Monday Mourning

“We’re here to help you.”

Pomerleau’s gaze darted between Ryan and Charbonneau.

Motioning the men back, I stepped into the chamber.

“These men are detectives.”

Pomerleau watched me, eyes wide black pools.

“It’s over now, Anique. It’s all over.”

Moving slowly, I crossed to the platform and laid a hand on Pomerleau’s shoulder. She recoiled from my touch.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, Anique.”

“Je m’appelle ‘Q.’” Pomerleau’s voice was flat and lifeless.

Removing my parka, I draped Pomerleau’s shoulders. She made no attempt to hold the garment in place.

“I’m ‘Q.’ She’s ‘D.’” Accented English. Pomerleau was Francophone.

Ryan shrugged off his jacket and handed it to me.

I took a cautious step toward “D,” gently touched her hair.

The woman tucked tighter and curled her hands into fists.

Enveloping “D” in Ryan’s jacket, I squatted to her level.

“He’s dead,” I said in French. “He can never harm you again.”

The woman rolled her head from side to side, not wanting to see me, not wanting to hear me.

I didn’t press. There would be time to talk.

“I’ll stay with you.” My voice cracked. “I won’t leave.”

Stroking her foot, I rose and withdrew.

While Charbonneau remained in the antechamber, I retreated to the outer basement. Ryan followed.

The honest truth? I didn’t trust my own treacherous emotions. My mind was paralyzed by shock and by anguish for these women, my gut curdled by loathing for the monster who’d subjected them to this.

“You OK?” Ryan asked.

“Yes,” I said in the calmest voice possible. It was a lie. I was flailing, and feared an enormous coming apart.

Folding my arms to mask the tremors in my chest, I waited.

A lifetime later distant sirens split the stillness, then grew into a screaming presence. Boots pounded overhead, then down the staircase.

Pomerleau panicked at the sight of the paramedics. Darting to the toilet, she hopped up, wedged herself into the corner, and held both arms straight out in front of her. Neither the EMTs nor I could coax her down. The more we reassured, the more she resisted. In the end, force was required.

The other woman went fetal as she was placed on a gurney, covered, and removed from the cell.

Ryan and I accompanied the ambulance to Montreal General. Claudel and Charbonneau remained to greet LaManche and the coroner’s van, and to oversee the SIJ techs in processing the house.

Ryan smoked as he drove. I kept my eyes on the city sliding by my window."

"At the ER, Ryan paced while I sat. Around us swirled a cacophony of bronchial coughs, colicky wails, exhausted moans, and anxious conversation. In one corner Dr. Phil chastised a couple who’d been sexless for years.

Now and then Ryan would drop next to me and we’d exchange whispered comments.

“These women don’t even know their names.”

“Or they’re too terrified to use them.”

“They look starved.”

“Yes.”

“‘D’ looks worse.”

“I think she’s younger.”

“I never saw her face.”

“Sonovabitch.”

“Sonovabitch.”

We’d been there an hour when Ryan’s cell vibrated. He stepped outside. In minutes he was back.

“That was Claudel. The prick made home movies.”

I nodded numbly.

“I’m to call Charbonneau when we leave here.”

Twenty minutes later a frizzy-haired woman entered through sliding doors that led to the ER. She wore a white lab coat and carried two clipboards and one of those plastic bags used for patient possessions.

A huge black woman with swollen breasts and a bawling newborn lumbered to her feet and zeroed in. The doctor led the mother back to her chair, glanced at her infant, then spoke a few words. The woman shouldered her baby and patted its back.

The doctor wove toward us through the obstacle course of human misery. Scores of eyes followed her, some frightened, some angry, all nervous.

Again, her progress was blocked, this time by a burly man with a towel-wrapped hand. As before, the doctor took the time to reassure.

Ryan and I rose.

“I’m Dr. Feldman.” Feldman’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked exhausted. “I’m treating the two women brought in a short time ago.”

Ryan made introductions.

“The older—”

“Anique Pomerleau,” I cut in.

Feldman made a notation on the top chart.

“Ms. Pomerleau has minor bruising, but otherwise looks pretty good. Her lungs are clear. Her X-rays are normal. We’re waiting for results on bloodwork. Just to be sure, we’ll run her through the scanner when it’s free.”

“Is she talking?” I asked.

“No.” Clipped. I have a hundred others waiting to be seen.

“Any signs of sexual assault?” Ryan asked.

“No. But the kid’s a different story.”

“Kid?” I popped.

Feldman exchanged the bottom chart for Pomerleau’s. “Do you have a name?”

Ryan and I both shook our heads.