“Male. Over six feet. Slender. Emaciated, really. Dressed in women’s clothing.”
Armand sat down and closed his eyes, lifting a trembling hand to his forehead. He exhaled.
Not Annie. Not Honoré.
“Seems to be a pre-op transsexual,” the coroner was saying. “He had your name on a piece of paper in his pocket.”
“She,” said Gamache, sighing.
“Sorry?”
“She. Does she have on a pink coat? Frilly?”
“Not anymore. No coat. No boots, no gloves. He—”
“She.”
“She was almost stripped. Do you know her?”
“Was she the only one?” asked Gamache, realizing what this might mean. “Was there anyone else with her when she was found?”
“Another body, you mean?”
“A little girl. About six years old.”
“I don’t know, I was only given this body.”
“Well, check,” said Gamache, fighting to keep from snapping at the coroner. “Please.”
Normally the coroner, new to the job, wouldn’t have taken orders from a stranger on the phone, but this man spoke with such authority he found himself saying, “Just a moment.”
And going to check.
Gamache was put on hold. He got to his feet and paced as he waited. And waited. Finally Dr. Harper came back on.
“No. No little girl. Not in the morgue at least. Are you that Gamache? Head of the Sûreté?”
“I am.”
“Do you know who this body is?”
“I think I do, but I’d have to see her. What did she die of?”
“Looks like an overdose. We’re running tests.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Yessir.”
Armand headed for the door but changed his mind, and, returning to his study, he grabbed some syringes from the locked drawer in his desk.
Then he left.
Gamache stood beside the metal autopsy table, looking over at the clothing, tagged and piled on a side table. Bright purple nylon blouse, bought because it resembled silk, he suspected. Faux-leather miniskirt. Torn fishnet stockings.
Then he turned his attention to the thin body and saw the care she’d taken, for people who wouldn’t care. Her bouffant blond wig was askew. The thick makeup, now smeared, had, that morning, been skillfully applied. Though nothing could cover the scabs and sores on her face.
In that wretched place, she’d made a stab at beauty.
He looked down at the body and felt overwhelming sadness.
The coroner and the technician, on hearing the head of the Sûreté muttering what sounded like the last rites, stepped away.
More from embarrassment than respect for privacy.
Gamache crossed himself and turned to them.
“Her name’s Anita Facial,” he said. When there was the beginning of a guffaw from the technician, he stifled it with a stern look. “Not, of course, her birth name. I don’t know what that is. If you need help finding her next of kin, let me know. I’ll do what I can.”
Gamache noticed the mottled skin, the blue veins. The terror in the eyes, red from burst blood vessels. This was not a blissful death. Anita hadn’t drifted away on a cloud of ecstasy. She had been torn from this life.
“It’s carfentanil,” he said.
“What?” asked the coroner.
“It’s an analogue of fentanyl. An opioid.”
“He’s right, sir,” said the technician, who’d gone to the computer. “We just got the blood work back. He has—”
“She,” said the coroner.
“She has carfentanil in her system. Though not much.”
“Doesn’t take much,” said Gamache.
“Never heard of it,” said Dr. Harper. “You know it? A new opioid?”
“Newish,” said Gamache. “New to the streets.”
The coroner gave a deep sigh and muttered, “Goddamned drugs.”
“May I?” Gamache reached out, then asked permission before touching Anita’s arm.
Her body was marked with what looked like homemade tattoos. Hearts. Butterflies. On the back of one hand was Esprit.
Spirit.
And on the other, Espoir.
Hope.
Esprit. Espoir.
But it was her left forearm that interested him. More writing, in a different, though familiar, hand.
Not a tattoo, it was written in Magic Marker.
David.
And after the name there was a number: 2.
Dr. Harper went over to the computer and said something to the technician, who tapped on a few keys.
“Holy shit,” he said, and turned to the coroner, who studied the screen, then turned to Gamache.
“There’ve been six deaths here in Montréal in the last three days. Four since this morning. All homeless. All junkies. All the same drug. What is this stuff?”
But Gamache didn’t answer. It was rhetorical anyway. The coroner knew exactly what it was. A nightmare.
Gamache felt his chest tighten.
He was too late. It was being released. Six deaths already. He looked over at Anita. Seven.
But still, he hadn’t heard from the undercover cops. Amelia hadn’t found any. So maybe this was the forerunner, a sort of foretaste.
The main body of the drug would be on the streets soon. Perhaps within hours. But not quite yet.
“Can you bring up the autopsy pictures?” Gamache asked, stepping over to the terminal.
They did.
“Zoom in on the left forearms.”
First one, then another. Then another.
“Shit,” said the technician. “We missed that.”
Gamache didn’t respond. He was staring at the images on the screen. They had several things in common.
All junkies. All dead by carfentanil.
All with David written carefully on each left forearm. Though the numbers were, for the most part, different.
“What does it mean?” asked the coroner.
“I have no idea what this means,” said Gamache, still studying the screen.
“So if a kid overdoses on this carfentanil,” the coroner asked, “is there an antagonist? A rescue medication?”
“Naltrexone,” said Gamache. “The Sûreté and local forces are being given it. But—”
But if all the carfentanil was released onto the streets, there wouldn’t be nearly enough rescue drug out there. And not enough time to administer it. Carfentanil killed too fast for much hope of rescue, unless you got there immediately.
Gamache returned to the body of Anita Facial. And heard her soft voice on the message she’d left for him that afternoon.
She’d found the little girl. She’d keep her safe until he came to get her. But he hadn’t. And she hadn’t. And now the girl was still out there. Alone.
In the midnight and the snow!
“‘Christ save us all from a death like this,’” he muttered under his breath as he left the mortuary and returned to his car.
But he knew Christ wasn’t responsible. He was. And prayer, no matter how fervent, wouldn’t stop it.
Once in the privacy of his car, he placed a call.
“What the fuck is it?” came the gravelly voice.
“It’s Gamache.”
“Oh, shit, sorry sir,” the young man whispered. “I shouldn’t be talking.”
“Have you seen any sign of the carfentanil? Any sign at all that it’s hit the streets?”
“No, none. But there’s lots of anticipation.”
“There’s a little girl,” Gamache said. “Red tuque. Five, six years old. I want you to find her.”
“I can’t.”
“This isn’t a request, it’s an order.”
“But, sir, Choquet’s on the move. I think this’s it. I think she’s found him.”
“David?”
“Yes. I can’t talk. If anyone sees…”
Gamache knew it was a terrible risk, calling. No homeless man should be shuffling along and talking on a phone. But now he faced a choice.
The girl or the drug.
But there really was no choice to be made.
“Stay with her,” he said. “We’ll be tracking you. You have the naltrexone?”
“Oui.”
“Good luck,” said Gamache.
He called his counterpart at the Montréal police and alerted him.