Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

Ryan reappeared wearing the Santa hat and carrying a cage the size of a gym. Inside, a cockatiel clung to an undulating swing.

Ryan placed the cage on my coffee table, dropped next to me on the couch, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The cockatiel regarded us as it swung back and forth in decreasing arcs.

“Merry Christmas,” Ryan said. “Charlie, meet Tempe.”

The swing settled. Charlie checked me out, first with his left eye, then with his right.

“I can’t have a bird. I’m away far too much.”

Charlie hopped from the swing to his seed dish.

Across the room, Birdie rose, tail puffed, eyes fixed on the cockatiel.

“Birdie, meet Charlie,” Ryan said to my cat.

Birdie oozed across the carpet, a miniature white leopard on a predawn stalk. Placing forepaws on the coffee table, Bird craned toward the cage, tail flicking only at its tip.

Charlie raised his crown, tipped his head at Birdie, then refocused on his seed.

“He’s beautiful, Ryan.” He really was. Soft yellow head, pearl gray body.

Jumping to the tabletop, Birdie placed his paws in a square, sat, and stared at the cockatiel.

“It’s a lovely idea, Ryan, but it won’t work.”

Bright orange cheek patches.

Birdie settled into his sphinx position, paws curled inward, eyes locked on the bird.

Soft white stripes on his wings.

Birdie began to purr. I looked at him, astounded.

“Bird likes him,” Ryan said.

“I can’t commute by air with a cat and a bird.”

“I have a plan.”

I looked at Ryan.

“Live with me.”

“What?”

“Move in with me.”

I was in shock. The idea of cohabitation had never crossed my mind.

Did I want to live with Ryan?

Yes. No. I had no idea.

I tried to think of a suitable reply. “Maybe” lacked a certain style, while “No” seemed rather final.

Ryan didn’t push.

“Plan B. Joint custody. When you’re down South, Charlie bunks with me.”

I looked at the cockatiel.

He really was beautiful.

And Bird liked him.

I stuck out a hand. “Agreed.”

Ryan and I shook.

“In the meantime, plan A remains on the table.”

Live with Ryan?

Maybe, I thought.

Just maybe.

That afternoon I decided to visit my office. I’d been there about an hour when my phone rang.

“Dr. Brennan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Pamela Lindahl. I’m the social services psychiatrist assigned to assure that Tawny McGee receives appropriate assessment and care. Will you be in your office another forty-five minutes?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come by for a brief visit. Would you ask security to pass me through?”

“Certainly.”

As soon as the call concluded I wished I hadn’t agreed. Though I recognized the importance of supplying all available information to the caregivers, I didn’t feel up to recalling or recounting the depravity, the evil of what I had seen. I thought about phoning Dr. Lindahl back and telling her not to come, then gave in to a sense of duty, contacted security, and began a mental checklist of what I could tell the doctor.

Forty minutes later there was a knock on my door.

“Entrez.”

A small, dark-haired girl wearing a trench coat and a brown beret stepped into the room, followed by an older, hatless woman in wool. A moment of confusion, then recognition.

“Hello, Tawny,” I said to the girl, coming around my desk and extending both hands.

Tawny shrank back slightly and did not raise her arms.

I clasped my hands in front of me and said, “I’m very glad to see you. I wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

At first, no response, then, “You saved my life.” More hesitation. Then, speaking slowly, “I asked for this visit because I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see that I am a person, not a creature in a cage.”

This time when I stepped toward her Tawny held her ground. I enveloped her in a hug and pressed the side of my head to hers. Feelings for Tawny and Katy and young women everywhere, adored or abused, overwhelmed me and I began to weep. Tawny did not cry, but she did not pull away.

I released her and stepped back, taking hold of her hands.

“I never thought of you as other than a person, Tawny, and neither do the people who are helping you now. And I’m sure your family is very anxious to have you back with them.”

She looked at me, dropped her hands to her sides, and stepped back.

“Good-bye, Dr. Brennan.” Her face was without expression, but there was a depth to her eyes that differed from the blank stare of earlier days.

“Good-bye, Tawny. I am so very happy you came.”

Dr. Lindahl smiled in my direction, and the two women exited.

I fell back into my chair, exhausted but uplifted.

40

THE HOLIDAYS CAME AND WENT. THE SUN ROSE AND SET ON A winter of Mondays.

In one of the dozens of boxes taken from the de Sébastopol basement, investigators found a journal. The journal contained names. Angela Robinson, Kimberly Hamilton, Anique Pomerleau, Marie-Joëlle Bastien, Manon Violette, Tawny McGee.

LSJML-38427 was identified as Marie-Joëlle Bastien, a sixteen-year-old Acadian from Bouctouche, New Brunswick, who’d gone missing in the spring of 1994. Over the years her file had been misplaced, her name deleted from the MP lists. My age and height estimates suggested Marie-Joëlle died soon after her capture.

Dr. Energy’s girl was identified as Manon Violette, a fifteen-year-old Montrealer who’d disappeared in the fall of 1994, six months after Marie-Joëlle Bastien. Manon’s skeletal age and height suggested she’d survived in captivity for several years.

By March, the bones of Angie Robinson, Marie-Joëlle Bastien, and Manon Violette were returned to their families. Each was laid to rest in a quiet ceremony.

Kimberly Hamilton was never located.

Anne and Tom-Ted plunged full-tilt boogie into counseling. She took golf lessons. He bought gardening books. Together they planted a godzillion azaleas.

I had no further contact with Tawny McGee. She spent weeks in intensive in-patient therapy, eventually moved home to Maniwaki. It would be a long road back, but doctors were optimistic.

Anique Pomerleau’s photo went out across the continent. Dozens of tips were received by the CUM and SQ. Pomerleau was sighted in Sherbrooke. Albany. Tampa. Thunder Bay.

The hunt continues.

For Anique Pomerleau.

For Kimberly Hamilton.

For all the lost girls.

From the Forensic Files

of Dr. Kathy Reichs

For legal and ethical reasons I cannot discuss any of the real-life cases that may have inspired Monday Mourning, but I can share with you some experiences that contributed to the plot.

The weather was sunny and shirt-sleeve mild that week in September in Montreal. An Indian summer hiccup before the nine-month freeze.

Friday, September 14, was created for hiking the mountain, playing tennis, or biking the path along the Lachine Canal. Instead, I got a call to report to the lab.

The case was waiting when I arrived, Demande d’Expertise en Anthropologie on my desk, bones on the counter. I went straight to the form and scanned the information.

LSJML number. Morgue number. Police incident number. Investigating officer. Coroner. Pathologist. Description of specimens: fragmentary skeletal remains. Expertise requested: biological profile, manner of death, postmortem interval.

I looked at the three brown paper bags sealed with red evidence tape.

Right.

According to the summary of known facts, the episode began with a backed-up toilet in a pizza-by-the-slice joint. Plunger failing, the frustrated proprietor called in help. While banging pipes, the plumber spotted a trapdoor behind the commode.