We hung up and I called US Airways to arrange for a morning flight. As I was replacing the receiver Craig Beacham appeared in the doorway. I explained about Quickwater.
"Constable?"
"He's RCMP Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Or GRC if you prefer French. Gendarmerie royale du Canada."
"Um. Huh."
Craig punched in a number and asked about the constable's whereabouts. After a pause he jotted something down and hung up.
"Your guy's in a major case management session in one of the conference rooms down here." He offered the number he'd written, then gave me directions. "Just slide in and take a seat. They'll probably break at three."
I thanked him, and wormed my way through the halls until I'd located the room. Muffled voices came through the closed door
My watch said two-twenty. I turned the knob and slipped in.
The room was dark save for the beam of a projector and the apricot glow of an illuminated slide. I could make out half a dozen figures seated around a central table. Some heads turned in my direction as leased into a chair against the side wall. Most eyes stayed fixed on the screen.
For the next thirty minutes I saw LaManche's premonition brought to life in horrifying detail. A bombed-out bungalow, tissue spattered on the walls, body parts strewn across the lawn. A female torso, face a red mass, skull bones mushroomed by a shotgun blast. The blackened chassis of a sports utility vehicle, one charred hand dangling from a rear window.
A man seated to the right of the projector commented about biker gang wars in Chicago as he clicked through the presentation. The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn't make out the features.
More shootings. Explosions. Stabbings. Now and then I scanned the silhouettes around the table. Only one had hair that was not closely cropped.
Finally, the screen blazed white. The projector hummed and dust motes floated in its beam. Chairs squeaked as their occupants stretched and reoriented toward one another.
The speaker rose and crossed to the wall. When the overhead lights came on I recognized him as Special Agent Frank Tulio, a graduate of the recovery course from years back. He spotted me, and a smile spread across his face.
"Tempe. How's it hanging?"
Everything about Frank was precise, from his razor-cut gray hair, to his compact body, to his immaculate Italian-made shoes. Unlike the rest of us, throughout the bug and body exercises Frank had remained perpetually well groomed.
"Can't complain. Are you still with the Chicago office?"
"Up until last year I'm here now, assigned to CIRG."
Every eye was focused on us, and I was suddenly conscious of my current state of cleanliness and coiffure. Frank turned to his colleagues.
"Does everyone know the great bone doctor?"
As Frank made introductions, those around the table smiled and nodded. Some I recognized, others I did not. One or two made jokes about past episodes in which I'd played a role.
Two of those present were not affiliated with the academy. The fuller hair I'd spotted belonged to Kate Brophy, supervisor of the Intelligence Unit of North Carolina's State Bureau of Investigation. Kate had been the SBI's expert on outlaw motorcycle gangs for as long as I could remember We'd met in the early eighties when the Outlaws and Hells Angels were at war in the Carolinas. I'd identified two of the victims.
At the far end of the table a young woman typed on what looked like a stenotype machine. Next to her Martin Quickwater sat behind a laptop computes His face was broad, with high cheekbones, and eyebrows that angled up at the ends. His skin was the color of fired brick.
"I'm sure you two foreigners know each otherjsaid Frank.
"Actually, we don't," I said. "But that's why I'm intruding. I need to speak to Constable Quickwater."
Quickwater graced me with approximately five seconds of attention, then his eyes went back to his computer screen.
"Good timing. We're ready for a break." Frank looked at his watch, then crossed back to click off the projector "Let's get some caffeine and regroup at three-thirty."
As the agents filed past me one of the members of NCAVC made an exaggerated show of squaring his fingers and peering through, as though focusing on me through a viewfinder. We'd been friends a decade and I knew what was coming.
"Nice do, Brennan. Do you get a deal from your lawn man? Hedges and hair trims, one price?"
"Some of us do real work, Agent Stoneham."
He moved on, laughing.
When only Quickwater and I were left, I smiled and began a fuller introduction.
"I know who you are," said Quickwater in softly accented English.
His abruptness surprised me, and I fought back an equally impolite rejoinder Perhaps being sweaty and uncombed had made me touchy.
When I explained that LaManche had been trying to reach him, Quickwater slipped his pager from his belt, checked the screen, then tapped it hard against his hand. Shaking his head and sighing, he reattached the device to his waistband.
"Batteries," he said.
The constable watched me intently as I repeated what LaManche had said. His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. When I'd finished, he nodded, then turned and left the room.
I stood a moment, wondering at the man's odd demeanor Terrific. I not only had two vaporized bikers to piece together, I now had Constable Congenial as an associate.
I picked up my pack and headed back to the woods.
No problem, Mr Quickwater I've cracked tougher nuts than you.
Chapter 3
The trip to Montreal was uneventful, except for an overt snub by Martin Quickwater. Though we were on the same flight, he did not speak to me or move to one of the empty seats in my row. We nodded at Washington-Reagan, then again as we waited in the customs line at Montreal's Dorval. His coolness suited me. I really didn't want to deal with the man.
I took a taxi to my condo in Centreville, offloaded luggage, and zapped a frozen burrito. My old Mazda turned over after three tries, and I headed to the city's east side.
For years the forensic lab had been located on the fifth floor of a structure known as the SQ building. The provincial police, or Sureté du Québec, had the rest of the floors, except for my office and a detention center on the twelfth and thirteenth. The morgue and autopsy rooms were in the basement.
The Quebec government had recently spent millions to renovate the building. The jail was relocated, and the medico-legal and crime labs now sprawled throughout the top two floors. It had been months since the move, but I still couldn't believe the change. My new office had a spectacular view of the St. Lawrence River, and my lab was first-rate.
At three-thirty on Friday the normal weekday hustle and bustle were beginning to taper off. One by one doors were closing, and the army of lab-coated scientists and technicians was dwindling.
I unlocked my office and hung my jacket on the wooden hall tree. Three white forms lay on my desk. I selected the one with LaManche's signature.
The "Demande d'Expertise en Anthropologie" is often my first introduction to a case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it provides data critical to tracking a file.
My eyes drifted down the right-hand column. Lab numben Morgue number. Police incident number. Clinical and efficient. The body is tagged and archived until the wheels of justice have run their course.
I shifted to the left column. Pathologist. Coroner. Investigating offices Violent death is the final intrusion, and those who investigate it are the ultimate voyeurs. Though I participate, I am never comfortable with the indifference with which the system approaches the deceased and the death investigation. Even though a sense of detachment is a must to maintain emotional equilibrium, I always have the feeling that the victim deserves something more passionate, more personal.
I scanned the summary of known facts. It differed from LaManche's telephone account in only one respect. To date, two hundred and fifteen remnants of flesh and bone had been recovered. The largest weighed eleven pounds.