Monday Mourning

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.

“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.