Catholic, but currently I don’t belong to a church.”
The ghostly eyes looked into mine.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”
* * *
After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Bélanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.
It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.
The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.
During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.
I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.
I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.
The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.
“Brennan, if you’re there, pick up. This is important.” Pause. “There’s been a development in the St-Jovite case.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “When we tossed the outbuildings we found four more bodies behind a stairway.” I could hear him pull smoke deep into his lungs, release it slowly. “Two adults and two babies. They’re not burned, but it’s grisly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to go into details, but we’ve got a whole new ball game, and it’s a shitpot. See you tomorrow.”
R YAN WASN ’ T ALONE IN HIS REVULSION. I HAVE SEEN abused and starved children. I have seen them after they were beaten, raped, smothered, shaken to death, but I had never seen anything like what had been done to the babies found in St-Jovite.
Others had received calls the night before. When I arrived at eight-fifteen several press vans had taken up stations outside the SQ building, windows fogged, exhaust billowing from tailpipes.
Although the workday normally begins at eight-thirty, activity already filled the large autopsy room. Bertrand was there, along with several other SQ detectives and a photographer from SIJ, La Section d’Identité Judiciare. Ryan hadn’t arrived.
The external exam was under way, and a series of Polaroids lay on the corner desk. The body had been taken to X-ray, and LaManche was scribbling notes when I entered. He stopped and looked up.
“Temperance, I am glad to see you. I may need help in establishing the age of the infants.”
I nodded.
“And there may be an unusual”—he searched for a word, his
The ghostly eyes looked into mine.
“Do you believe in God?”
“Dr. Jeannotte, there are some days I don’t believe in tomorrow morning.”
* * *
After I left, I swung by the library and spent an hour browsing the history books, skimming indexes for Nicolet or Bélanger. I found several in which one or the other name was listed, and checked them out, thankful I still had faculty privileges.
It was growing dark when I emerged. Snow was falling, forcing pedestrians to walk in the street or follow narrow trails on the sidewalks, carefully placing one foot in front of the other to keep out of the deeper snow. I trudged behind a couple, girl in front, boy behind, his hands resting on her shoulders. Ties on their knapsacks swung back and forth as hips swiveled to keep feet inside the snow-free passage. Now and then the girl stopped to catch a snowflake on her tongue.
The temperature had dropped as daylight had faded, and when I got to the car, the windshield was coated with ice. I dug out a scraper and chipped away, cursing my migratory instincts. Anyone with any sense would be at the beach.
During the short drive home I replayed the scene in Jeannotte’s office, trying to figure out the curious behavior of the teaching assistant. Why had she been so nervous? She seemed in awe of Jeannotte, beyond even the customary deference of an undergraduate. She mentioned her trip to the copy machine three times, yet when I’d met her in the hall she had nothing in her hands. I realized I’d never learned her name.
I thought about Jeannotte. She’d been so gracious, so totally composed, as if used to being in control of any audience. I pictured the penetrating eyes, such a contrast to the tiny body and soft, gentle drawl. She’d made me feel like an undergraduate. Why? Then I remembered. During our conversation Daisy Jean’s gaze didn’t leave my face. Never once did she break eye contact. That and the eerie irises made a disconcerting combination.
I arrived home to find two messages. The first made me mildly anxious. Harry had enrolled in her course and was becoming a guru of modern mental health.
The second sent a chill deep into my soul. I listened, watching snow pile up against my garden wall. The new flakes lay white atop the underlying gray, like newborn innocence on last year’s sins.
“Brennan, if you’re there, pick up. This is important.” Pause. “There’s been a development in the St-Jovite case.” Ryan’s voice was tinged with sadness. “When we tossed the outbuildings we found four more bodies behind a stairway.” I could hear him pull smoke deep into his lungs, release it slowly. “Two adults and two babies. They’re not burned, but it’s grisly. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t want to go into details, but we’ve got a whole new ball game, and it’s a shitpot. See you tomorrow.”
R YAN WASN ’ T ALONE IN HIS REVULSION. I HAVE SEEN abused and starved children. I have seen them after they were beaten, raped, smothered, shaken to death, but I had never seen anything like what had been done to the babies found in St-Jovite.
Others had received calls the night before. When I arrived at eight-fifteen several press vans had taken up stations outside the SQ building, windows fogged, exhaust billowing from tailpipes.
Although the workday normally begins at eight-thirty, activity already filled the large autopsy room. Bertrand was there, along with several other SQ detectives and a photographer from SIJ, La Section d’Identité Judiciare. Ryan hadn’t arrived.
The external exam was under way, and a series of Polaroids lay on the corner desk. The body had been taken to X-ray, and LaManche was scribbling notes when I entered. He stopped and looked up.
“Temperance, I am glad to see you. I may need help in establishing the age of the infants.”
I nodded.
“And there may be an unusual”—he searched for a word, his
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