Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

I stripped off my gloves and turned to Ryan as Lisa made a Y-shaped incision on the infant’s chest.

“Are the scene photos here?”

“Just the backups.”

He handed me a large brown envelope containing a set of Polaroids. I took them to the corner desk.

The first showed the largest of the outbuildings at the chalet in St-Jovite. The style was that of the main house: Alpine Tacky. The next photo was taken inside, shot from the top of a staircase looking downward. The passage was dark and narrow, with walls on both sides, wooden handrails on the walls, and junk heaped at both ends of each step.

There were several pictures of a basement taken from different angles. The room was dim, the only light coming from small rectangular windows close to the ceiling. Linoleum floor. Knotty pine walls. Washtubs. A hot water heater. More junk.

Several photos zoomed in on the water heater, then on the space between it and the wall. The niche was filled with what looked like old carpets and plastic bags. The next pictures showed these objects lined up on the linoleum, first unopened, then laid out to expose their contents.

The adults had been wrapped in large pieces of clear plastic, then rolled in rugs and stacked behind the water heater. Their bodies showed abdominal bloating and skin slippage, but were well preserved.

Ryan came and stood over me.

“The water heater must have been off,” I said, handing him the picture. “If it was running the heat would have caused more decomposition.”

“We don’t think they were using that building.”

“What was it?”

He shrugged.

I went back to the Polaroids.

The man and woman were both fully dressed, though barefoot. Their throats had been cut and blood saturated their clothing and stained the plastic shrouds. The man lay with one hand thrown back, and I could see deep slashes across his palm. Defense wounds. He had tried to save himself. Or his family.

Oh, God. I closed my eyes for a moment.

With the infants the packaging had been simpler. They were bundled in plastic, placed in garbage bags, then stuffed in above the adults.

I looked at the little hands, the dimpled knuckles. Bertrand was right. There would be no defense wounds on the babies. Grief and anger merged in my mind.

“I want this son of a bitch.” I looked up into Ryan’s eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I want you to get him, Ryan. I mean it. I want this one. Before we see another baby butchered. What good are we to anyone if we can’t stop this?”

The electric blues stared straight back. “We’ll get him, Brennan. No doubt about that.”

I spent the rest of the day riding the elevator between my office and the autopsies. It would take at least two days to complete them since LaManche was doing all four victims. This is standard procedure in multiple homicides. Using one pathologist provides coherence in a case, and ensures consistency in testimony if it goes to trial.

When I looked in at one o’clock Mathias had been rolled back to the morgue cooler and the autopsy of the second infant was under way. The scene we’d played out in the morning was taking place again. Same actors. Same setting. Same victim. Except this one wore a bracelet that spelled out M-A-L-A-C-H-Y.

By four-thirty Malachy’s belly had been closed, his tiny skullcap replaced, his face repositioned. Save for the Y-incisions and the mutilation to their chests, the babies were ready for burial. As yet we had no idea where that would be. Or by whom.

Ryan and Bertrand had also spent the day coming and going. Prints had been taken from both boys’ feet, but the smudges on hospital birth records are notoriously unreadable, and Ryan was not optimistic about a match.

The bones in the hand and wrist represent over 25 percent of those in the skeleton. An adult has twenty-seven in each hand, an infant far fewer, depending on its age. I’d examined X-rays to see which bones were present and how well they were formed. According to my estimate, Mathias and Malachy were about four months old when they were killed.

This information was released to the media, but, aside from the usual loonies, there was little response. Our best hope lay with the adult bodies in the cooler. We were sure that when the identities of the adults were established, those of the children would follow. For the present the infants remained Baby Malachy and Baby Mathias.

8

ON FRIDAY I SAW NEITHER RYAN NOR BERTRAND. LAMANCHE spent all day downstairs with the adult corpses from St-Jovite. I had the babies’ ribs soaking in glass vials in the histology lab. Any grooves or striations that might be present would be so tiny I didn’t want them damaged by boiling or scraping, and I couldn’t risk introducing nicks with a scalpel or scissors, so all I could do at that point was periodically change the water and tease off flesh.

I was glad for the temporary lull in the level of activity, and was using the time to finalize my report on Élisabeth Nicolet, which I’d promised that day. Since I had to return to Charlotte on Monday, I planned to examine the ribs over the weekend. If nothing else came up, I thought I could get everything that was pressing done before Monday. I had not counted on the call I took at ten-thirty.

“I am very, very sorry to call you like this, Dr. Brennan.” En-glish, spoken slowly, each word chosen with care.

“Sister Julienne, it’s nice to hear from you.”

“Please. I apologize for the calls.”

“The calls?” I riffled through the pink slips on my desk. I knew she’d phoned back Wednesday, but thought it was a follow-up on our earlier conversation. There were two other slips with her name and number.

“I’m the one who should apologize. I was tied up all day yesterday, and didn’t check my messages. I’m sorry.”

There was no response.

“I’m writing the report now.”

“No, no, it’s not that. I mean, yes, of course, that is terribly important. And we are all anxious . . .”

She hesitated, and I could picture her dark brows deepening the perpetual frown she wore. Sister Julienne always looked worried.

“I feel very awkward, but I don’t know where to turn. I’ve prayed, of course, and I know God is listening, but I feel I should be doing something. I devote myself to my work, to keeping God’s archives, but, well, I have an earthly family too.” She was forming her words precisely, shaping them like a baker molding dough.

There was another long pause. I waited her out.

“He does help those who help themselves.”

“Yes.”

“It’s about my niece, Anna. Anna Goyette. She’s the one I spoke of on Wednesday.”

“Your niece?” I couldn’t imagine where this was going.

“She’s my sister’s child.”

“I see.”

“She’s . . . We’re not sure where she is.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She’s normally a very thoughtful child, very reliable, never stays out without calling.”

“Uh-huh.” I was beginning to get the drift.

Finally, she blurted it out. “Anna didn’t come home last night and my sister is frantic. I’ve told her to pray, of course, but, well . . .” Her voice trailed off.

I wasn’t sure what to say. This was not where I’d expected the conversation to go.

“Your niece is missing?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re worried, perhaps you should contact the police.”

“My sister called twice. They told her that with someone Anna’s age their policy is to wait forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

“How old is your niece?”

“Anna is nineteen.”

“She’s the one studying at McGill?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded tense enough to saw metal.

“Sister, there’s really noth . . .”