KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

I researched a number.

Dialed.

Worked my way through a dazzling hierarchy of voice mail choices.

When a nice lady finally answered, I made my inquiry. She asked me to hold.

I held.

In a while the nice lady came back on the line.

They had one source that might be of help.

Far from optimistic, I headed out.

Montreal has many libraries, both English and French. The Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, or the Grande Bibliothèque, is the newest, having opened in April of 2005. Located on Boulevard de Maisonneuve, near the Université du Québec à Montréal campus, the massive glass and steel structure houses Quebec’s largest collection of recent, rare, and old editions, multimedia documents, reference materials, maps and prints. Auditorium. Exhibition hall. Café. Boutique. Bien sûr! It’s all there pour vous at the BAnQ.

Following the nice telephone lady’s instructions, I climbed to the first floor, walked to the north wing, and passed through doors marked Collection nationale . Bellying up to a counter, I asked for assistance.

Hands on bony hips, a not quite so nice lady listened to my request, frown deepening with my every word. When I’d finished, she told me I’d need to obtain a library membership. When I returned, card in hand, she indicated a set of microfilm readers and told me to wait.

Ten minutes later, she reappeared carrying a tray filled with small gray and yellow boxes. With an expression of gothic gloom, she asked if I knew how to spool.

I assured her I’d practically majored in spooling.

Telling me there was additional microfilm going back to 1897, she took her leave.

I checked labels. The dates ran from 1948 to 1964, the year the Progrès du Saguenay ended publication.

Deciding to start with the newspaper’s most recent editions, I spooled up the first reel. The film scratched softly as I cranked backward through time: 1964. 1963. 1962.

The black-and-white images floated in and out of focus. At first I went slowly, checking every page. As my skill grew, I was able to zip through the irrelevant, focusing solely on news and obits.

After an hour I felt a twinge behind one eye. After two a kettle drum was banging fortissimo.

I looked at the tray. Only a billion little boxes to go.

Was my idea crazy?

Maybe. But I had to look. Had to satisfy myself I’d done everything possible.

Threading a new film leader, I began winding through the first half of 1958.

Just past midway, I found what I was after.

Recherche pour les Victimes Noyées Suspendue-

Search for Drowning Victims Suspended

As with Briel’s report, I translated as I read.

July 21, 1958. Following a week of intense effort, the search has ended for four victims still missing and presumed dead following a boating disaster on Lac Saint-Jean. A memorial marker will be erected in honor of three of the dead, Louise-Rosette, Melanie, and Claire Clemenceau, in the cemetery at Sainte-Monique during a brief ceremony Thursday at 1 p.m. The public is invited.

A boating accident. Missing bodies. Lac Saint-Jean.

Excitement jangled every nerve in my body.

A full marching band had now taken the field in my frontal lobe, so I’d fallen into a rhythm of fast-forwarding and periodically pausing to skim. Obviously the hit-and-run approach had been inadequate. I’d missed the initial coverage.

Like the phalanges. And the tetracycline staining.

I rubbed my eyes. Rolled my shoulders.

Drowning. That would mean spring or summer.

Rewinding to April, I began anew.

July 14. The incident was reported in heartrending detail.

Tragédie de Pique-nique-Picnic Tragedy

The headline topped an article taking up most of page 4 below the fold.

On July 13, 1958, a congregation from the small town of Sainte-Monique had held its annual picnic at Parc de la Pointe-Taillon. As was customary, activities had included pontoon rides out onto Lac Saint-Jean.

An afternoon thunderstorm had barreled in with such speed and ferocity, the boaters hadn’t had a chance to react. The pontoon had capsized far from shore. Two men had survived. Four adults and five children had not. A man, a woman, and two little girls remained unaccounted for.

Heart hammering, I looked at the names and ages.

Richard Blackwater, 37

Louise-Rosette Clemenceau, 45

Melanie Clemenceau, 13

Claire Clemenceau, 7

I jotted the names and ages of those not recovered, and the date and location of the incident. Then, ignoring my throbbing head, I picked my way through the rest of 1958, reading every word, no matter the size of the print.

On the Tuesday following the incident, the first three victims had been buried, also in the Sainte-Monique cemetery.

Another article ran on July 16. The piece was brief, stating that the last two drowning victims had been laid to rest.

I pushed on.

After search efforts ended on July 21, there was no further mention of the tragedy. Or of the missing victims.

I sat back, staring at my notes.

It all fit. The PMI. The profile. The adult male’s cheekbones and incisors. I was willing to bet the farm Blackwater was an aboriginal name.

Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” boomed from my purse. After an eon of fumbling, I found and disarmed my cell.

When I looked up, the not so nice library lady was closing in, face pinched into a murderous scowl. Mouthing “Sorry,” I gathered my things. Unimpressed, the dragon waited, then bird-dogged me to the door.

Outside, darkness was settling over the city. Car windows were steamed, turning passengers and drivers into murky silhouettes. A damp wind skulked up de Maisonneuve, teasing trash and carrying with it the scent of oil and salt from the river.

Before pulling on my gloves, I checked my list of missed calls.

The number was Ryan’s.

He answered right away. Adamski was at Wilfrid-Derome. He and Claudel would begin with him shortly.

Why SQ turf? Though Marilyn Keiser was reported missing in Montreal, and her case fell to the city cops, the possible link to the Villejoin sisters, perhaps Rose Jurmain, meant the Sûreté du Québec owned a piece of the action. At Ryan’s suggestion, Claudel had agreed to conduct the interrogation at SQ rather than SPVM headquarters. Courtesy. Separate forces. Neither detective outranked the other. Besides, Adamski thought he was a person of interest because of Florian Grellier’s link to Christelle Villejoin.

I wondered. Hadn’t Adamski questioned why he was being hauled to Montreal by a city cop? If so, I was sure Ryan and Claudel had covered that detail.

I picked up the pace.

When I arrived on the fourth floor of Wilfrid-Derome, Ryan and Claudel were viewing Adamski on a monitor in an observation room. Both wore expressions of disgust.

Claudel swiveled when I entered, then looked a question at Ryan.

“Dr. Brennan has offered to share her impressions,” Ryan said. We all knew I had no official reason to be present.

Claudel hitched one shoulder.

“How will you go at him?” I asked, noting several files in Ryan’s hand.

“First we’ll focus on the Villejoin murders. During the plane ride, Detective Claudel may have implied our reason for wanting Adamski was to shine a light on Florian Grellier.”

“The guy who fingered Adamski for revealing the location of Christelle Villejoin’s body.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You told Adamski you’re investigating Florian Grellier?” That surprised me.

“Hey. It’s not Detective Claudel’s fault if the witness mistook his meaning. Anyway, we’ll start with Grellier and Villejoin. Then Jurmain and Keiser will come at him like two tons of high-grade manure.”