Monday Mourning

“I’d say the younger one’s fifteen, maybe sixteen, although she’s so emaciated I could be underestimating. Someone’s used this kid as a punching bag for a very long time.”

I felt white heat invading my brain.

Feldman flipped a page and read from her notes. “Old and new bruising. Poorly healed fractures of the left ulna and several ribs. Scarring around the anus and genitals. Burns on the breasts and limbs from some sort of—”

“Curling iron?” I kept my voice even, my face neutral.

“That would do it.” Fisher wrist-flipped the pages of the chart into place.

“Is she lucid?” I asked.

“She’s practically catatonic. Unresponsive. Stone-flat eyes. I’m no psychiatrist.” The harried face went from Ryan to me. “But this kid may never be lucid.”

“Where are they now?” Ryan asked.

“On their way upstairs.”

An orderly appeared at the sliding doors. Catching Feldman’s attention, he waggled a chart. She waved in his direction.

“When can we talk to them?” Ryan asked.

“I’m not sure.” The orderly threw up both hands. Feldman gave him a hold-on gesture. “What about security? Is some psycho papa or ex-hubby going to bluster in and try to reclaim his possessions?”

“The psycho in this case just blew his brains out.”

“Pity.”

We gave Feldman our cards. She pocketed them.

“I’ll call.” She held out the bag. “Here are their outfits.”

I could see metal studs poking through the plastic.

Ryan and I met Charbonneau at Schwartz’s deli on boulevard St-Laurent. Though I had no appetite, Ryan insisted food would sharpen our minds.

We placed three identical orders. Smoked meat sandwich, lean. Pickle. Fries. Cott’s cherry soda.

We updated one another as we ate.

“Doc LaManche lifted prints from the corpse that ain’t Menard. They’re a match for the ones from the letter opener. Luc’s ringing the land of fruits and nuts.”

“When did the latents go into the California system?” Ryan asked.

“Late Friday.” Charbonneau took a bite of his sandwich, knuckled mustard from a corner of his mouth. “If California’s a bust, Luc’ll shoot the prints through Canada and the rest of the States.”

Ryan told Charbonneau what Feldman had found.

“This guy was a frickin’ sadist.” Charbonneau picked up his pickle. “Shot pics of the good times to keep the tingle in his weenie.” Charbonneau finished the pickle, then tipped back his head and drained his soda. “The shots in his scrapbooks look like amateur mock-ups from the porn gallery. Sick bastard tried to re-create life from his art.”

“Did you find photos of ‘D’?” My voice didn’t sound like my own.

Tight nod. “One pretty good face shot. Luc’s circulating it in Canada and south of the border.”

“Where were the home videos?” Ryan asked.

“Mixed in with the porn tapes.”

“Got them with you?”

Charbonneau nodded.

“Your place or ours?”

“Our unit’s piece-of-crap VCR is busted again.” Charbonneau wadded his napkin and chucked it onto his plate."

"“There’s a setup in our conference room,” I said.

“Let’s do it.” Ryan scooped up the bill.

“Bring some sunshine into my day.” Charbonneau pushed back his chair.

My sandwich lay untouched on my plate.

It was worse than I could have imagined. Girls suspended by their arms. Bound wrist to ankle. Spread-eagle. Always hooded. Always passive.

Ryan, Charbonneau, and I watched in silence. Now and then Charbonneau would clear his throat, shift his feet, recross his arms. Now and then Ryan would reach for a smoke, remember, finger-drum the table.

Some footage was jerky, as though taken with a handheld. Some was steady, probably shot from a tripod or some other fixed position.

The tapes were numbered one through six. We’d gotten through most of the first when Claudel walked in.

Three heads swiveled.

“Tawny McGee.” Claudel looked like he’d sucked on a lime.

I hit PAUSE.

“‘D’?” I asked.

Curt nod. “Reported missing by the parents in ninety-nine.”

“Where?” Ryan asked.

“Maniwaki.”

Claudel slid a fax across the table. Charbonneau glanced at it, then handed it to Ryan, who handed it to me.

My scalp prickled.

I was looking at the face of a child. Round cheeks. Braids. Eyes that were eager, curious, always up to something.

Imp. My mother would have called this child an imp.

Like she called me.

Like I called Katy.

I scanned the descriptors.

Tawny McGee disappeared when she was twelve years old.

I swallowed.

“Are you sure this is ‘D’?”

Claudel slid another fax across the table. I picked it up. On it was the inquiry he’d circulated.

The face in the photo was an Auschwitz version of the one I’d just viewed. Older. Thinner. A hope-lost expression.

No. That was wrong. Tawny McGee’s face showed nothing at all.

“Have you gotten anything on the bastard that had her?” I asked, my voice taut with anger.

“I’m working on it.