Death Du Jour (10 page)

“I know what Rohypnol is, Ryan. I’m just surprised. It’s not so easy to come by.”

“Yeah. That could be a break. It’s banned in the U.S. and Canada.”

So is crack, I thought.

“Here’s another weird thing. It wasn’t Ward and June Cleaver up in that bedroom. LaManche says the guy was probably in his twenties, the woman closer to fifty.”

I knew that. LaManche had asked my opinion during the autopsy.

“Now what?”

“We’re heading back out there to take the other two buildings apart. We’re still waiting for word from the owner. He’s some kind of hermit buried in the Belgian boonies.”

“Good luck.”

Rohypnol. That kindled something way down in my memory cells, but when I tried to bring it up the spark went out.

I checked to see if the slides for Pelletiér’s malnourished baby case were finished. The histology tech told me they’d be ready tomorrow.

I then spent an hour examining the cremains. They were in a jelly jar with a handwritten label stating the name of the decedent, the name of the crematorium, and the date of cremation. Not typical packaging for North America, but I knew nothing of practices in the Caribbean.

No particle was over a centimeter in size. Typical. Few bone fragments survive the pulverizers used by modern crematoriums. Using a dissecting scope, I was able to identify a few things, including a complete ear ossicle. I also located some small bits of twisted metal that I thought might be parts of a dental prosthesis. I saved them for the dentist.

Typically, an adult male will be reduced by firing and pulverization to about 3,500 cc’s of ash. This jar contained about 360. I wrote a brief report stating that the cremains were those of an adult human, and that they were incomplete. Any hope at personal identification would lie with Bergeron.

At six-thirty I packed up and went home.

É
LISABETH
’
S SKELETON TROUBLED ME
. W
HAT
I’
D
seen just couldn’t be, but even LaManche had spotted it. I was anxious to resolve the question, but the next morning a set of tiny bones by the sink in the histo lab commanded my attention. The slides were also ready, so I spent several hours on Pelletiér’s baby case.

Finding no other requisition on my desk, at ten-thirty I phoned Sister Julienne to find out as much as I could about Élisabeth Nicolet. I asked her the same questions I’d posed to Father Ménard, with similar results. Élisabeth was “
pure laine
.” Pure-wool québécoise. But no papers directly establishing her birth or parentage.

“What about outside the convent, Sister? Have you checked other collections?”

“Ah,
oui.
I’ve researched all the archives in the archdiocese. We have libraries throughout the province, you know. I’ve gotten materials from many convents and monasteries.”

I’d seen some of this material. Most was in the form of letters and personal journals containing references to the family. A few were attempts at historical narrative, but were not what my dean would call “peer reviewed.”
Many were purely anecdotal accounts, made up of hearsay on top of hearsay.

I tried a different tack. “Until recently, the church was responsible for all birth certificates in Quebec, correct?” Father Ménard had explained that.

“Yes. Until just a few years ago.”

“But none can be found for Élisabeth?”

“No.” There was a pause. “We’ve had some tragic fires over the years. In 1880 the Sisters of Notre Dame built a beautiful motherhouse on the side of Mount Royal. Sadly, it burned to the ground thirteen years later. Our own motherhouse was destroyed in 1897. Hundreds of priceless documents were lost in those fires.”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

“Sister, can you think of anywhere else I might find information on Élisabeth’s birth? Or on her parents?”

“I . . . well, you could try the secular libraries, I suppose. Or the historical society. Or perhaps one of the universities. The Nicolet and Bélanger families have produced several important figures in French Canadian history. I’m certain they are discussed in historical accounts.”

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll do that.”

“There’s a professor at McGill who’s done research in our archives. My niece knows her. She studies religious movements, but she’s also interested in Quebec history. I can’t remember if she’s an anthropologist, or a historian, or what. She might be able to help.” She hesitated. “Of course, her references would be different from ours.”

I was certain of that, but said nothing.

“Do you remember her name?”

There was a long pause. I could hear others on the
line, far away, like voices carrying across a lake. Someone laughed.

“It’s been a long time. I’m sorry. I could ask my niece if you wish.”

“Thank you, Sister. I’ll follow up your lead.”

“Dr. Brennan, when do you think you’ll finish with the bones?”

“Soon. Unless something comes up, I should be able to complete my report on Friday. I’ll write up my assessments of age, sex, and race, and any other observations I’ve made, and comment on how my findings compare to the facts known about Élisabeth. You can include whatever you feel is appropriate with your application to the Vatican.”

“And you will call?”

“Of course. As soon as I’m done.” Actually, I was done, and I had little doubt what my report would say. Why didn’t I just tell them now?

We exchanged good-byes, then I disconnected, waited for the tone, and dialed again. A phone rang across town.

“Mitch Denton.”

“Hi, Mitch. Tempe Brennan. Are you still head honcho at your place?”

Mitch was the anthropology chair who’d hired me to teach part-time when I first came to Montreal. We’d been friends ever since. His specialty was the French Paleolithic.

“Still stuck. Want to do a course for us this summer?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you remember the historic case I told you about? The one I’m doing for the archdiocese?”

“The saint wanna-be?”

“Right.”

“Sure. Beats the hell out of most of the stuff you work on. Did you find her?”

“Yes. But I’ve noticed something a bit odd, and I’d like to learn more about her.”

“Odd?”

“Unexpected. Listen, one of the nuns told me someone at McGill does research involving religion and Quebec history. Does that ring a bell?”

“Dong! That would be our own Daisy Jean.”

“Daisy Jean?”

“Dr. Jeannotte to you. Professor of Religious Studies and students’ best friend.”

“Back up, Mitch.”

“Her name is Daisy Jeannotte. Officially she’s on the Faculty of Religious Studies, but she also teaches some history courses. ‘Religious Movements in Quebec.’ ‘Ancient and Modern Belief Systems.’ That sort of thing.”

“Daisy Jean?” I repeated the question.

“Just an in-house endearment. It’s not for direct address.”

“Why?”

“She can be a bit . . . odd, to use your expression.”

“Odd?”

“Unexpected. She’s from Dixie, you know.”

I ignored that. Mitch was a transplanted Vermonter. He never let up on my Southern homeland.

“Why do you say she’s the students’ best friend?”

“Daisy spends all her free time with students. She takes them on outings, advises them, travels with them, has them to the house for dinner. There’s a constant line of needy souls outside her door seeking solace and counseling.”

“Sounds admirable.”

He started to say something, caught himself. “I suppose.”

“Would Dr. Jeannotte know anything about Élisabeth Nicolet or her family?”

“If anyone can help you it will be Daisy Jean.”

He gave me her number and we promised to get together soon.

A secretary told me Dr. Jeannotte would be holding office hours between one and three, so I decided to drop in after lunch.

*   *   *

It takes analytical skills worthy of a degree in civil engineering to understand when and where one is allowed to leave a car in Montreal. McGill University lies in the heart of Centre-Ville, so even if one is able to comprehend where parking is permitted, it is almost impossible to find a space. I found a spot on Stanley that I interpreted to be legal from nine to five, between April 1 and December 31, except from 1 to 2
P.M.
on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It did not require a neighborhood permit.

After five reversals of direction and much manipulation of the steering wheel, I managed to wedge the Mazda between a Toyota pickup and an Oldsmobile Cutlass. Not a bad job on a steep grade. When I got out I was sweating despite the cold. I checked the bumpers. I had at least twenty-four inches to spare. Total.

The weather was not as frigid as it had been, but the modest rise in temperature had come with an increased dampness. A cloud of cold, moist air pressed down on the city, and the sky was the color of old tin. A heavy, wet snow began to fall as I walked downhill to Sherbrooke and turned east. The first flakes melted when
they touched the pavement, then others lingered and threatened to accumulate.

I trudged uphill on McTavish and entered McGill through the west gate. The campus lay above and below me, the gray stone buildings climbing the hill from Sherbrooke to Docteur-Penfield. People hurried about, shoulders rounded against the cold and damp, books and packages shielded from the snow. I passed the library and cut behind the Redpath Museum. Exiting the east gate, I turned left, and headed uphill on rue Université, my calves feeling as though I’d done three miles on a Nordic Track. Outside Birks Hall I nearly collided with a tall young man walking head down, his hair and glasses coated with snowflakes the size of luna moths.

Birks is from another time, with its Gothic exterior, carved oak walls and furniture, and enormous cathedral windows. It is a place that inspires whispering, not the chatting and swapping of notes that occurs in most university buildings. The first-floor lobby is cavernous, its walls hung with portraits of grave men looking down in scholarly self-importance.

I added my boots to the row of footwear trickling melted snow onto the marble floor, and stepped over for a closer look at the august artworks.
Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.
Good job, Tom.
John Bunyan, Immortal Dreamer.
Times had changed. When I was a student abstract reverie in class, if detected, got you called on and humiliated for being inattentive.

I climbed a winding staircase, past two sets of wooden doors on the second floor, one to the chapel, the other to the library, and continued to the third. Here the elegance of the lobby gave way to signs of aging. Patches of paint peeled from walls and ceiling, and here and there a tile was missing.

At the top of the stairs I paused to get my bearings. It was strangely quiet and gloomy. On my left I could see an alcove with double doors opening on to the chapel balcony. Two corridors flanked the alcove, with wooden doors set at intervals along each hall. I passed the chapel and started up the far corridor.

The last office on the left was open but unoccupied. A plaque above the door said “Jeannotte” in delicate script. Compared with my office, the room looked like St. Joseph’s Oratory. It was long and narrow, with a bell-shaped window at the far end. Through the leaded glass I could see the administration building and the drive leading up to the Strathcona Medical-Dental Complex. The floor was oak, the planks buffed yellow by years of studious feet.

Shelves lined every wall, filled with books, journals, notebooks, videotapes, slide carousels, and stacks of papers and reprints. A wooden desk sat in front of the window, a computer workstation to its right.

I looked at my watch. Twelve forty-five. I was early. I moved back up the hall and began to examine the photos lining the corridor. School of Divinity, Graduating Class of 1937, and 1938, and 1939. Stiff poses. Somber faces.

I had worked my way to 1942 when a young woman appeared. She wore jeans, a turtleneck, and a wool plaid shirt that hung to her knees. Her blond hair was cut blunt at the jawline, and thick bangs covered her eyebrows. She wore no makeup.

“May I help you?” she asked in English. She tipped her head and the bangs fell sideways.

“Yes. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”

“Dr. Jeannotte’s not here yet, but I expect her any time. Can I do something for you? I’m her teaching
assistant.” With a quick gesture, she tucked hair behind her right ear.

“Thank you, I’d like to ask Dr. Jeannotte a few questions. I’ll wait, if I may.”

“Uh, oh, well. O.K. I guess that’s O.K. She’s just, I’m not sure. She doesn’t allow anyone in her office.” She looked at me, glanced through the open door, then back at me. “I was at the copy machine.”

“That’s fine. I’ll wait out here.”

“Well, no, she could be a while. She’s often late. I . . .” She turned and scanned the corridor behind her.

“You could sit in her office.” Again the hair gesture. “But I don’t know if she’ll like that.”

She seemed unable to make a decision.

“I’m fine here. Really.”

Her eyes moved past me, then back to my face. She bit her lip and did another hair tuck. She didn’t seem old enough to be a college student. She looked about twelve.