Deadly Decisions Read Free Page B

his pager from his belt, checked the screen, then tapped it hard against his hand. Shaking his head and sighing, he reattached the device to his waistband.
    “Batteries,” he said.
    The constable watched me intently as I repeated what LaManche had said. His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. When I’d finished, he nodded, then turned and left the room.
    I stood a moment, wondering at the man’s odd demeanor. Terrific. I not only had two vaporized bikers to piece together, I now had Constable Congenial as an associate.
    I picked up my pack and headed back to the woods.
    No problem, Mr. Quickwater. I’ve cracked tougher nuts than you.

T HE TRIP TO M ONTREAL WAS UNEVENTFUL, EXCEPT FOR AN OVERT snub by Martin Quickwater. Though we were on the same flight, he did not speak to me or move to one of the empty seats in my row. We nodded at Washington-Reagan, then again as we waited in the customs line at Montreal’s Dorval. His coolness suited me. I really didn’t want to deal with the man.
    I took a taxi to my condo in Centreville, offloaded luggage, and zapped a frozen burrito. My old Mazda turned over after three tries, and I headed to the city’s east side.
    For years the forensic lab had been located on the fifth floor of a structure known as the SQ building. The provincial police, or Sûreté du Québec, had the rest of the floors, except for my office and a detention center on the twelfth and thirteenth. The morgue and autopsy rooms were in the basement.
    The Quebec government had recently spent millions to renovate the building. The jail was relocated, and the medico-legal and crime labs now sprawled throughout the top two floors. It had been months since the move, but I still couldn’t believe the change. My new office had a spectacular view of the St. Lawrence River, and my lab was first-rate.
    At three-thirty on Friday the normal weekday hustle and bustle were beginning to taper off. One by one doors were closing, and the army of lab-coated scientists and technicians was dwindling.
    I unlocked my office and hung my jacket on the wooden hall tree. Three white forms lay on my desk. I selected the one with LaManche’s signature.
    The “Demande d’Expertise en Anthropologie” is often my first introduction to a case. Filled out by the requesting pathologist, it provides data critical to tracking a file.
    My eyes drifted down the right-hand column. Lab number. Morgue number. Police incident number. Clinical and efficient. The body is tagged and archived until the wheels of justice have run their course.
    I shifted to the left column. Pathologist. Coroner. Investigating officer. Violent death is the final intrusion, and those who investigate it are the ultimate voyeurs. Though I participate, I am never comfortable with the indifference with which the system approaches the deceased and the death investigation. Even though a sense of detachment is a must to maintain emotional equilibrium, I always have the feeling that the victim deserves something more passionate, more personal.
    I scanned the summary of known facts. It differed from LaManche’s telephone account in only one respect. To date, two hundred and fifteen remnants of flesh and bone had been recovered. The largest weighed eleven pounds.
    Ignoring the other forms and a stack of phone messages, I went to find the director.
    I’d rarely seen Pierre LaManche in anything but lab-coat white or surgical green. I couldn’t imagine him laughing or wearing plaid. He was somber and kind, and strictly tweed. And the best forensic pathologist I knew.
    I spotted him through the rectangle of glass beside his office door. His rangy form was hunched over a desk heaped with papers, journals, books, and a stack of files in all the primary colors. When I tapped he looked up and gestured me in.
    The office, like its occupant, smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. LaManche had a manner of moving silently, and sometimes the scent