Part 1 (1/2)
Deadly decisions.
Kathy Reichs.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
Many people helped me in writing Deadly Decisions Deadly Decisions. Particularly patient were my colleagues in forensic science and law enforcement. I owe heartfelt thanks to Sergeant Guy Ouelette, Division of Organized Crime Unit, Surete du Quebec, and to Captain Steven Chabot, Sergent Yves Trudel, Caporal Jacques Morin, and Constable Jean Ratte at Operation Carcajou in Montreal.
Among the Communaute Urbaine de Montreal Police, Lieutenant-detective Jean-Francois Martin, Division des Crimes Majeurs; Sergent-detective Johanne Berube, Division Agressions s.e.xuelles; and Commandant Andre Bouchard, Moralite, Alcool, et Stupefiant, Centre Operational Sud, patiently answered my questions and explained the functioning of police units. Special thanks must go to Sergent-detective Stephen Rudman, Superviseur, a.n.a.lyse et Liaison, Centre Operational Sud, who answered many questions, provided maps, and took me through the jail.
Of my colleagues at the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale I must thank Dr. Claude Pothel for comments on pathology, and Francois Julien, Section de Biologie, for his demonstration of blood-spatter patterning. Pat Laturnus, Bloodstain Pattern a.n.a.lyst at the Canadian Police College in Ottawa, also helped with this expertise, and provided photos for cover design.
In North Carolina, I would like to thank Captain Terry Sult of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Intelligence Unit; Roger Thompson, Director of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department Crime Laboratory; Pam Stephenson, Senior a.n.a.lyst, Intelligence and Technical Services, North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation; Gretchen C. F. Shappert, United States Attorney General's Office; and Dr. Norman J. Kramer, Mecklenburg Medical Group.
Others who gave of their time and knowledge include Dr. G. Clark Davenport, Geophysicist with NecroSearch International; Dr. Wayne Lord, National Center for the a.n.a.lysis of Violent Crime, FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia; and Victor Svoboda, Director of Communication for the Montreal Neurological Inst.i.tute and the Montreal Neurological Hospital. Dr. David Taub was my Harley-Davidson guru.
I am indebted to Yves St. Marie, Directeur, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Medecine Legale; Dr. Andre Lauzon, Responsable, Laboratoire de Medecine Legale; and to Dr. James Woodward, Chancellor of the University of North Carolina at Charlotte for their continued support.
Special thanks go to Paul Reichs for his valuable comments on the ma.n.u.script.
As always I want to thank my extraordinary editors, Susanne Kirk at Scribner, and Lynne Drew at Random House, and my slam-dunk agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh.
Though I benefited greatly from the advice of experts, any errors in Deadly Decisions Deadly Decisions are strictly of my making. are strictly of my making.
1.
HER NAME WAS E EMILY A ANNE. SHE WAS NINE YEARS OLD, WITH black ringlets, long lashes, and caramel-colored skin. Her ears were pierced with tiny gold loops. Her forehead was pierced by two slugs from a Cobra 9-mm semiautomatic. black ringlets, long lashes, and caramel-colored skin. Her ears were pierced with tiny gold loops. Her forehead was pierced by two slugs from a Cobra 9-mm semiautomatic.
It was a Sat.u.r.day, and I was working by special request of my boss, Pierre LaManche. I'd been at the lab for four hours, sorting badly mangled tissue, when the door to the large autopsy room opened and Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel came striding in.
Claudel and I had worked together in the past, and though he'd come to tolerate, perhaps even appreciate me, one would not infer that from his brusque manner.
”Where's LaManche?” he demanded, glancing at the gurney in front of me, then quickly away.
I said nothing. When Claudel was in one of his moods, I ignored him.
”Has Dr. LaManche arrived?” The detective avoided looking at my greasy gloves.
”It's Sat.u.r.day, Monsieur Claudel. He doesn't wo-”
At that moment Michel Charbonneau stuck his head into the room. Through the opening I could hear the whir and clank of the electric door at the back of the building.
”Le cadavre est arrive,” Charbonneau told his partner. Charbonneau told his partner.
What cadaver? Why were two homicide detectives at the morgue on a Sat.u.r.day afternoon?
Charbonneau greeted me in English. He was a large man, with spiky hair that resembled a hedgehog's.
”Hey, Doc.”
”What's going on?” I asked, pulling off my gloves and lowering my mask.
Claudel answered, his face tense, his eyes cheerless in the harsh fluorescent light.
”Dr. LaManche will be here shortly. He can explain.”
Already sweat glistened on his forehead, and his mouth was compressed into a thin, tight line. Claudel detested autopsies and avoided the morgue as much as possible. Without another word he pulled the door wide and brushed past his partner. Charbonneau watched him walk down the corridor, then turned back to me.
”This is hard for him. He has kids.”
”Kids?” I felt something cold in my chest.
”The Heathens struck this morning. Ever hear of Richard Marcotte?”
The name was vaguely familiar.
”Maybe you know him as Araignee Araignee. Spider.” He curled his fingers like a child doing the waterspout rhyme. ”Great guy. And an elected official in the outlaw biker set. Spider is the Vipers sergeant at arms, but he had a real bad day today. When he set out for the gym around eight this morning the Heathens blasted him in a drive-by while his ole lady dove for cover in a lilac bush.”
Charbonneau ran a hand backward through his hair, swallowed.
I waited.
”In the process they also killed a child.”
”Oh, G.o.d.” My fingers tightened around the gloves.
”A little girl. They took her to the Montreal Children's Hospital, but she didn't make it. They're bringing her here now. Marcotte was DOA. He's out back.”
”LaManche is coming in?”
Charbonneau nodded.
The five pathologists at the lab take turns being on call. Rarely does it happen, but if an off-hours autopsy or visit to a death scene is deemed necessary, someone is always available. Today that was LaManche.
A child. I could feel the familiar surge of emotions and needed to get away.
My watch said twelve-forty. I tore off my plastic ap.r.o.n, balled it together with the mask and latex gloves, and threw everything into a biological waste container. Then I washed my hands and rode the elevator to the twelfth floor.
I don't know how long I sat in my office, staring at the St. Lawrence and ignoring my carton of yogurt. At one point I thought I heard LaManche's door, then the swish of the gla.s.s security doors that separate portions of our wing.
Being a forensic anthropologist, I've developed some immunity to violent death. Since the medical examiner turns to me to derive information from the bones of the mutilated, burned, or decomposed, I've seen the worst. My workplaces are the morgue and autopsy room, so I know how a corpse looks and smells, how it feels when handled or cut with a scalpel. I'm accustomed to b.l.o.o.d.y clothing drying on racks, to the sound of a Stryker saw cutting through bone, to the sight of organs floating in numbered specimen jars.