After an hour I felt a twinge behind one eye. After two a kettle drum was banging fortissimo.
I looked at the tray. Only a billion little boxes to go.
Was my idea crazy?
Maybe. But I had to look. Had to satisfy myself I’d done everything possible.
Threading a new film leader, I began winding through the first half of 1958.
Just past midway, I found what I was after.
34
Recherche pour les Victimes Noyées Suspendue—Search for Drowning Victims Suspended
As with Briel’s report, I translated as I read.
July 21, 1958. Following a week of intense effort, the search has ended for four victims still missing and presumed dead following a boating disaster on Lac Saint-Jean. A memorial marker will be erected in honor of three of the dead, Louise-Rosette, Melanie, and Claire Clemenceau, in the cemetery at Sainte-Monique during a brief ceremony Thursday at 1 p.m. The public is invited.
A boating accident. Missing bodies. Lac Saint-Jean.
Excitement jangled every nerve in my body.
A full marching band had now taken the field in my frontal lobe, so I’d fallen into a rhythm of fast-forwarding and periodically pausing to skim. Obviously the hit-and-run approach had been inadequate. I’d missed the initial coverage.
Like the phalanges. And the tetracycline staining.
I rubbed my eyes. Rolled my shoulders.
Drowning. That would mean spring or summer.
Rewinding to April, I began anew.
July 14. The incident was reported in heartrending detail.
Tragédie de Pique-nique—Picnic Tragedy
The headline topped an article taking up most of page 4 below the fold.
On July 13, 1958, a congregation from the small town of Sainte-Monique had held its annual picnic at Parc de la Pointe-Taillon. As was customary, activities had included pontoon rides out onto Lac Saint-Jean.
An afternoon thunderstorm had barreled in with such speed and ferocity, the boaters hadn’t had a chance to react. The pontoon had capsized far from shore. Two men had survived. Four adults and five children had not. A man, a woman, and two little girls remained unaccounted for.
Heart hammering, I looked at the names and ages.
Richard Blackwater, 37
Louise-Rosette Clemenceau, 45
Melanie Clemenceau, 13
Claire Clemenceau, 7
I jotted the names and ages of those not recovered, and the date and location of the incident. Then, ignoring my throbbing head, I picked my way through the rest of 1958, reading every word, no matter the size of the print.
On the Tuesday following the incident, the first three victims had been buried, also in the Sainte-Monique cemetery.
Another article ran on July 16. The piece was brief, stating that the last two drowning victims had been laid to rest.
I pushed on.
After search efforts ended on July 21, there was no further mention of the tragedy. Or of the missing victims.
I sat back, staring at my notes.
It all fit. The PMI. The profile. The adult male’s cheekbones and incisors. I was willing to bet the farm Blackwater was an aboriginal name.
Suddenly, “Sugar, Sugar” boomed from my purse. After an eon of fumbling, I found and disarmed my cell.
When I looked up, the not so nice library lady was closing in, face pinched into a murderous scowl. Mouthing “Sorry,” I gathered my things. Unimpressed, the dragon waited, then bird-dogged me to the door.
Outside, darkness was settling over the city. Car windows were steamed, turning passengers and drivers into murky silhouettes. A damp wind skulked up de Maisonneuve, teasing trash and carrying with it the scent of oil and salt from the river.
Before pulling on my gloves, I checked my list of missed calls.
The number was Ryan’s.
He answered right away. Adamski was at Wilfrid-Derome. He and Claudel would begin with him shortly.
Why SQ turf? Though Marilyn Keiser was reported missing in Montreal, and her case fell to the city cops, the possible link to the Villejoin sisters, perhaps Rose Jurmain, meant the Sûreté du Québec owned a piece of the action. At Ryan’s suggestion, Claudel had agreed to conduct the interrogation at SQ rather than SPVM headquarters. Courtesy. Separate forces. Neither detective outranked the other. Besides, Adamski thought he was a person of interest because of Florian Grellier’s link to Christelle Villejoin.
I wondered. Hadn’t Adamski questioned why he was being hauled to Montreal by a city cop? If so, I was sure Ryan and Claudel had covered that detail.
I picked up the pace.
* * *
When I arrived on the fourth floor of Wilfrid-Derome, Ryan and Claudel were viewing Adamski on a monitor in an observation room. Both wore expressions of disgust.
Claudel swiveled when I entered, then looked a question at Ryan.
“Dr. Brennan has offered to share her impressions,” Ryan said. We all knew I had no official reason to be present.
Claudel hitched one shoulder.
“How will you go at him?” I asked, noting several files in Ryan’s hand.
“First we’ll focus on the Villejoin murders. During the plane ride, Detective Claudel may have implied our reason for wanting Adamski was to shine a light on Florian Grellier.”
“The guy who fingered Adamski for revealing the location of Christelle Villejoin’s body.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You told Adamski you’re investigating Florian Grellier?” That surprised me.
“Hey. It’s not Detective Claudel’s fault if the witness mistook his meaning. Anyway, we’ll start with Grellier and Villejoin. Then Jurmain and Keiser will come at him like two tons of high-grade manure.”
The good-cop-bad-cop boys left. I stayed by the monitor.
Adamski raised stony eyes when the detectives entered the interrogation room. As before, his hands remained clasped on the table.
When Ryan activated the sound system, the tinny sound of scraping chairs came through a speaker.
This time, Ryan skipped the niceties. “This interview will be recorded. For your protection and ours.”
Adamski’s face remained neutral. Though he was trying hard for tough, the guy looked nervous.
“Do you prefer this interview be conducted in French or English?”
Ryan waited a full five seconds.
“With no preference expressed, questioning will proceed in English. Ryan, Andrew, lieutenant-detective, Sûreté du Québec, and Claudel, Luc, sergeant-detective, Service de police de la Ville de Montréal, in interview with Red O’Keefe, aka Bud Keith, Alex Carling, Samuel Caffrey. Shall we add Lucky Labatt? Or shall we let that priceless gem go?”
“Look, I told you last time. I don’t know nothing about no old lady got buried in the woods.”
Ryan took Adamski over the same ground as last time, with questions framed to suggest the police had nothing new.
The performances were five-star all around. Adamski stonewalled. Ryan, feigning increasing frustration, grew more and more aggressive. Claudel interjected with the voice of reason.
After forty minutes, Ryan appeared to have reached his snapping point. Opening a file, he skipped a snapshot across the table. Though they were a bit fuzzy on the screen, I could see that the subjects were Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin, smiling before a Christmas tree, each arm-cradling a cat.
Adamski glanced at the photo, his expression never moving off cocky.
Ryan slapped down another. Christelle’s skeleton lying in its grave.
“Jesus.” Adamski jerked his eyes away.
Ryan shot from his chair, circled the table, and forced Adamski’s head around with two hands.
“Look at her. Look at her, goddamn you!”
“Hey, hey, Lieutenant.” Claudel placed a restraining hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
Ryan released Adamski, spun the file, and snapped a third photo onto the table. Rose Jurmain, look
ing much older than her fifty-nine years.
“How about this one?” Adamski’s lower lid twitched as he stared at the image.
“Or were you Bud Keith when you did her?”
“What the fuck?”
“Big career move? Stalk an old woman, kill her, pocket a few bucks. Better than credit card scamming. That stuff’s for kids. But here’s what I don’t get.” Ryan shoved his face into Adamski’s, forcing him to arc backward over the chair. “What kind of dickless piece of shit does old women? Tell me. You sleep at night knowing you beat someone’s grannie to death?”
“I didn’t have nothing to do—”
“I’m going to nail you, you sick sonovabitch.” Ryan’s voice carried the menace of a sharpened blade.
Again, Claudel intervened. “Maybe we could all use a break.”
Without a word, Ryan straightened, smacked the audio switch, and strode from the room.
Seconds later he joined me. I smiled. He responded in kind.
“Now what?”
“Now Claudel mentions Adamski’s stint as Bud Keith at L’Auberge des Neiges. Maybe drops the name of the hunting camp in La Tuque, gets Adamski worried we’re wise to the Sam Adamski alias, thus to Marilyn Keiser.”
“Masterful.”
“Oh, and Claudel just might reference the fact that Rose Jurmain was an American, drop a few phrases like extradition and death penalty. Hint that maybe it would go better for him to stand trial here.”
“Jurmain died in Quebec,” I said. “Her body was found here. The U.S. could never extradite her killer.”
“We know that, but this dickhead may not.”
On the screen we watched Claudel say something to Adamski, pat his arm, exit. Minutes later he returned with a Pepsi.
Ryan waited a half hour, then reentered the interview room carrying two cardboard boxes. Each had an evidence label, one SQ, the other FBI. Both were empty.
Placing his props on the floor in Adamski’s sight line, Ryan activated the audio system and sat down.
“Lieutenant-detective Ryan rejoining interrogation.” Ryan turned to Claudel. “Have you read the suspect his rights?”
“What the hell?” Adamski’s head whipped to Claudel.
“It’s a formality.” Claudel, sounding uncharacteristically kind.
I studied Adamski as Claudel did the right-to-remain-silent bit. His left temple vein was pumping a gusher.
“Do you understand your rights, Mr. O’Keefe?” Ryan asked when Claudel had finished. “Or should we go with Adamski? Guess that one slipped the list.”
Adamski almost winced at the name.
“Do you understand the statement Detective Claudel just read to you?”
Adamski only glared. Stunned at hearing the incriminating alias? Already spinning explanations?
“I’m free all night, Adamski. But someone wastes my time, I get real cranky.”
“Who’s this Adamski putz? Why you calling me that?”
“Your rights?”
“I ain’t an idiot.” With venom.
“Mr. Adamski has indicated that he understands his rights and obligations.”
Ryan served up silence.
Though agitated, Adamski didn’t fall into the trap.
“We’re going to move on,” Ryan said. “This interview now concerns the murder of one Keiser, Marilyn, and any and all related events and/or crimes.”
Ryan asked Claudel to state the SPVM case number for the record. He did.
Ryan opened one of his files. “You were married to a woman named Marilyn Keiser from 1998 to 2000, is that correct?”
Adamski hesitated, weighing his options. “Things didn’t work out. So what?”
“Marilyn Keiser was murdered three months ago.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Her body was found one week ago, in a cabin at Memphrémagog. She’d been doused with kerosene and set on fire.”
“Maybe she pissed off Memphrie.” Adamski snorted nervously. “You know? The monster from the lake?”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think this is a crock of shit.”
“You built that cabin. Other than yourself and the victim, no one knew it existed.” Ryan didn’t mention Lu the janitor.
“Ain’t that a coincidence.”
“Mrs. Keiser kept money in that cabin. Having been married to her, you’d be aware of that practice.”
“Marilyn was a wackjob. Everyone knew it.”
“Your prints are all over that cabin.” Ryan laid a hand on one of his empty cartons.
Adamski’s eyes flicked to the box, away. “So? The place used to be—”
“You bought that kerosene. We’re going to find the clerk who sold it to you.”
“You’re crazy.” Now the bravado sounded forced.
“You killed your ex-wife, doused her, torched her, and walked away.” Ryan was hammering hard.
“No—”
“You killed Marilyn Keiser. You killed Rose Jurmain. You killed Christelle and Anne-Isabelle Villejoin.”
“No.” Adamski’s fingers were jammed together hard to stop the shaking. The maneuver wasn’t working.
Ryan tossed down an autopsy photo of Keiser. Added a shot of Anne-Isabelle on her kitchen floor.
Again, Adamski looked away.
“Look at them. Anne-Isabelle Villejoin was eighty-six. Christelle was eighty-three. Your ex-wife was seventy-two.”
Circling the table as before, Ryan yanked Adamski by the hair to force his eyes toward the pictures.
“Tell me this, you gutless sack of shit. Did it turn your stomach to murder these helpless old women? Did you smack them from behind to avoid seeing the terror in their eyes? Did they tremble? Did you? Like you’re trembling now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Struggling to break free of Ryan’s grasp.
Ryan shoved Adamski’s face down until his nose was inches from the tabletop.
“We’ve got you at Jurmain’s auberge. We’ve got you at Keiser’s cabin. We’ve got you at the Villejoin house. We’ve got you running your mouth to Florian Grellier.”
Adamski kicked out his feet and twisted from side to side. Ryan ignored his writhing.
“We’re requesting surveillance photos from the ATM where you used the Villejoins’ bank card. We’re talking to everyone who ever set foot in Pointe-Calumet. We’re talking to everyone who ever so much as walked past Jurmain’s auberge.
“Know what’s happening in Moncton right now? Cousin Denton’s having a nice little chat with the cops. Think he’ll rat you out on that big score you bragged about? Maybe roll on the money you stashed at his place?”
“Jesus Christ, back him off,” Adamski croaked.
“For God’s sake, Ryan.” Claudel was on his feet. “Let the guy breathe.”
Freeing Adamski, Ryan took an angry step back.
Adamski brought his head up and rubbed his scalp with a trembling hand.
Ryan nodded at Claudel ever so slightly.
Claudel resumed his seat and spoke in a calming voice.
“I’m not going to scam you, Sam. It looks bad. These ladies were old. Juries don’t like that. They’ve got mamas, grannies, aunties. The physical evidence is piling up. Witnesses are going to come forward. Jurmain was an American.” True but irrelevant. “If you come clean, maybe you can help yourself. Maybe we can help you.”
“I never heard of no Rose Jurmain.” Adamski’s eyes were now clamped to the tabletop.
“We can talk about that.”
Silence buzzed through the speaker. A minute. Two.
Above Adamski’s sight line, the detectives exchanged anxious glances.
I held my breath. Like Claudel and Ryan, I knew Adamski’s next utterance would signal thumbs up or down on the good–bad cop performance. I want a lawyer? I didn’t mean to do it?
Slowly, Adamski lifted his head. When he spoke, it was to Claudel.
“I don’t say shit wh
ile this lunatic’s in my face.”
35
IT WAS A NIGHT OF BAD COFFEE DOWNED WHILE SITTING on butt-numbing chairs. Ryan and I watched Adamski/Keith/O’Keefe by monitor as Claudel spun his magic two doors down.
The story came out slowly, with Claudel doing empathetic, Adamski veering between boastful and whiny.
By two he’d owned Marilyn Keiser. By four he’d rolled on the Villejoins.
This was the creep’s story.
Adamski’s boating mishap was real. After capsizing, he managed to drag himself ashore. Lying soaked and exhausted, he’d had an epiphany. His current life sucked. Loathing lawyers and paperwork, he decided to turn the mishap to his advantage.
After seeding the lake with belongings, Adamski hitched a ride to Nova Scotia. In Halifax, he looked up a fellow businessman, invested in a new identity, and set out for greener pastures south of the border.
Life in America wasn’t the dream Adamski had envisioned and, in 2006, he returned to Quebec. Using an old alias, Bud Keith, he got a kitchen job at the auberge near Sainte-Marguerite. During his tenure at the inn, an alcoholic old lady wandered off and vanished.
Eventually bored with scraping plates and scouring pans, Adamski headed for the bright lights of Montreal. Still living as Bud Keith, he met a waitress named Poppy from Saint-Eustache. Soon they were living together.
At first things were dandy. In due course, Poppy began nagging Adamski to contribute to the cost of their cohabitation. Offering use of her Honda, she suggested door-to-dooring for handyman jobs.
Adamski spent the early part of May 4 in a bar, drinking beer and debating the merits of personal freedom versus a free roof and steady pussy. Pumped on Moosehead and self-pity, he then followed route 344 into Pointe-Calumet, and picked a house with a dead pine in the yard. Anne-Isabelle, his first mark, agreed to his tree-removal proposal, then paid from an oatmeal tin dug from her pantry.
Angry that the job had taken longer than anticipated, Adamski asked for more than the agreed-upon sum. Anne-Isabelle refused. An argument ensued, was concluded by Adamski grabbing the old woman’s cane and clubbing her to death.
Hearing the commotion, Christelle came to investigate. Out of control with rage, Adamski demanded more cash. When Christelle produced a bank card, Adamski shoved her into Poppy’s Honda, drove into the city, and forced her to make a withdrawal.