Monday Mourning

“The kid in the leather shroud?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the broken wrist,” Claudel jumped in. “You were certain the ages are incompatible.”

“I said Angie Robinson was too young and too short to be a match with skeleton 38428. But if Angie lived for some time after her disappearance, that would account for the discrepancies.”

“Explain the strontium and Carbon 14 results to Luc,” Ryan said.

I did.

“And explain the dental sealant again.”

I did.

“Holy shit,” said Charbonneau. “You think Menard followed the news coverage and was inspired by this head case Hooker?”

“Yes. But there’s more. Anique Pomerleau disappeared from Mascouche in 1990 at age fifteen. Friday, Ryan and I saw Pomerleau in Menard’s house.”

“Menard’s been here since eighty-eight,” Charbonneau said.

Claudel tipped back his head and spoke down his nose.

“So based on this story about a girl in a box—”

“The girl has a name.” Claudel’s cynicism was jiggling my switch. “Colleen Stan.”

Claudel’s nostrils tightened.

“So you believe Menard has been holding Anique Pomerleau against her will for a decade and a half? That Angela Robinson and the other females buried in the cellar were also his captives?”

I nodded.

For a few moments no one spoke. Claudel broke the silence.

“Did Anique Pomerleau attempt to escape?”

“No.”

“Did she signal to you in any way that she wanted to leave Menard’s house?”

“She wasn’t wearing a banner that said ‘Help Me,’ if that’s what you mean.”

Claudel arced an eyebrow at Ryan.

“Pomerleau looked pretty scared,” Ryan said."

"“She looked terrified,” I said.

“What exactly did she do?” Charbonneau asked.

“She ducked out of sight as soon as Menard looked at her. Acted like an abused puppy.”

“You think Menard’s holding Pomerleau as some kind of sex slave?” Charbonneau.

“I am not suggesting motive.”

“Bull snakes.” Claudel snorted.

“I’m a little hazy on herpetology, Detective. What exactly does that mean?”

Claudel raised both shoulders and spread his hands. “Any healthy adult capable of doing so would reach out for help.”

“Psychologists disagree,” I snapped. “Apparently you’re not familiar with the Stockholm syndrome.”

Claudel’s outstretched palms turned skyward.

“It’s an adaptation to extreme stress experienced under conditions of captivity and torture.”

The hands dropped to Claudel’s lap. His chin dipped.

“The Stockholm syndrome is seen in kidnap victims, prisoners, cult members, hostages, even abused spouses and kids. Victims seem to consent to, and may even express fond feelings for, their captors or abusers.”

“Weird label,” Charbonneau said.

“The syndrome’s name came from a hostage situation in Stockholm, Sweden, in 1973. Three women and a man were held for six days by two ex-cons robbing a bank. The hostages came to believe the robbers were protecting them from the police. Following their release, one of the women became engaged to one of the captors, another started a defense fund.”

“The defining characteristic is to react to a threatening circumstance with passivity,” Ryan said.

“Lie down and take it.” Charbonneau shook his head.

“It goes beyond that,” I said. “Persons with Stockholm syndrome come to bond with their captors, even identify with them. They may act grateful or even loving toward them.”

“Under what circumstances does this syndrome develop?” Claudel asked.

“Psychologists agree there are four factors that must be present.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “One, the victim feels his or her survival is threatened by the captor, and believes the captor will carry through on the threat. Two, the victim is given small kindnesses, at the captor’s whim.”

“Like letting the poor bastard live,” Charbonneau interjected.

“Could be. Could be brief respites from torture, short periods of freedom, a decent meal, a bath.”

“Sacré bleu.” Charbonneau again shook his head.

“Three, the victim is completely isolated from perspectives other than those of the captor. And four, the victim is convinced, rightly or wrongly, that there is no way to escape.”

Neither Charbonneau nor Claudel said a word.

“Cameron Hooker was a master at this game,” I said. “He kept Stan entombed in a coffin under his bed and usually took her out simply to brutalize her. But now and then he’d allow her periods of freedom. At times she was permitted to jog, to work in the garden, to attend church. Once Hooker even drove her to Riverside to visit her family.”

“Why wouldn’t she just split?” Charbonneau jabbed a hand through his hair, sending the crown vertical.

“Hooker also had Stan convinced he owned her.”

“Owned her?” Charbonneau.

“He showed her a cooked-up contract and told her he’d purchased her as a slave from an outfit called the Company.