We should go to Greece.
Uh-huh.
Mykonos has some primo nude beaches. Exaggerated wink.
In your dreams, Ryan.
Oh, yeah.
Wandering Eye brought menus and inquired about beverages. Ryan asked for a Moosehead. I went with Perrier and lime. When the drinks came I ordered Mediterranean bass. Ryan chose snapper.
Tell me about the Villejoin investigation, I said, wanting to avoid the perilous terrain of personal issues. Or shared nudity.
Ryans smile morphed to a frown. He took a pull of beer and set down his mug.
Anne-Isabelle was eighty-six. Christelle was eighty-three. Both were spinsters.
Unmarried, I corrected.
Right. They had lived with their parents in Pointe-Calumet. Serge Villejoin died in sixty-nine, Corine in seventy-seven. At that time the property went to the sisters.
I couldnt imagine an entire life played out in one house. Did I find such stability depressing or reassuring? I was too exhausted to gauge.
Both worked as nurses assistants. Anne-Isabelle retired in ninety-three, Christelle in ninety-six. After that the ladies pretty much stayed home, puttering in their garden, raising cats, crocheting gewgaws for church bazaars.
What church?
Sainte-Marie du Lac in Pointe-Calumet.
Our fish arrived. We squeezed lemon, helped ourselves to beans and veggies, then ate in silence. Ryan broke it.
A bazaar took place on May four, 2008. That was a Saturday. Normally the sisters would have walked the two blocks to the church, but they had a box of items for donation, so a neighbor offered to pick them up. Reaching back, Ryan pulled a small spiral notebook from his jacket and checked a name. Yves Renaud. Forty-seven. A nurse at the Jewish General.
I waited while Ryan took several forkfuls of fish.
According to Renauds statement, he arrived at the Villejoin house around noon. He found it odd that two cats were wandering loose in the yard, since the animals were strictly indoor pets. He called out, got no answer, knocked, peeked through a window, yadda, yadda. Finally he tried the front door and found it unlocked.
Were the women security conscious?
Renaud didnt know.
Did they have an alarm system?
No. Renaud entered the foyer, called out again, heard nothing. He was about to leave when a third cat strolled by with blood on its nose. Suspicious, he looked around. The vic was on the kitchen floor with a pulverized face.
I noticed the subtle shift. Anne-Isabelle was now the vic. It was a distancing technique employed by cops. No names. I could tell the case disturbed Ryan greatly.
Did you view the photos? I asked gently.
Ryan nodded then wagged his head, as though movement could dislodge the horrific images.
The room looked like a scene from a slasher movie.
Recover a weapon?
Ryan snorted his disgust. The bastard beat her to death with her own cane.
The perp brought nothing with him. That could suggest lack of premeditation.
But a savage level of anger, which was triggered by something. Every bone in the womans face was broken. So were the jaw, the right collarbone, most ribs, and both lower-right arm bones. But you probably know that. This was carnage beyond just killing.
We fell silent, thoughts pointed at the same ugly question. What monster could savage an eighty-year-old woman?
I assume there was follow-up on Renaud?
LaManche did the post. Based on stomach contents and state of decomp, he put time of death at twenty-four to thirty hours. Renaud worked that Friday from seven until four. Coworkers and patients put him at the Jewish all day.
Ryan refocused on snapper. Through a window behind him, I watched flakes swirl light coning from a streetlamp on Guy.
When Ryans fish was only bone, he laid down his utensils and leaned back. The younger sister simply vanished.
She didnt just vanish. Something was done to her. I remember the search. The publicity was massive.
And fruitless. No one on the block had heard or seen a thing. Canvassing turned up zip. Ditto for phone checks. The vics had no credit cards and werent computer savvy, so those avenues didnt exist. One neighbor thought he remembered Christelle talking about some distant cousins up in the Beauce. Those folks were never found. Local kids shoveled the snow, cut the grass, that sort of thing. The womens only known associates were either people in the immediate vicinity or members of the parish. Every last one alibied out.
Wasnt there something about a bank card?
That was the only lead. On five May, around eighteen thirty hours, a withdrawal was made from Christelles savings account at the Bank of Montreal.
Made where?
Ryan referred to the spiral. An ATM at four-two-five-oh Ontario East.
Thats out east, near the Olympic stadium. Miles from Pointe-Calumet. Did the sisters have a car?
No.
Was the transaction caught on video?
No. The camera was down for three hours that night.
I thought a minute. If LaManche is right about PMI, Anne-Isabelle was already dead by six p.m.
Yes. Tight. We missed the perps photo due to a technical glitch.
Did Anne-Isabelle have an account?
Both sisters used the same one.
Ryan drained the last of his beer. For a moment his thumb played over sweat fogging the outside of his mug. When his eyes met mine they were hard with resolve.
Im going to get this prick.
A fleck of foam hung on Ryans lip. I fought an urge to wipe it away.
I know you will, I said.
By eight a.m. there were sixty-seven centimeters blanketing the ground. Twenty-six inches. On any scale, thats a lot of snow.
Montreal is a champ at handling storms, but this time the city was brought to its knees. Between crowing about broken records, newscasters reported that only a handful of buses and metros were running. The airport was down. Church services were canceled. Businesses that normally operated on Sunday were closed.
Later it would become clear that most of the populace rose, looked out their windows, and crawled back into bed. God or the boss would understand.
I wasnt quite so complacent. I wanted to get to the lab to complete my analysis of the Oka bones.
After a breakfast of coffee, Grape-Nuts, and yogurt, I pulled on boots, donned my Kanuk, muffler, and mitts, and headed out, hoping to make it to the underground two blocks away.
No plow had ventured onto my street. No early riser had shoveled the walks. Why bother? The snow was thigh high and still coming down, the flakes tiny now, icy bullets that stung my face and bounced off my jacket.
On Sainte-Catherine, vehicles lining the curbs looked like lumpy white hedgerows. No buses. No cars. No pigeons. No people. Nothing moved. The hood was as deserted as Times Square in
Vanilla Sky
.
I arrived at the metro panting and perspiring inside my parka. A handwritten sign was taped to the grimy glass of the ticket booth.
Coupure de courant non programmée. Problčme électrique
. Unscheduled
outage. Electrical problem. Below the words, the author had drawn a smiley face with a downturned mouth.
Picture friggin perfect. I was talking to myself again.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my building. As I turned into the corridor leading to my condo, I noticed a ziplock tucked behind the door knob.
Pulling off a mitt, I dislodged and checked the contents of the bag. Five small blobs, dry, crumbly, dark brown-black.
I unsealed the plastic and sniffed.
Excrement.
Asshole! The word echoed down the empty hall.
My neighbor Sparky had pulled this before. Once it was soiled litter, once a dead sparrow.
I definitely needed to vent.
After flushing the turds, I dialed my sister, Harry, in Houston.
I told her about Sparkys latest stunt.
She repeated my expletive, adding a modifier.
I told her about the snow.
Doesnt ole blue eyes have a Jeep?
I cant crawl to Ryan every time I have a problem.
Jeeps run in snow.
So do Ski-Doos, but Im not phoning Snowmobile Patrol.
Is that a real thing?
Whatever. What are you doing?
Weeding my garden. Its so hot here the trees are bribing the dogs. Got to get at it early.
That made me feel worse. I said nothing.
What else is new? Harry asked.
I told her about Chicago, Cukura Kundze, and Ryans sudden appearance at Vecamammas house. Then I described the mysterious phone call to the late Edward Allen Jurmain.
What kind of dipshit would pull something like that?
I intend to find out. It has to be somebody very nearby.
That why your knickers are in a twist to work on a Sunday?
Mentioning no names, I told her about the Villejoin sisters. She didnt interrupt. My sister can be impetuous, at times aggravating, but shes a crackerjack listener.
When I finished, Harry took a moment to respond.
Gran was eighty-one when she died.
She was.
You working this thing with Ryan?
Yes.
When you catch the bastard, do me a favor?
I waited.
Fry his balls.
I couldnt disagree with baby sisters suggestion.
15
MONDAY I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF PLOWS BLASTING TRIPTYCH warnings to overnight parkers.
Wreep! Wreep! Wreep!
Déplacez votre voiture! Move your car! Move your ass!
Though the media were reporting that most main arteries were clear, through a side window I could see that my block still looked like a postcard from Finland. I knew the same scene was playing on side streets and alleys all over town. Shovels would be flying, and those whod failed to relocate their vehicles would now do so only after heavy-duty lifting. Hospital ERs would be hopping.
Knowing traffic would be brutal and parking would involve angling ass-end into waist-high snowbanks, I opted for mass transit. Today my Nanook trek paid off. I rode standing shoulder to armpit with commuters smelling of wet wool and sweat.
At Édifice Wilfrid-Derome, small white mountains hid the fences surrounding the parking lots. Cars were wedged into every square millimeter of cleared pavement. Those blocking others had notes below their wipers. Courtesy? Or excuses to leave early?
Elevator talk was all about the storm.
La tempęte de neige
.
Upstairs at the LSJML it was business as usual. Except in the medico-legal section. There, nothing had been usual since LaManche dropped his bomb one sparkling Friday in September.
Blocked coronary vessels. Bypass surgery in October. Medical leave until the new year.
In addition to myself and LaManche, the three other pathologists had been present that day. Michael Morin. Natalie Ayers. Emily Santangelo. So was Marc Bergeron, the labs consulting odontologist. Wed all sat stunned.
Sure, the chief had suffered a pesky episode a few years back. But hed recovered quickly. Once again arrived first each morning, turned the lights off at night. Triple bypasses were for frail, old men. LaManche was only fifty-eight.
I remember meeting LaManches hound dog gaze. Dropping my eyes. Glancing out the window. This cant be real, I thought. The day is too beautiful. Irrational, but thats what I thought.
The following week, LaManche raised the issue of a temporary replacement. The decision was quick and unanimous. Ours was a congenial unit. Thered be no stand-in. Until the boss returned the pathologists would assign cases and make administrative decisions by consensus. The extra workload would be equally shared.
And thats how it was working, three months down the road.
Sort of.
After shedding my substantial outerwear, I snapped on a lab coat and headed to the staff lounge. At the exit from our wing, where the hall makes a turn, I passed a closed and locked door. Venetian blinds allowed a peek of an empty desk.
Beside the dark office, an erasable board announced daily staff whereabouts.
Congé de maladie
was scribbled in the box beside LaManches name. Sick leave.
A lead weight settled in my heart.
The surgery went well. Hell be fine
.
Still, the silent office and the Magic Marker entry gave me shivers.
LaManche had always been there for me, a voice of wisdom and reason. Of compassion and perspective earned by decades of working with the dead and with the bereaved left behind. That voice was now banished because of bum piping.
LaManche isnt old
. Agitated, I swiped my card, missed, swiped again. The glass panels whooshed open.
Its not fair
.
Lifes not fair
. Grans favorite retort zinged at me from the past.
Screw capricious fate. I couldnt imagine the LSJML without LaManche. Didnt want to.
Though the lounge was deserted, the puddled floor told me others had already been there. Dropping coins into an honor box, I poured coffee translucent as smoky quartz.
Back in the medico-legal wing, I hurried to the far end of the corridor. My watch said nine ten. Morning meeting usually kicks off at nine.
