I hung up and dialed Ryan’s apartment. No answer. I called his pager and entered my number. No response. I looked at Birdie. He had no explanation.

  By nine I knew he wasn’t coming. I’d called his home seven times. I’d phoned his partner, with the same result. No answer. No response.

  I tried grading the final exams I’d brought from UNC-Charlotte, but couldn’t concentrate. My thoughts kept going back to Ryan. Time would pass and I’d find myself staring at the same essay in the same blue book, my mind absorbing nothing the student had written. Birdie nestled in the crook of my knees, but it was small comfort.

  It couldn’t be true. I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it.

  At ten I took a long, hot bubble bath, zapped a carton of frozen spaghetti, and took it to the living room. I chose CDs I hoped would cheer me, and placed them in the player. Then I tried reading. Birdie joined me again.

  No good. Same loop. Pat Conroy might as well have been printed in Nahuatl.

  I’d seen Ryan’s image on the screen, hands cuffed behind his back, uniformed cops on either side. I’d watched them angle his head forward as he bent to slide into the cruiser’s backseat. Still, my mind wouldn’t accept it.

  Andrew Ryan was selling drugs?

  How could I have been so wrong about him? Had Ryan been dealing the whole time I’d known him? Was there a side to the man that I’d never seen? Or was it all a terrible mistake?

  It had to be a mistake.

  The spaghetti cooled on the table. I had no stomach for food. I had no ear for music. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and the Johnny Favourite band played swing that could make a gulag get up and dance, but it did nothing to brighten my mood.

  The rain fell steadily now, drumming the windows with a soft ticking sound. My Carolina spring seemed very far away.

  I twirled a forkful of pasta, but the smell made something in my stomach recoil.