Deja Dead Part 50

"He was heading toward Montreal?"

"Apparently."

"What are they charging him with?"

"For now, possession of open alcohol in a moving vehicle. Jerk was thoughtful enough to crack a bottle of Jim Beam and leave it in the backseat. They also confiscated some skin magazines. He thinks that's the beef. They're letting him sweat for a while."

"Where was he?"

"Claims he has a cabin in the Gatineau. Inherited it from Daddy. Get this. He'd been fis.h.i.+ng. Crime scene's sending out a team to take the place apart."

"Where is he now?"

"Parthenais."

"You're heading over there?"

"Yeah." He took a deep breath, expecting a fight. I had no desire to see Tanguay.

"Okay." My mouth was dry, and a languor was spreading through my body. Tranquillity? I hadn't felt that in a long time.

"Katy is coming," I said with a nervous laugh. "That's why I . . . why I went out tonight."

"Your daughter?"

I nodded.

"Bad timing."

"I thought I might find something. I . . . never mind."

For a few seconds neither of us spoke.

"I'm glad it's over." Ryan's anger was gone. He rose to his feet. "Would you like me to stop by after I've talked to him? Could be late."

Bad as I felt, there was no chance I'd sleep until I knew the outcome. Who was Tanguay? What would they find in his cabin? Had Gabby died there? Had Isabelle Gagnon? Grace Damas? Or had they been taken there, postmortem, merely to be butchered and packaged?

"Please."

When he'd gone I realized I'd forgotten to tell him about the gloves. I tried Pete again. Though Tanguay was in custody, I was still uneasy. I didn't want Katy anywhere near Montreal yet. Perhaps I'd go South.

This time I reached him. Katy had left several days earlier. She'd told her father I proposed the trip. True. And approved the plans. Not quite. He wasn't sure of the itinerary. Typical. She was traveling with friends from the university, driving to D.C. to stay with one set of parents, then to New York to visit the other friend's home. Then she planned to continue on to Montreal. Sounded okay to him. He was sure she'd call.

I started to tell him about Gabby and what had been going on in my life, but couldn't. Not yet. No matter. It was over. As usual he had to rush off to prepare for an early morning deposition, regretted he couldn't talk longer. What's new?

I felt too ill and weary even to take a bath. For the next few hours I sat wrapped in a quilt, s.h.i.+vering and staring at the empty fireplace, wis.h.i.+ng I had someone to feed me soup, stroke my forehead, and say I would be better soon. I dozed and woke, drifting in and out of dream fragments, while microscopic beings multiplied in my bloodstream.

Ryan buzzed at one-fifteen.

"Jesus, you look awful, Brennan."

"Thanks." I rewrapped my quilt. "I think I'm getting a cold."

"Why don't we do this tomorrow?"

"No way."

He looked at me strangely then followed me in, threw his jacket on the couch, and sat.

"Name's Jean Pierre Tanguay. Twenty-eight. Homeboy. Grew up in Shawinigan. Never married. No kids. He has one sister living in Arkansas. His mother died when he was nine. Lot of hostility there. Father was a plasterer, pretty much raised the two kids. The old man died in a car wreck when Tanguay was in college. Apparently it hit him pretty hard. He dropped out of school, stayed with the sister for a while, then wandered around down in the States. You ready for this? While he was in Dixie he got a call from G.o.d. Wanted to be a Jesuit or something, but flunked the interview. Apparently they didn't think his personality was priestly enough. Anyway, he resurfaced in Quebec in '88 and managed to get back into Bishops. Finished his degree about a year and a half later."

"So he's been in the area since '88?"

"Yep."

"That would put him back here about the time Pitre and Gautier were murdered."

Ryan nodded. "And he's been here ever since."

I had to swallow before I spoke.

"What's he say about the animals?"

"Claims he teaches biology. We've checked that out. Says he's building a reference collection for his cla.s.ses. Boils down the carca.s.ses and mounts the skeletons."

"That would explain the anatomy books."

"Might."

"Where does he get them?"

"Roadkills."

"Oh, Christ, Bertrand was right." I could picture him skulking around at night, sc.r.a.ping up corpses and dragging them home in plastic bags.

"He ever work in a butcher shop?"

"He didn't say. Why?"

"What did Claudel find out from the people he works with?"

"Nothing we didn't know. Keeps to himself, teaches his cla.s.ses. n.o.body really knows him all that well. And they're not thrilled at a call late in the evening."

"Sounds like Grammama's profile."

"The sister says he's always been antisocial. Can't remember him having friends. But she's nine years older, doesn't remember much about him as a kid. She did throw us one interesting tidbit."

"Yes"

Ryan smiled. "Tanguay's impotent."

"The sister volunteered that?"

"She thought it might explain his antisocial tendencies. Sis thinks he's harmless, just suffers from low self-esteem. She's big into the self-help literature. Knows all the jargon."

I didn't reply. In my mind I was seeing lines from two autopsy reports.

"That makes sense. Adkins and Morisette-Champoux tested negative for sperm."

"Bingo."

"How did he become impotent?"

"Combination congenital and trauma. He was born a one-baller, then wrecked it in a soccer accident. Some freak thing where another player was carrying a pen. Tanguay caught it with his one good nut. Bye-bye spermatogenesis."

"And that's why he's a hermit?"

"Hey. Maybe Sis is right."

"Could explain his lack of sparkle with the girls." I thought of Jewel's comments. And Julie.

"And everyone else."

"Isn't it odd he'd choose teaching?" Ryan mused. "Why work in a setting where you have to interact with so many people? If you really feel inadequate, why not choose something less threatening, more private? Computers? Or lab work?"

"I'm not a psychologist, but teaching might be perfect. You don't interact with equals-you know, with adults; you interact with kids. You're the one in charge. You have the power. Your cla.s.sroom is your little kingdom and the kids have to do what you say. No way they're going to ridicule or second-guess you."

"At least not to your face."

"Could be the perfect balance for him. Satisfy his need for power and control by day, feed his s.e.xual fantasies at night."

"And that's the best-case scenario," I said. "Think of the opportunities for voyeurism, or even for physical contact that he has with those kids."

"Yeah."

We sat in silence for a while, Ryan's eyes sweeping the room much as they had in Tanguay's apartment. He looked exhausted.

"Guess the surveillance unit isn't necessary anymore," I said.

"Yeah." He stood.

I walked him to the door.

"What's your take on him, Ryan?"

He didn't answer right away. Then he spoke very carefully.

"He claims he's innocent as little Orphan Annie, but he's nervous as h.e.l.l. He's hiding something. By tomorrow we'll know what's in the little country getaway. We'll use that and hit him with the whole thing. He'll roll over."

When he left I took a heavy dose of cold medicine and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. If I dreamed, I couldn't remember.The next day I felt better, but not well enough to go to the lab. Maybe it was avoidance, but I stayed home. Birdie was the only one I wanted to see.

I kept busy reading a student thesis and responding to correspondence I'd been ignoring for weeks. Ryan called around one as I was unloading the dryer. I knew from his voice things weren't going well.

"Crime scene turned the cabin inside out and came up empty. Nothing there to suggest the guy even cheats at solitaire. No knives. No guns. No snuff films. None of Dobzhansky's victim souvenirs. No jewelry, clothing, skulls, body parts. One dead squirrel in the refrigerator. That's it. Otherwise, zipp-o."

"Signs of digging?"

"Nothing."

"Is there a toolshed or a bas.e.m.e.nt where he might have saws or old blades?"

"Rakes, hoes, wooden crates, an old chain saw, a broken wheelbarrow. Standard garden stuff. And enough spiders to populate a small planet. Apparently Gilbert's going to need therapy."

"Is there a crawl s.p.a.ce?"

"Brennan, you're not listening."

"Luminol?" I asked, depressed.

"Clean."

"Newspaper clippings?"

"No."

"Is there anything to tie this place to the room we busted on Berger?"

"No."

"To St. Jacques?"

"No."

"To Gabby?"

"No."

"To any of the victims?"

He didn't answer.

"What do you think he does out there?"

"Fishes and thinks about his missing nut."

"What now?"

"Bertrand and I are going up to have a long talk with Monsieur Tanguay. Time to drop some names and start turning up the heat. I still think he'll give it up."