“Dammit!” I slapped the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.
Ryan and Katy were out of my reach, but I could do something about my nephew. I vowed to have it out with Kit before the sun set.
Or rose, I thought, turning onto the ramp that led under my building. I had no idea how late he’d get in, but resolved to wait up.
It wasn’t necessary.
“Hey, Auntie T,” he greeted me when I entered the condo, as did the aroma of cumin and turmeric.
“Something smells good,” I said, dropping my briefcase in the entrance hall.
My nephew and cat were sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by remnants of that morning’s Gazette. The Sony PlayStation had been reattached to the TV and wires squiggled across the floor.
“I stopped by La Maison du Cari. Figured it was my turn to cook.”
He’d removed his earphones and draped them around his neck. I could hear the tinny sounds of the Grateful Dead.
“Great. What did you get?”
“Uno momento.”
He swung his feet to the floor and tossed the headset onto the couch. Bird bolted at the sudden proximity to Jerry Garcia. Kit retrieved a receipt from the kitchen and read off nine items.
“Are you expecting your state legislature?”
“No, ma’am. I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got a cross section of regional cuisines.”
He pronounced the last in an accent that mimicked perfectly that of the restaurant’s owner.
“Don’t you worry. We’ll graze right through it,” he added, reverting to Texan.
“Let me change and then we’ll eat.”
“Wait. First you gotta see this.”
He dug through the scattered Gazette and came up with the front section. Opening to a middle page, he folded the paper in half and handed it to me, indicating a headline.
PRISONER SLAIN IN GANG ASSASSINATION
The article summarized the facts surrounding the Dorsey murder, referring to him as a prime suspect in the execution-style killing of Yves “Cherokee” Desjardins. It described Dorsey as a Heathens associate, Cherokee as a member of the Predators, though inactive in recent years.
The story went on to speculate that Dorsey’s death may have been ordered in retaliation for the Desjardins killing, and recounted the murders of the Vaillancourt twins, Richard “Spider” Marcotte, and Emily Anne Toussaint. It reported that Dorsey’s funeral would be held as soon as the coroner released the body.
The piece concluded by stating that the authorities were concerned that an escalation in violence was on the horizon, and that the Dorsey funeral might be used as an opportunity for revenge by Heathens sympathizers. Police would be taking extra precautions in the coming weeks.
I looked up to see Kit regarding me intently.
“It would be rockin’ to go to that funeral.”
“No way.”
“The cops will have these guys so boxed in they’ll be like altar boys heading to Mass.”
“No.”
“The bikes will be solid Harley.”
“You’re not going anywhere near that funeral.”
“All that juice pounding along in formation.” He mimicked steering handlebars. “Rolling thunder.”
“Kit.”
“Yeah?” His eyes were bright as a Pentecostal zealot’s.
“I don’t want you there.”
“Aunt Tempe, you worry too much.”
How many times had Katy said that?
“I’ll throw on jeans, then let’s have dinner. I want to ask you about something.”
I broached the subject during dessert.
“A Carcajou investigator came to see me today.”
“Yeah?” Kit scraped the top off then scooped a spoonful of rice pudding.
“You’re supposed to eat the frosting.”
“It looks like silver.”
“It is.”
I was stalling.
“He brought a set of police surveillance photos.”
A quizzical look. More pudding.
“Of you.”
My nephew lowered his chin and raised his brows.
“The pictures were taken at the Galveston County fairgrounds. You’re with members of the Bandidos motorcycle club.”
“Uh-oh,” he said, giving a goofy grin. “Hanging out with bad companions.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Hang out with the Bandidos?”
“Just that once. But the big kids made me do it.”
“This isn’t funny, Kit! You were caught on film with drug dealers!”
He lay down his spoon and gave me another brilliant smile. I did not return it.
“Aunt Tempe. I go to flea markets. Bikers go to flea markets. Sometimes we go to the same flea markets. We talk about Harleys. That’s all it is.”
“The detective said you’d been arrested on a drug charge.” I forced myself to speak calmly.
He slumped back and threw out his legs.
“Oh, great. That shit again.”
“What shit?”
“Jesus. You’d think I was supplying a preschool.” His voice was hard, the humor gone.
I waited.
“I bought a ten-dollar bag for a friend because she left her wallet at home. Before I could give her the weed a cop pulled me over for an illegal left and found the stuff in my pocket. How’s that for a seasoned dope dealer?”
“Why did the cop search you?”
“I’d had a little beer.”
He scuffed at the rug with one big toe. A long thin toe, knobby at the joints, oblong under the nail. My father’s big toe. As I looked at him my heart ached. Every cell in his body reminded me of Daddy.
“All right, I’d had a lot of beer. But I don’t do drugs. I told you that. Christ, you’re acting just like my father.”
“Or any concerned parent.” Love and anger battled for control of my voice.
“Look, I did my community service and went to their lame substance abuse program. Aren’t you people ever going to ease up?”
With that he lurched from the chair and slouched out of the room. In seconds I heard the slam of the guest room door.
Well-done, Brennan. Take a gold star for effective parenting.
I cleared the table, repackaged the uneaten portions of food, loaded the dishwasher, and tried Howard’s number.
No answer.
Damn you, Harry, for not telling me about this. And damn you for being in Mexico.
I tried Isabelle, hoping to ask about Lyle Crease.
Machine.
I spent the rest of the evening with the Pat Conroy book I’d laid down a week earlier. Nothin’ could be finer than to be in Carolina.
• • •
Predictably, Kit was sleeping when I left for work. This day, I attended the morning meeting.
When I returned to my office, Claudel was there.
“Figure out who killed Dorsey?” I asked as I threw the morning’s case log on the desk.
He gave me a look that could freeze molten lava, then held out an envelope.
I sat, unlocked my desk drawer, and handed him the Myrtle Beach photo.
“Where did you say this came from?”
“I didn’t.” I gave him the lens. “Because I don’t know.”
“It just appeared?”
“Yes.”
His eyes roved the print.
“I noticed it yesterday. I can’t say for certain when it arrived on my desk.”
After several seconds the lens froze and he drew closer to it. Then, “You’re talking about the man next to Z. Z. Top?”
“Show me,” I said, surprised at the musical reference. I would have pegged Claudel as strictly classical.
He turned the photo and pointed.
“Yes. The girl next to him is Savannah Osprey.”
Back to the lens.
“You’re sure?”
I dug out the yearbook portrait Kate had given me. He studied it, then the picnic sho
t, going back and forth like a fan at Wimbledon.
“You’re right.”
“What about Buckle Boy?”
He indicated the envelope in my hand. “Desjardins was a large man before his illness.”
I shook out the photos and Claudel circled the desk so we could view them together.
Large was an understatement. The partially headless form I’d seen in the chair was a feeble reminder of the body that once had housed Cherokee Desjardins. Before cancer had parched his innards, and drugs and chemo had done their magic, the man had been massive, though in a spongy, gut-bulging sort of way.
The file photos spanned a period of years. Beards came and went and the hairline crept backward, but the belly and facial features changed little.
Until the cancer struck.
Six months before his death Cherokee was a shadow of his former self, bald and death-camp thin. Had the picture been unlabeled, I would not have recognized the subject as the same man.
As I studied the face from shot to shot I remembered an old Brando quote. I have eyes like those of dead pig, the aging actor had said of himself.
Not to worry, Marlon. They served you well. This guy looked merely baleful, and mean as a pack dog with a stolen flank steak.
But try as we might we could not determine for sure if our late but unlamented Cherokee was the one wearing the buckle at Myrtle Beach.
I GATHERED THE CHEROKEE 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 fac
t 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.”