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A shelf to the left of the cash register held bottles of red wine. My weapon of choice. As I looked at them, for the thousandth time I felt the craving. I remembered the taste, the smell, the dry, tangy feel of the wine on my tongue. I remembered the warmth that would start in my gut and spread upward and outward, navigating a path through my body, lighting the fires of well-being along its course. The bonfires of control. Of vigor. Of invincibility. I could use that right now, I thought. Right. Who was I kidding? I wouldn?t stop there. What were those stages? I?d move right on to bulletproof and then to invisible. Or was it the other way around? No matter. I?d carry it too far, and then the crash would come. The comfort would be short term, the price heavy. It?d been six years since I?d had a drink.

I took my food home and ate it with Birdie and the Montreal Expos. He slept, curled in my lap, purring softly. They lost to the Cubs by two runs. Neither mentioned the murder. I appreciated that.

I took a long, hot bath and fell into bed at ten-thirty. Alone in the dark and quiet I could no longer suppress the thought. Like cells gone mad, it grew and gathered strength, finally forcing itself into my consciousness, insisting on recognition. The other homicide. The other young woman who?d come to the morgue in pieces. I saw her in vivid detail, remembered my feelings as I?d worked on her bones. Chantale Trottier. Age: sixteen. Strangled, beaten, decapitated, dismembered. Less than a year ago she?d arrived naked and packaged in plastic garbage bags.

I was ready to end the day but my mind refused to clock out. I lay there as mountains formed and the continental plates shifted. Finally, I fell asleep, the phrase ricocheting in my skull. It would haunt me all weekend. Serial murder.

3

GABBY WAS CALLING MY FLIGHT. I HAD AN ENORMOUS SUITCASE and couldn?t maneuver it down the jetway. The other passengers were annoyed, but no one was helping me. I could see Katy leaning out to watch me from the front row of first class. She was wearing the dress we?d chosen for her high school graduation. Moss green silk. But she?d told me later she didn?t like it, regretted the choice. She would?ve preferred the floral print. Why was she wearing it? Why was Gabby at the airport when she should have been at the university? Her voice over the loudspeaker was becoming louder, more strident.

I sat up. It was seven-twenty. Monday morning. Light illuminated the edges of the window shade, but little seeped into the room.

Gabby?s voice continued. ?. . . but I knew I wouldn?t be able to get ya later. Guess you?re an earlier riser than I thought. Anyway, about to . . .?

I picked up the phone. ?Hello.? I tried to sound less groggy than I was. The voice stopped in midsentence.

?Temp? Is that you??

I nodded.

?Did I wake ya??

?Yes.? I was not yet up to a witty response.

?Sorry. Should I call back later??

?No, no. I?m up.? I resisted adding that I?d had to get up to answer the phone anyway.

?Butt outa bed, babe. Early worm time. Listen, about tonight. Could we make it se-? A high-pitched screech interrupted her.

?Hang on. I must?ve left the answering machine on automatic.? I set down the receiver and walked to the living room. The red light was flashing. I picked up the portable handset, returned to the bedroom, and replaced that receiver in its cradle.

?Okay.? By now I was fully awake and starting to crave coffee. I headed for the kitchen.

?I was calling about tonight.? Her voice had an edge to it. I couldn?t blame her. She?d been trying to finish one sentence for five minutes now.

?I?m sorry, Gabby. I spent the whole weekend reading a student thesis, and I was up pretty late last night. I was really sound asleep. I didn?t even hear the phone ring.? That was odd, even for me. ?What?s up??

?About tonight. Uh, could we make it seven-thirty instead of seven? This project has me jumpier than a cricket in a lizard cage.?

?Sure. No problem. That?s probably better for me too.? Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I reached into the cabinet for the jar of coffee beans, and transferred three scoops to the grinder.

?Want me to pick ya up?? she asked.

?Either way. I can drive if you want. Where should we go?? I considered grinding, decided against it. She already sounded a little touchy.

Silence. I could picture her playing with her nose ring as she thought it over. Or today it might be a stud. At first it had bothered me, and I?d had difficulty concentrating in conversations with Gabby. I?d find myself focusing on the ring, wondering how much pain was involved in piercing one?s nose. I no longer noticed.

?It should be nice tonight,? she said. ?How ?bout someplace we can eat outside? Prince Arthur or St. Denis??

?Great,? I said. ?No reason for you to come down here, then. I?ll be by about seven-thirty. Think of someplace new. I feel like something exotic.?

Though it could be risky with Gabby, that was our usual routine. She knew the city much better than I, so the choice of restaurant usually fell to her.

?Okay. #192; plus tard.?

? #192; plus tard,? I responded. I was surprised and a bit relieved. Normally she?d stay on the phone forever. I often had to manufacture excuses to escape.

The telephone has always been a lifeline for Gabby and me. I associate her with the phone as I do no one else. This pattern was set early in our friendship. Our graduate student conversations were a strange relief from the melancholy that enveloped me in those years. My daughter Katy finally fed, bathed, and in her crib, Gabby and I would log hours on the line, sharing the excitement of a newly discovered book, discussing our classes, professors, fellow students, and nothing in particular. It was the only frivolity we allowed ourselves in a nonfrivolous time in our lives.

Though we talk less frequently now, the pattern has altered little in the decades since. Together or apart, we are there for each other?s highs and lows. It was Gabby who talked me through the AA days, when need for a drink colored my waking hours and brought me to at night, trembling and sweating. It is me whom Gabby dials, exhilarated and hopeful when love enters her life, lonely and despairing when, once again, it leaves.

When the coffee was ready I took it to the glass table in the dining room. Memories of Gabby were replaying in my mind. I always smiled when I thought of her. Gabby in grad seminar. Gabby at the Pit. Gabby at the dig, red kerchief askew, hennaed dreadlocks swinging as she scraped the dirt with her trowel. At six foot one she understood early that she?d never be a conventional beauty. She didn?t try to become thin or tan. She didn?t shave her legs or armpits. Gabby was Gabby. Gabrielle Macaulay from Trois-Rivi #232;res, Quebec. French mother, En-glish father.

We?d been close in grad school. She?d hated physical anthropology, suffered through the courses I loved. I felt the same about her ethnology seminars. When we left Northwestern I?d gone to North Carolina and she?d returned to Quebec. We?d seen little of each other over the years, but the phone had kept us close. It was largely because of Gabby that I?d been offered a visiting professorship at McGill in 1990. During that year I?d begun working at the lab part time, and had continued the arrangement after returning to North Carolina, commuting North every six weeks as the caseload dictated. This year I had taken a leave of absence from UNC-Charlotte, and was in Montreal full time. I?d missed being with Gabby, and was enjoying the renewal of our friendship.

The flashing light on the answering machine caught my eye. There must?ve been a call before Gabby. I had it set to answer after four rings unless the tape had already been triggered. Then it would pick up after one. Wondering how I could?ve slept through four rings and an entire message, I went over and pressed the button. The tape rewound, engaged, and played. Silence, then a click. A short beep followed, then Gabby?s voice. It was only a hang-up. Good. I hit rewind and went to dress for work.


The medico-legal lab is located in what is known as the QPP or SQ building, depending on your linguistic preference. To anglophones, it is the Quebec Provincial Police-to francophones, La S #251;ret #233; du Qu #233;bec. The Laboratoire de M #233;decine L #233;gale, similar to a medical examiner?s office in the States, shares the fifth floor with the Laboratoire des Sciences Judiciaires, the central crime lab for the province. Together the LML and the LSJ make up a unit known as La Direction de l?Expertise Judiciaire-DEJ. There is a jail on the fourth and top three floors of the building. The morgue and autopsy suites are in the basement. The provincial police occupy the remaining eight floors.

This arrangement has its advantages. We?re all together. If I need an opinion on fibers, or a report on a soil sample, a walk down the corridor takes me directly to the source. It also has its drawbacks in that we are easily accessible. For an SQ investigator, or a city detective dropping off evidence or paperwork, it is a short elevator ride to our offices.

Witness that morning. Claudel was waiting at my office door when I arrived. He was carrying a small brown envelope and repeatedly tapped its edge against the palm of his hand. To say he looked agitated would be like saying Gandhi looked hungry.

?I have the dental records,? he said in way of greeting. He flourished the envelope like a presenter at the Academy Awards.

?I picked them up myself.?

He read a name scrawled on the outside. ?Dr. Nguyen. He?s got an office over in Rosemont. I would have been here earlier but the guy?s got a real cretin of a secretary.?

?Coffee?? I asked. Though I?d never met Dr. Nguyen?s secretary I felt empathy for her. I knew she hadn?t had a good morning.

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