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.”
“Sacrament.” 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. He told her she was under constant surveillance, that if she tried to escape members of the Company would hunt her down and kill her, along with members of her family.”
“Cibole!” Charbonneau threw up his hands. “Hooker traumatizes Stan, she feels totally isolated, has to look to him for her slightest need, and she ends up bonding with the freak?”
“You’ve got it,” I said. “Some of the most damaging defense testimony focused on a love letter Stan wrote to Hooker.”
Charbonneau looked appalled.
“Elizabeth Smart was held by crazies for almost a year,” I said. “At times she could hear searchers calling out to her, even recognized her own uncle’s voice on one occasion. She never really tried to escape.”
“Smart was a fourteen-year-old kid,” Charbonneau said.
“Remember Patty Hearst?” Ryan asked. “Symbionese Liberation Army grabbed her and kept her locked in a closet. She ended up robbing a bank with her captors.”
“That was political.” Charbonneau shot to his feet and started pacing the room. “This Hooker had to be some kind of psychotic mutant. People don’t go around snatching up girls and stashing them in boxes.”
“The phenomenon may be more common than we know,” I said.
Charbonneau stopped pacing. He and Claudel looked at me.
“In 2003, John Jamelske pleaded guilty to holding five women as sex slaves in a concrete bunker he’d constructed under his backyard.”
“Right down the road,” Claudel said, at last switching to English. “Syracuse, New York.”
“Oh, man.” Charbonneau again did the hair thing. “Remember Lake and Ng?”
Leonard Lake and Charles Ng were a pair of pathological misogynists who built a torture chamber on a remote ranch in Calaveras County, California. At least two women were videotaped while being tormented by the pair. The tape was labeled M Ladies, M standing for murdered.
“Whatever happened to those assholes?” Claudel’s voice dripped with disgust.
“Lake was collared for shoplifting and offed himself with a couple of cyanide capsules. Ng was nailed in Calgary, then fought extradition to the U.S. for about a decade, right, Doc?”
“It took six years of legal wrangling, but Ng was finally returned to California for trial. In 1998, a jury found him guilty of murdering three women, seven men, and two babies.”
“Enough.” The chill had gone from Claudel’s voice. “You believe Menard brought his freak show to Montreal?”
“According to Rose Fisher, Louise Parent phoned to tell me she’d seen Menard twice with young girls. We found three buried in a basement under space he rented.”
“You think Menard transported Angie Robinson from Corning, California, to Montreal?”
“Angie or her body.”
“And that he abducted and subjugated Anique Pomerleau?”
“I do.”
Claudel voiced my fear.
“And, if threatened, Menard might kill Pomerleau.”
“Yes.”
Claudel’s eyes pinched. He looked at his partner, then rose.
“A judge should consider this probable cause.”
“You’ll get a warrant?”
“When his ass hits the bench.”
“I want to go with you to Pointe-St-Charles.”
“Out of the question.”
“Why?”
“If all this is true, Menard will be dangerous.”
“I’m a big girl.”
Claudel looked at me so long I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he hitched a shoulder at Ryan.
“Ride shotgun for the cowboy. No one else will.”
I was stunned. The humorously challenged had attempted a joke.
The rest of that Sunday was agony. Puttering through tasks, I felt sadness mixed with deep disappointment in myself. Why hadn’t I realized earlier that the bones might have been those of girls held captive? Why hadn’t I understood why my profiles failed to fit the descriptions on the MP lists? Again and again, I wondered: Would it have made a difference?
Disturbing images kept welling in my head. Anique P
omerleau, with her pale white face and long dark braid. Angie Robinson in a leather shroud in a cellar grave.
Riding with Ryan.
Anne. Where the hell was Anne? Should I be doing more to find her? What?
I tried Christmas carols. They cheered me as effectively as a Salvation Army Santa.
I went to the gym, pounded out three miles with CDs of old favorites cranked in my earphones.
The Lovin’ Spoonful. Donovan. The Mamas and the Papas. The Supremes.
Tossing and turning in bed that night, one refrain kept looping through my brain.
Monday, Monday . . .
Two Mondays back I’d excavated the bones of three young girls.
One Monday back I’d tweezed feathers from Louise Parent’s mouth.
Tomorrow I might be exploring the house of horrors.
Can’t trust that day . . .
I shuddered over what the next Monday would bring.
31
CLAUDEL HAD A WARRANT BY NINE. RYAN WAS AT my place at quarter past.
When I got into his Jeep, Ryan handed me coffee. Caffeine was not what I needed. I was wired enough to recaulk the Pentagon.
Thanking him, I pulled off my mittens, wrapped my fingers around the Styrofoam, and worked on slowing my heartbeat even as I sipped.
Five minutes out, Ryan cracked his window and lit up a Player’s. Normally he would have asked if I minded. Today, he didn’t. I assumed he was feeling as jittery as I was.
The streets were clogged with the remnants of Monday-morning rush hour. A decade and twenty minutes later we entered the Point.
Turning onto de Sébastopol, I could see two cruisers and an unmarked Impala positioned at intervals along the block. Exhaust floated from all three tailpipes.
Ryan slid behind the nearest cruiser. Killing the engine, he turned to me.
“If Menard so much as frowns in your direction, you’re out of there. Do you understand?”
“We’re going to search the place, not assault it.”
“Things could turn ugly.”
“There are seven cops here, Ryan. If Menard’s uncooperative, cuff him.”
“Any threatening move, you hit the deck.”
I saluted smartly.
Ryan’s voice hardened. “I’m serious, damn it. If I say split, you’re gone.”
I rolled my eyes.
“That’s it.” Ryan’s hand moved to restart the engine.
“All right,” I said, pulling on my mittens. “I’ll obey orders. Sir.”
“No nonsense. This is dangerous work.”
Ryan and I got out and quietly closed our doors.
Overnight the weather had changed. The air felt moist and icy, and heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky.
Seeing us, the stable dog started in. Otherwise, there wasn’t a sign of life on de Sébastopol. No kids sticking pucks. No housewives hauling groceries. No pensioners gossiping on balconies or stoops.
Typical Montreal winter day. Stay indoors, stay in the metro, stay underground. Hunker in and remain sane until spring. The barking sounded all the louder in the overall stillness.
Ryan and I angled across the street. As we approached the Impala, the dynamic duo got out.
Claudel was wearing a tan cashmere overcoat. Charbonneau was in a big shaggy jacket, the composition of which I couldn’t have guessed.
We exchanged nods.
“What’s the plan?” Ryan asked in English.
Claudel spread his feet. Charbonneau leaned his fanny on the Impala.
“One unit will stay here.” Claudel jerked a thumb toward the cruiser at the far end of the block. “I’ll send the other around to de la Congrégation.”
Charbonneau unzipped his parka, shoved his hands in his pockets, jiggled his change.
“Michel’s going to take the back door.”
A walkie-talkie screeched from Charbonneau’s hip. Reaching back, he fiddled with a button.
Claudel’s eyes flicked to me, back to Ryan.
“Brennan knows what to do,” Ryan said.
Claudel’s lips thinned, but he said nothing.
“We’ll show Menard the judge’s Christmas greeting, order him to sit, then toss the place.”
Charbonneau rested a hand on his gun butt. “Wouldn’t ruin my holiday if this pogue decided to pull a Schwarzenegger.”
“All set?” Claudel slipped a two-way from his waistband, rebuttoned his coat.
Nods around.
“Allons-y,” Claudel said.
“Let’s go,” his partner echoed.
Pushing off the Impala, Charbonneau strode toward the far end of de Sébastopol. He spoke to the driver, then the cruiser disappeared around the corner. Charbonneau reversed direction and cut diagonally across the vacant lot.
Thirty seconds later, Charbonneau’s voice came across Claudel’s walkie-talkie. He was at Menard’s back door.
Claudel waved a “come on” to the other team of uniforms.
As we picked our way up the icy walk, Claudel in the lead, Ryan and I following, the second cruiser slid to the curb behind us.
Stumbling along, I felt the same formless dread I’d felt on Friday. Heightened. My heart was now thumping like a conga drum.
At the turn, Claudel stopped and spoke into his walkie-talkie.
I stared at Menard’s house, wondering what it had been like when the real Menard’s grandparents, the Corneaus, owned it. The place was so dark, so menacing. It was hard to imagine chicken being fried, baseball being watched, or kittens chasing balls in its gloomy interior.
Claudel’s radio sputtered. Charbonneau was in position.
We stepped onto the stoop. Ryan twisted the brass knob. The bell shrilled as it had on Friday.
A full minute passed with no response.
Ryan twisted again.
I thought I heard movement inside. Ryan tensed, and one hand drifted toward his Glock.
Claudel unbuttoned his coat.
Still no one appeared.
Ryan twisted the bell a third time.
Absolute stillness.
Ryan pounded on the door.
“Open up! Police!”
Ryan was raising his fist for another go when a muffled shot spit through the silence. Blue-white light popped around the curtain edges in the window to my right.
Claudel and Ryan dropped to identical crouches, weapons drawn. Grabbing my wrist, Ryan pulled me to the ground.
Claudel screamed into his walkie-talkie.
“Michel! Es-tu là? Répète. 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 Ry
an 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.
“Estie!” 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 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.