Deadly Decisions (5 page)

Emily Anne had arrived shortly after noon.

Since I needed space, I’d chosen the large autopsy room. I’d rolled the gurneys with the bomb victim remains to the center of the room and was attempting to construct corpses on two tables. Being Saturday, I had the place to myself.

I had identified and sorted all visible bone fragments. Then, using the X rays, I’d pulled the fragments containing bone, and dissected the tissue to search for landmarks. Wherever I found duplicates I divided them between the tables. Two left pubic tubercles, or mastoid processes, or femoral condyles meant two different individuals.

I’d also spotted evidence of a childhood growth problem in some of the long bone fragments. When health is compromised, a child stops growing and skeletal development goes on hold. Such interruptions are usually caused by disease, or by periods of inadequate diet. When things get better, growth resumes, but the stoppages leave permanent markers.

The X rays were showing opaque lines on numerous splinters of
arm and leg bones. The narrow bands ran transversely across the shafts and indicated periods of arrested growth. I placed tissue with affected fragments on one table, and tissue with normal bone on the other.

One of the tangles of shattered flesh contained several hand bones. When I teased them out I spotted two metacarpals with irregular shafts. These lumpy areas showed increased density when X-rayed, suggesting one of the victims had broken these fingers at some time in the past. I set that tissue aside.

Tissue without bone was a different matter. With that I studied the adherent fabric, working backward from the sorted tissue, matching threads and fibers from one table or the other to the pieces of tissue remaining on the gurneys. I thought I could make out a woven plaid, khaki of the kind found in work pants, denim, and white cotton. Later, experts from the hair and fiber section would do a full analysis to see if they could corroborate my matches.

Following lunch and my discussion with LaManche, I went back to the bomb victims. By five-fifteen I’d divided approximately two thirds of the tissue. Without DNA I saw no hope of associating the remaining fragments with specific individuals. I’d done what I could do.

I’d also set a goal for myself.

As I’d waded through the Vaillancourt body parts I’d found it hard to empathize with the persons I was reconstructing. In fact, I felt annoyance at having to do it. These men had been blown up while preparing to blow up others. A rough justice had prevailed, and I felt more bafflement than regret.

Not so with little Emily Anne. She was lying on LaManche’s autopsy table because she’d been walking to dance class. That reality was not acceptable. The death of an innocent child could not be dismissed as an incidental casualty of maniacal warfare.

Vipers could kill Heathens, and Outlaws murder Bandidos. Or Pagans. Or Hells Angels. But they must not kill the innocent. I pledged to myself that I would apply every forensic skill I could muster, and however many hours I was able, to develop evidence to identify and convict these homicidal sociopaths. Children had a right to walk the streets of the city without being cut down by bullets.

I transferred the sorted remains back to the gurneys, rolled them to refrigerated compartments, scrubbed, and changed to street clothes. Then I rode the elevator to search out my boss.

•    •    •

“I want to work this,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “I want to nail these bastard child killers.”

The tired old eyes stared at me for what seemed a very long time. We’d been discussing Emily Anne Toussaint. And the other youngster. A boy.

Olivier Fontaine had been on his way to hockey practice when he pedaled too close to a Jeep Cherokee just as the driver turned the key. The bomb exploded with enough force to blast shrapnel into Olivier’s body, killing him instantly. It happened on his twelfth birthday.

Until seeing Emily Anne I’d forgotten about the Fontaine murder. That incident had taken place in December of 1995 on the West Island, and involved the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine. Olivier’s death had raised a cry of public outrage, which led to the creation of Opération Carcajou, the multiagency task force devoted to the investigation of biker crime.

“Temperance, I can’t—”

“I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll work on my own time, between cases. If Carcajou is like everyone else they’re probably short-handed. I could do data entry or historic case searches. I could liaison among agencies, maybe work links to intelligence units in the U.S. I cou—”

“Temperance, slow down.” He held up a hand. “This is not something I am in a position to do. I will speak with Monsieur Patineau.”

Stéphane Patineau was director of the LSJML. He made final decisions for the crime and medico-legal labs.

“I will not let any involvement with Carcajou interfere with my normal duties.”

“I know that. I promise I will speak with the director first thing Monday morning. Now go home.
Bonne fin de semaine.
”

I wished him a good weekend, too.

•    •    •

Quebec winters end much differently from those in the Carolina Piedmont. Back home spring slips in gently, and by the end of March and the beginning of April flowers begin to bloom and the air is soft with the warmth of summertime emerging.

Les québécois wait six weeks longer to plant their gardens and window boxes. Much of April is cool and gray, and the streets and sidewalks glisten with melted ice and snow. But when spring appears it does so with breathtaking showmanship. The season explodes, and the populace responds with an enthusiasm unmatched on the planet.

Today that vernal performance was weeks away. It was dark and a light rain was falling. I zipped my jacket, lowered my head, and made a dash for the car. The news came on as I was entering the Ville-Marie Tunnel, the Toussaint murder the lead story. That night Emily Anne was to have received an award in a lower-school writing competition. She’d titled her winning essay: “Let the Children Live.”

I reached over and turned off the radio.

I thought of my plans for the evening and was glad I’d have someone to buoy my spirits. I vowed not to talk shop with Ryan.

Twenty minutes later I opened my apartment door to the sound of a ringing phone. I glanced at my watch. Six-fifty. Ryan would be here in forty minutes and I wanted time for a shower.

I walked to the living room and threw my jacket on the couch. The machine clicked on and I listened to my voice request a short message. Birdie appeared at the exact moment Isabelle came on.

“Tempe, if you’re there, pick up.
C’est important.
” Pause.
“Merde!”

I really didn’t want to talk but something in her voice made me reach for the handset.

“Hello, Isa—”

“Turn on the television. CBC.”

“I know about the Toussaint child. I was at the lab—”

“Now!”

I picked up the remote and clicked on the set.

Then I listened in horror.

“. . . Lieutenant-détective Ryan had been under investigation for several months. He has been charged with possession of stolen goods and with trafficking and possession of controlled substances. Ryan surrendered peacefully to CUM officers this afternoon outside his home in the Old Port. He has been suspended from duty without pay pending a full investigation.

“And now some other stories that we’ve been following. In financial news, the proposed merger of—”

“T
EMPE!”

Isabelle’s bark snapped me back. I raised the receiver to my ear.

“C’est lui, n’est-ce pas? Andrew Ryan, Crimes contre la Personne, Sûreté du Québec?”

“It’s got to be a mistake.”

As I said the words my eyes flew to the message light. Ryan hadn’t called.

“I’d better go. He’ll be here soon.”

“Tempe. He’s in jail.”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I hung up and dialed Ryan’s apartment. No answer. I called his pager and entered my number. No response. I looked at Birdie. He had no explanation.

By nine I knew he wasn’t coming. I’d called his home seven times. I’d phoned his partner, with the same result. No answer. No response.

I tried grading the final exams I’d brought from UNC-Charlotte, but couldn’t concentrate. My thoughts kept going back to Ryan. Time would pass and I’d find myself staring at the same essay in the same blue book, my mind absorbing nothing the student had written. Birdie nestled in the crook of my knees, but it was small comfort.

It couldn’t be true. I couldn’t believe it.
Wouldn’t
believe it.

At ten I took a long, hot bubble bath, zapped a carton of frozen spaghetti, and took it to the living room. I chose CDs I hoped would cheer me, and placed them in the player. Then I tried reading. Birdie joined me again.

No good. Same loop. Pat Conroy might as well have been printed in Nahuatl.

I’d seen Ryan’s image on the screen, hands cuffed behind his back, uniformed cops on either side. I’d watched them angle his head forward as he bent to slide into the cruiser’s backseat. Still, my mind wouldn’t accept it.

Andrew Ryan was selling drugs?

How could I have been so wrong about him? Had Ryan been dealing the whole time I’d known him? Was there a side to the man that I’d never seen? Or was it all a terrible mistake?

It had to be a mistake.

The spaghetti cooled on the table. I had no stomach for food. I had no ear for music. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and the Johnny Favourite band played swing that could make a gulag get up and dance, but it did nothing to brighten my mood.

The rain fell steadily now, drumming the windows with a soft ticking sound. My Carolina spring seemed very far away.

I twirled a forkful of pasta, but the smell made something in my stomach recoil.

Andrew Ryan was a criminal.

Emily Anne Toussaint was dead.

My daughter was somewhere on the Indian Ocean.

I often phone Katy when I’m feeling down, but for the past few months that had been difficult. She was spending her spring on
Semester at Sea, circling the world aboard the S.S.
Universe Explorer.
The ship wouldn’t return for another five weeks.

I took a glass of milk to my bedroom and cracked the window and stared out, thoughts swirling like five o’clock traffic.

The trees and bushes looked like black shadows through the dark glistening mist. Beyond them I could see headlights and the shimmer of neon from the corner
dépanneur.
Now and then cars swooshed by, or pedestrians hurried past, their heels clicking on the wet sidewalk.

So routine. So normal. Just another rainy night in April.

I let the curtain fall back and crossed to my bed, doubting my world would return to normal for a very long time.

•    •    •

I spent the next day in constant activity. Unpacking. Cleaning. Shopping for food. I avoided radio and television, glanced only briefly at the paper.

The
Gazette
featured the Toussaint murder:
SCHOOLGIRL KILLED IN BLOODY SHOOT-OUT.
Beside the headline was a blowup of Emily Anne’s fourth-grade photo. Her hair was braided and bowed at both ends with large pink ribbons. Her smile showed gaps that adult dentition would never have the chance to fill.

The picture of Emily Anne’s mother was equally heartbreaking. The camera had caught a slim black woman with her head thrown back, mouth wide, lips curled inward in a cry of agony. Mrs. Toussaint’s knees were buckled, her hands clasped below her chin, and on either side, a large black woman supported her. Unspeakable grief screamed from the grainy image.

The story gave few details. Emily Anne had two younger sisters, Cynthia Louise, age six, and Hannah Rose, age four. Mrs. Toussaint worked in a bakery. Mr. Toussaint had died in an industrial accident three years earlier. Born in Barbados, the couple had immigrated to Montreal, seeking a better life for their daughters.

A funeral Mass would be celebrated Thursday at 8
A.M.
at Our Lady of the Angels Catholic Church, followed by burial at the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery.

I refused to read or listen to reports about Ryan. I wanted to
hear from him. All morning I left messages on his machine, but got no response. Ryan’s partner, Jean Bertrand, had also gone incommunicado. I could think of nothing else to do. I was certain no one at the CUM or SQ would talk about the situation, and I knew none of Ryan’s family or friends.

After a trip to the gym, I cooked a dinner of chicken breasts with prune sauce, glazed carrots with mushrooms, and saffron rice. My feline companion would no doubt have preferred fish.

•    •    •

Monday morning I rose early, drove to the lab, and went directly to see LaManche. He was in conference with three detectives, but told me to talk with Stéphane Patineau as soon as possible.

Wasting no time, I headed down the corridor containing the offices of the medico-legal staff and the anthropology, odontology, histology, and pathology labs. Passing the Section des Documents on my left and the Section d’Imagerie on my right, I continued to the main reception area and turned left into the wing housing the administrative personnel of the LSJML. The director’s office was at the very back.