Monday Mourning

“Claudel and Charbonneau have a lot to tell you when you’re feeling up to it. For now, eat something, kill the phone, and hit the rack, hot stuff.”

I did. And slept until midafternoon.

Waking was like crossing an event horizon. I felt zestful. Invigorated. Charged with water-walking, omnipotent vitality.

Until I looked in the mirror.

My face was scraped and blotchy. My hair was singed. What remained of my brows and lashes were crinkly little sprigs.

Showering helped little, makeup even less.

I imagined Katy’s reaction on Friday. I pictured Claudel with his razor-sharp styling and advert-perfect creases.

“Bloody hell.”

Rebandaging my hands, I headed to CUM headquarters.

“Sergeant-détective Charbonneau ou Claudel, s’il vous plaît,” I requested of the lobby receptionist.

“Busy night,” the receptionist said in English, poker-faced.

“A real pip.”

I pictured myself panty-mooning the sky. Great. Word was out. My PC-challenged male colleagues would have a field day.

Charbonneau came down to escort me through security. He asked how I was, then he led me to the squad room, eyes straight ahead.

I entered to whistling and applause.

Sergeant-détective Alain Tibo dug a bag from his desk, popped to his feet, and crossed to me. He looked the type that would play the bulldog in a Disney flick.

“This ain’t Dixie, Doc. It gets real cold in Quebec.” I knew Tibo’s sense of humor. If the squad needed a clown, he’d be elected. “We chipped in and got you some proper gear.”

Tibo offered the bag with solemn ceremony.

The sweatshirt was blue, the wording bright red.

There’s no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothing.

—Old Scottish fisherman’s proverb

Below the proverb, a woman built a snowman in a blizzard of flakes. Her hair was orange, her skin pink. The snowman wore a hat. The woman wore nothing but stilettos, bra, and panties.

Rolling my eyes, I jammed the shirt back into the bag. Charbonneau and I crossed to Claudel, weaving through desks and dodging wastebaskets and outthrust feet.

“Claudel bills you for the overcoat,” said a voice behind us. “Slide it by the captain as a business chit.”

“The leopard skin a Tuesday motif, Doc?” Tibo asked.

“I hear Wednesdays it’s circus day,” another voice answered.

I cocked what remained of one eyebrow at Charbonneau.

He started to speak, but Tibo cut him off.

“Don’t worry, Doc. Claudel’s got a whole set of boxers with them little smiley-face things. Keeps his ass beaming while the rest of him sulks.”

Scooping a file from his in-basket, Claudel rose, and the three of us trooped to an interview room.

“I see my panties have been entered as evidence.” My voice could have kept ice cream solid for a week.

“Word spreads,” said Claudel.

“Indeed.”

“It didn’t come from us, Doc,” added Charbonneau. “Honest to God.”

Somehow, I believed that.

We took chairs around a battered government-issue table.

“I trust you are feeling better,” Claudel said.

“Yes.” Claudel had sacrificed his pricey cashmere to warm me? “Thank you for the use of your coat.”

Claudel nodded.

A beat went by.

“Menard is dead?” I asked.

Claudel nodded again.

“How can you be certain?”

Claudel opened his file and slid a photo across the table. “We discovered this in Menard’s house in Vermont.”

The picture was black-and-white, the image off angle on the page, like an amateur, homemade print. Despite some fading, the subject was clear. A tall, thin man in a shallow grave, knees flexed, wrists tethered to ankles. Though distorted in death, Menard’s face was unmistakable.

I flipped the print. On the back someone had written the initials S.M., and the date 9/26/85.

“Catts killed Menard in California in September 1985? And kept a photo of the body?”

“The sheriff’s going to do some digging around Catts’s old trailer,” Claudel said.

“Angela Robinson disappeared in October eighty-five,” I said. “According to neighbors, Menard returned to Vermont the following January.”

“Only it wasn’t Menard.” Charbonneau placed both forearms on the table and leaned forward. “We’re thinking Catts got the idea for his little horror show by following the Cameron Hooker–Colleen Stan media coverage. The shithead was in Yuba City, right down the road from Red Bluff. The press was hemorrhaging stories on ‘the Girl in the Box.’”

“About that same time Catts was getting chummy with Stephen Menard,” Claudel cut in. “Catts didn’t want to repeat Hooker’s mistake of remaining close to the scene of the abduction, so Menard’s farm was the perfect solution for playing out his fantasies. Catts killed Menard, then waited for his prey.”

“Angie Robinson,” I said.

“Catts abducted Robinson and transported her to Vermont,” Clauel continued. “Once there, he exploited his resemblance to the Menard kid.”

“Grew flaming orange dreadlocks and beard and stayed clear of the locals,” I said.

“You’ve got it.” Charbonneau jabbed the air with a finger, then slouched back in his chair.

“Why leave Vermont?” I asked.