Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

“Things could turn ugly.”

“There are seven cops here, Ryan. If Menard’s uncooperative, cuff him.”

“Any threatening move, you hit the deck.”

I saluted smartly.

Ryan’s voice hardened. “I’m serious, damn it. If I say split, you’re gone.”

I rolled my eyes.

“That’s it.” Ryan’s hand moved to restart the engine.

“All right,” I said, pulling on my mittens. “I’ll obey orders. Sir. ”

“No nonsense. This is dangerous work.”

Ryan and I got out and quietly closed our doors.

Overnight the weather had changed. The air felt moist and icy, and heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky.

Seeing us, the stable dog started in. Otherwise, there wasn’t a sign of life on de Sébastopol. No kids sticking pucks. No housewives hauling groceries. No pensioners gossiping on balconies or stoops.

Typical Montreal winter day. Stay indoors, stay in the metro, stay underground. Hunker in and remain sane until spring. The barking sounded all the louder in the overall stillness.

Ryan and I angled across the street. As we approached the Impala, the dynamic duo got out.

Claudel was wearing a tan cashmere overcoat. Charbonneau was in a big shaggy jacket, the composition of which I couldn’t have guessed.

We exchanged nods.

“What’s the plan?” Ryan asked in English.

Claudel spread his feet. Charbonneau leaned his fanny on the Impala.

“One unit will stay here.” Claudel jerked a thumb toward the cruiser at the far end of the block. “I’ll send the other around to de la Congrégation.”

Charbonneau unzipped his parka, shoved his hands in his pockets, jiggled his change.

“Michel’s going to take the back door.”

A walkie-talkie screeched from Charbonneau’s hip. Reaching back, he fiddled with a button.

Claudel’s eyes flicked to me, back to Ryan.

“Brennan knows what to do,” Ryan said.

Claudel’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.

“We’ll show Menard the judge’s Christmas greeting, order him to sit, then toss the place.”

Charbonneau rested a hand on his gun butt. “Wouldn’t ruin my holiday if this pogue decided to pull a Schwarzenegger.”

“All set?” Claudel slipped a two-way from his waistband, rebuttoned his coat.

Nods around.

“Allons-y,” Claudel said.

“Let’s go,” his partner echoed.

Pushing off the Impala, Charbonneau strode toward the far end of de Sébastopol. He spoke to the driver, then the cruiser disappeared around the corner. Charbonneau reversed direction and cut diagonally across the vacant lot.

Thirty seconds later, Charbonneau’s voice came across Claudel’s walkie-talkie. He was at Menard’s back door.

Claudel waved a “come on” to the other team of uniforms.

As we picked our way up the icy walk, Claudel in the lead, Ryan and I following, the second cruiser slid to the curb behind us.

Stumbling along, I felt the same formless dread I’d felt on Friday. Heightened. My heart was now thumping like a conga drum.

At the turn, Claudel stopped and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

I stared at Menard’s house, wondering what it had been like when the real Menard’s grandparents, the Corneaus, owned it. The place was so dark, so menacing. It was hard to imagine chicken being fried, baseball being watched, or kittens chasing balls in its gloomy interior.

Claudel’s radio sputtered. Charbonneau was in position.

We stepped onto the stoop. Ryan twisted the brass knob. The bell shrilled as it had on Friday.

A full minute passed with no response.

Ryan twisted again.

I thought I heard movement inside. Ryan tensed, and one hand drifted toward his Glock.

Claudel unbuttoned his coat.

Still no one appeared.

Ryan twisted the bell a third time.

Absolute stillness.

Ryan pounded on the door.

“Open up! Police!”

Ryan was raising his fist for another go when a muffled shot spit through the silence. Blue-white light popped around the curtain edges in the window to my right.

Claudel and Ryan dropped to identical crouches, weapons drawn. Grabbing my wrist, Ryan pulled me to the ground.

Claudel screamed into his walkie-talkie.

“Michel! Es-tu là? Répet. Es-tu là?”

In a heartbeat Charbonneau’s voice crackled back, “I’m here. Was that gunfire?”

“Inside the house.”

“Who’s shooting?”

“Can’t tell. Any movement back there?”

“Nothing.”

“Hold position. We’re going in.”

“Move!” Ryan gestured me back.

I scrambled to the spot he indicated.

Claudel and Ryan rocketed to their feet and began battering the door, first with their shoulders, then with their boots. It held firm.

In the distance the stable dog flew into a frenzy.

The men kicked harder.

Splinters flew. Slivers of yellowed varnish skittered in the air. The weathered boards held.

More kicking. More cursing. Claudel’s face went raspberry. Ryan’s hairline grew damp.

Eventually I saw movement where the faceplate of the lock screwed into the wood.

Waving Claudel back, Ryan braced, flexed one leg, and thrust it forward in a karate kick. His boot slammed home, the latch bolt gave, and the door flew inward.

“Stay here,” Ryan panted in my direction.

Breathing hard, guns crooked two-handed to their noses, Claudel and Ryan entered the house, one moving left, the other right.

I slipped inside and pressed my back against the wall to the right of the door.

The foyer was dim and still and smelled faintly of gunpowder.

Claudel and Ryan crept down the hall, weapons arcing, eyes and bodies moving in sync.

Empty.

They moved into the parlor.

I moved to the far side of the foyer.

In seconds my eyes adjusted.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“Este!” Claudel lowered his weapon.

Wordlessly, Ryan dropped his elbow and angled his Glock toward the ceiling.

Menard was seated where he’d been on Friday, his body slumped left, his head twisted strangely against the sofa back. His left hand dangled over the armrest. His right lay palm up in his lap, the fingers loosely curled around a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson.

Charbonneau’s voice sputtered on the two-way. Claudel answered.

Ryan and I moved closer to Menard.

Claudel and Charbonneau exchanged excited words. I heard “suicide,” “SIJ,” “coroner.” The rest of their conversation didn’t register. I was mesmerized by the Menard-thing on the sofa.

Menard had a dime-sized hole in his right temple. A stream of blood trickled from its puckered white border.

The exit wound was at Menard’s left temple. Most of that side of his head was gone, spattered on the brass lamp, the dangling crystals, and the floral wallpaper of the hideous room. Mingled with Menard’s cranial wreckage was a macabre gumbo of blood and brain matter.

I felt a tremor under my tongue.

Ryan dragged the Windsor chair as far as from the body as possible, led me to it, and pressed gently on my shoulders. I sat and lowered my head.

I heard the uniformed cops storm in.

I heard Ryan’s voice, shouted orders.

I heard Charbonneau. The word “ambulance.” The name Pomerleau.

I heard doors kicked open as Ryan and the others moved through the house.

To escape the present, I tried to focus on all I would have to do in the future. Reassess the MP lists. Resubmit skeletal descriptors with open age estimates. Obtain DNA samples from Angie Robinson’s family.

It was no good. I couldn’t think. My attention kept drifting back across the room. My eyes roved the hands, the splayed legs, the gun.

The face.

Menard’s freckles stood out like dark little kidneys against the pallid skin. Though his eyes were open, the expression was blank. No pain. No surprise. No fear. Just the empty stare of death.