Deadly Decisions (32 page)

I
GATHERED THE
C
HEROKEE PHOTOS, AND WE MOVED DOWN THE
hall to a section labeled Imagerie. We’d decided that I would manipulate the image using Adobe Photoshop, since I was familiar with the program. Should that prove inadequate, a technician would help us with more sophisticated graphics software.

We were expected, and the equipment was immediately available. The technician clicked on the scanner, keyed the computer to the proper program, then left us to our task.

I placed the snapshot on the flatbed scanner, cropped to include the full scene, then digitized the image and saved it to the hard drive. Then I opened the file to the Myrtle Beach picnic.

I clicked on Buckle Boy’s face and zoomed in until his features filled the screen. Then I cleaned up the “noise” of dust and cracks, modified the curves that control the contribution of red, green, and blue tones, adjusted the brightness and contrast, and sharpened the edges of the image.

Claudel watched as I worked the keys, silent at first, then making suggestions as his interest grew, despite his initial cynicism. Each correction morphed the highlights, shadows, and midtones, mutating the curves and planes of the face, and bringing out detail invisible in the original shot.

In less than an hour we sat back and studied our work. There could be no doubt. Buckle Boy was, in fact, Yves “Cherokee” Desjardins.

But what did that mean?

Claudel spoke first.

“So Cherokee knew the Osprey girl.”

“Looks that way,” I agreed.

“And Dorsey killed him.” Claudel was thinking aloud. “What do you suppose Dorsey had to trade?”

“Maybe Cherokee killed Savannah and Dorsey knew that.”

“Could she have traveled up here with him?” Again, it was verbalized thought, not conversation.

I pictured the puzzled little face, the wide eyes taking in the world through clock-face lenses. I shook my head.

“Not voluntarily.”

“He could have killed her in Myrtle Beach then displaced the body to Quebec.” This time he was addressing me.

“Why transport it all that way?”

“Less chance of discovery.”

“Does that sound typical of these guys?”

“No.” Behind his eyes I could see confusion. And anger.

“And where’s the rest of her?” I pressed.

“Perhaps he cut off her head.”

“And legs?”

“This is not a question for me.” He flicked at an invisible speck on his sleeve, then straightened his tie.

“And how did she end up buried near Gately and Martineau?”

Claudel did not answer.

“And whose skeleton did they find in Myrtle Beach?”

“That’s one for your SBI friends.”

Since Claudel seemed willing to talk for once, I decided to up the ante. I switched direction.

“Maybe Cherokee’s murder wasn’t a revenge killing at all.”

“I’m not clear where you’re going.”

“Maybe it was connected to the discovery of Savannah’s grave.”

“Maybe.” He checked his watch, then stood. “And maybe I’ll be invited to join the Dixie Chicks. But until then I had better collar some bad guys.”

What was it with the pop music references?

When he’d gone I saved the original and modified versions of the Myrtle Beach snapshot to a compact disc. Then I scanned and
added selections from Kate’s collection, thinking maybe I’d play with the images at home.

Back in my office I called the DNA section, knowing the answer but unable to bear the thought of another stroll through a biker-happy album.

I was right. Gagné was sorry, but the tests I’d requested had not been completed. An ’84 case could not be given high priority, but they hoped to get to it soon.

Fair enough. You jumped the eyeball to the front of the line.

I hung up and reached for my lab coat. At least the slides should be ready.

I found Denis logging cases into the computer in the histology lab. I waited as he read the label on a plastic jar in which chunks of heart, kidney, spleen, lung, and other organs floated in formaldehyde. He made a few keystrokes, then returned the container to the collection on the cart.

When I made my request he went to his desk and brought me a small white plastic box. I thanked him and took it to the microscope in my lab.

Denis had prepared slides from the bone samples I’d brought from Raleigh. I placed a tibial section under the lens, adjusted the light, and squinted through the eyepiece. Two hours later I had my answer.

The samples I’d taken from the tibiae and fibulae in Kate’s unidentified skeleton were indistinguishable histologically from those I’d cut from Savannah’s femora. And each thin section yielded an estimate consistent with Savannah’s age at the time of her disappearance.

Consistent. The favorite word of the expert witness.

Can you state with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that the bones recovered in Myrtle Beach belong to Savannah Claire Osprey?

No, I cannot.

I see. Can you state that the bones recovered in Myrtle Beach come from an individual of exactly the same age as Savannah Claire Osprey?

No, I cannot.

I see. What can you tell this court, Dr. Brennan?

The bones recovered in Myrtle Beach are consistent in histological age and microstructure with other bones identified as belonging to Savannah Claire Osprey.

I clicked off the light and placed the plastic hood over the scope.

It was a start.

•    •    •

After a lunch of vegetarian pizza and a Mr. Big ice cream bar, I reported to Carcajou headquarters. Morin had completed his autopsy and was releasing Dorsey’s body. Jacques Roy had called a meeting to discuss security measures for the funeral, and had requested my presence.

Dorsey’s roots were in a neighborhood just southeast of Centreville, an area of narrow streets and narrower alleys, of crowded flats trimmed with steep stairs and tiny balconies. To the west lies the Main, to the east Hochelaga-Maisonneuve, site of some of the fiercest battles in the current gang war. The district boasts the highest rate of car theft in the city. Unlike most in Montreal, it has no name.

But it has notoriety. The quarter is the heartland of the Rock Machine, and it is home to the Sûreté du Québec. I often gaze onto its streets, its playgrounds, its riverfront, its bridge, for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale sits at its core.

Dorsey’s funeral was to take place not six blocks from our door. Given that, and the fact that the streets would be crawling with local hoods, the police were taking no chances.

Roy used a map of the island to explain the deployment of personnel. The service was to begin at 8
A.M
. Friday at the family parish at Fullum and Larivière. Following Mass, the cortege would move north on Fullum to avenue Mont-Royal, then proceed west and up the mountain to the Cimetière de Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.

Roy outlined the positioning of barricades, cruisers, foot patrolmen, and surveillance personnel, and described the procedures to be followed for the event. The area around the church would be under tight security, side streets blocked at their intersections with Mont-Royal during the funeral procession. The entourage would be limited to the eastbound lanes of Mont-Royal and surrounded by a police escort. Security at the cemetery would also be maximal.

All leaves were canceled. Everyone would report for work on Friday.

The slide show opened to a chorus of
“Sacré bleu!”
and
“Tabernac!”
but the complaints petered out as the screen filled with scenes of funerals past. Frame by frame we observed the cast of characters, smoking on church steps, riding in columns behind flower-laden hearses, clustered at gravesides.

The faces around me shifted from rose to blue to yellow as each new slide dropped into place. The projector hummed and Roy droned on, giving the date and location of each event, and pointing out the relevant players.

The room was warm, and a good portion of my blood had deserted my brain to work on the Mr. Big. After a while I felt myself yielding to the monotony. My upper lids reached for my lower, and the weight of my head approached the carrying capacity of my neck muscles. I began to nod off.

Then the projector clicked again and I was wide awake.

The screen showed bikers at a police road check. Some straddled Harleys, others had dismounted and were milling about. Though all wore the skull and winged helmet of the Hells Angels, I could read only two bottom rockers. One said
Durham
, the other
Lexington.
The words
Metro Police
were visible on a yellow van in the background, but the rest of the identifier was blocked by a bearded figure photographing the photographer. At his side, Cherokee Desjardins stared insolently into the lens.

“Where was that taken?” I asked Roy.

“South Carolina.”

“That’s Cherokee Desjardins.”

“The big chief spent time down South in the early eighties.”

My eyes roved over the pictured group, then came to rest on a bike and rider on the outer edge. His back was turned, his face obscured, but the cycle was visible in full profile. It looked familiar.

“Who’s the guy on the far left?” I asked.

“On the chop job?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t know.”

“I’ve seen that guy in a couple of old photos,” Kuricek offered. “Nothing recent, though. He’s ancient history.”

“What about the bike?”

“A work of art.”

Thanks.

A discussion of Friday’s operation followed the slides. When the investigators had gone I approached Roy.

“Could I borrow that shot of Cherokee Desjardins?”

“Would you prefer a print?”

“Sure.”

“Spot something interesting?”

“I just thought the bike looked familiar.”

“It’s a hummer.”

“Yeah.”

We went to his office and he pulled a file from a metal cabinet, then leafed through until he located the picture.

“They sure as hell don’t all look like this anymore,” he said, handing it to me. “Now some of them wear Versace and own fast-food franchises. Made our job easier when they were drunk and filthy.”

“Did you leave another South Carolina print on my desk in the last couple of days?”

“Not I. Is it something I should see?”

“It’s like the one you just gave me, but it includes the Osprey girl. I’ve shown it to Claudel.”

“Now that’s interesting. I’ll be curious to hear what he says.”

I thanked him and left, promising to return the print.

When I got to the lab I went directly to Imagerie and added the photo to my compact disc. It was just a hunch, probably a dead end, but I wanted to make a comparison.

I left work at four-thirty and swung by the Hôte-Dieu Hospital, hoping LaManche had improved enough to receive visitors. No go. He was still unresponsive, and his doctors were keeping him in cardiac intensive care, with no visitors except immediate family. Feeling helpless, I ordered a small bouquet in the hospital gift shop, and headed for the parking lot.

In the car I turned on the radio and hit scan. The channel selector ran the band, pausing briefly on a local talk show. Today’s topic was the biker war and the upcoming funeral for its latest victim. The host was soliciting comments on police performance. I clicked in to listen.

While opinions varied as to police handling of the gang situation, one thing was clear. Callers were nervous. Whole neighborhoods were being avoided. Mothers were walking their kids to school. Late-night carousers were changing watering holes, looking over their shoulders as they scurried to their cars.

And the callers were angry. They wanted their town released from the threat of these modern-day Mongols.

When I got home Kit was on the phone. He held the mouthpiece to his chest, and informed me that Harry had called from Puerto Vallarta.

“What did she say?”

“Buenos días.”

“Did you get a number?”

“She said she was moving around. But she’ll call again later in the week.”

Then he resumed his conversation, disappearing into his room.

Good going, Harry.

Wasting no time worrying about my sister, I pulled out the print Roy had loaned me and laid it on the table. Then I sorted through Kate’s photos for the shots of Bernard “Slick” Silvestre’s biker funeral down South. I was particularly interested in the graveside scene Kit and I had studied.

I went through the stack three times and came up empty. I checked everything in my briefcase. Then the desk in my bedroom. The papers around my computer. Every folder Kate had given me.

The photos were nowhere to be found.

Puzzled, I stuck my head into Kit’s room to ask if he’d borrowed them.

He hadn’t.

O.K., Brennan. Play the remembering game. When did you last see them?

Saturday night with Kit?

No.

Sunday morning.

In the hands of Lyle Crease.

The anger hit me like a sucker punch, sending heat up my neck, and curling my fingers into fists.

“Goddammit! Sonovabitch!”

I was furious with Crease and more furious with myself. Living alone, I had gotten into the habit of working investigative material at home, a practice discouraged by the lab. Now I was missing a piece of potential evidence.

Slowly, I calmed down. And I recalled something a detective once told me while working a homicide in Charlotte. Media vans surrounded the charred suburban colonial where we were bagging what remained of a family of four.

“Our free press is like a sewer system,” he said, “sucking in everyone and grinding them to shit. Especially those who ain’t paying attention.”

I hadn’t paid attention, and now I would have to retrieve those photos.