Monday Mourning

Es-tu là?”

In a heartbeat Charbonneau’s voice crackled back, “I’m here. Was that gunfire?”

“Inside the house.”

“Who’s shooting?”

“Can’t tell. Any movement back there?”

“Nothing.”

“Hold position. We’re going in.”

“Move!” Ryan gestured me back.

I scrambled to the spot he indicated.

Claudel and Ryan rocketed to their feet and began battering the door, first with their shoulders, then with their boots. It held firm.

In the distance the stable dog flew into a frenzy.

The men kicked harder.

Splinters flew. Slivers of yellowed varnish skittered in the air. The weathered boards held.

More kicking. More cursing. Claudel’s face went raspberry. Ryan’s hairline grew damp.

Eventually I saw movement where the faceplate of the lock screwed into the wood.

Waving Claudel back, Ryan braced, flexed one leg, and thrust it forward in a karate kick. His boot slammed home, the latch bolt gave, and the door flew inward.

“Stay here,” Ryan panted in my direction.

Breathing hard, guns crooked two-handed to their noses, Claudel and Ryan entered the house, one moving left, the other right.

I slipped inside and pressed my back against the wall to the right of the door.

The foyer was dim and still and smelled faintly of gunpowder.

Claudel and Ryan crept down the hall, weapons arcing, eyes and bodies moving in sync.

Empty.

They moved into the parlor.

I moved to the far side of the foyer.

In seconds my eyes adjusted.

My hand flew to my mouth.

“Este!” Claudel lowered his weapon.

Wordlessly, Ryan dropped his elbow and angled his Glock toward the ceiling.

Menard was seated where he’d been on Friday, his body slumped left, his head twisted strangely against the sofa back. His left hand dangled over the armrest. His right lay palm up in his lap, the fingers loosely curled around a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson.

Charbonneau’s voice sputtered on the two-way. Claudel answered.

Ryan and I moved closer to Menard.

Claudel and Charbonneau exchanged excited words. I heard “suicide,” “SIJ,” “coroner.” The rest of their conversation didn’t register. I was mesmerized by the Menard-thing on the sofa.

Menard had a dime-sized hole in his right temple. A stream of blood trickled from its puckered white border."

"The exit wound was at Menard’s left temple. Most of that side of his head was gone, spattered on the brass lamp, the dangling crystals, and the floral wallpaper of the hideous room. Mingled with Menard’s cranial wreckage was a macabre gumbo of blood and brain matter.

I felt a tremor under my tongue.

Ryan dragged the Windsor chair as far as from the body as possible, led me to it, and pressed gently on my shoulders. I sat and lowered my head.

I heard the uniformed cops storm in.

I heard Ryan’s voice, shouted orders.

I heard Charbonneau. The word “ambulance.” The name Pomerleau.

I heard doors kicked open as Ryan and the others moved through the house.

To escape the present, I tried to focus on all I would have to do in the future. Reassess the MP lists. Resubmit skeletal descriptors with open age estimates. Obtain DNA samples from Angie Robinson’s family.

It was no good. I couldn’t think. My attention kept drifting back across the room. My eyes roved the hands, the splayed legs, the gun.

The face.

Menard’s freckles stood out like dark little kidneys against the pallid skin. Though his eyes were open, the expression was blank. No pain. No surprise. No fear. Just the empty stare of death.

My own mind was a combat zone. Relief that Menard would hurt no one else. Anger that he’d escaped so easily. Pity for a life so grotesquely twisted. Anxiety for Anique Pomerleau.

Concern that we still did not have the answers.

This wasn’t Menard. Who was this guy? Where was Menard?

Fingers caressed my hair.

I looked up.

“You OK?”

I nodded, touched by the tenderness in Ryan’s expression. “Have you found Pomerleau?”

“House is empty.” Ryan’s voice was heavy as a coffin lid. “There are things here you might want to see.”

I followed him through a hallway, into a back room, and down a narrow stairway to a poorly lit cellar. The walls were brick and windowless, the floor cement. The air was damp and smelled of mold, dust, and dry rot.

Around me I could see the usual assortment of basement junk. A metal washtub. Garden implements. Stacks of cardboard boxes. An old sewing machine.

I heard voices, then a muffled expletive ahead and to my right.

Passing through an open door, Ryan led me into a second room. Though similar in construction to the outer basement, this one was smaller and brightly lit. Its walls and ceiling were covered with polyurethane panels.

Claudel and Charbonneau were standing by a counter that might once have served as a workbench. Both wore latex surgical gloves.

Hearing us enter, Charbonneau turned. His face looked like something in the claret family.