Bones Never Lie (23 page)

“Don’t need no swab to see that.” Slidell’s tone said he was out of patience.

“I’ll puke.”

Slidell spoke to me. “The witness says she don’t feel good. I should take a spin around the premises, see if there’s something might be making her sick.” He pushed to his feet.

When Lonergan’s head snapped up, the cartilage in her throat stood out like rings on a Slinky. “No.”

We waited.

“Why are you doing this?” The skittish eyes bounced around the room and settled on me, a less threatening foe.

“We need your DNA on file,” I said gently.

“In case Colleen—”

“It takes only a second.” I pulled on surgical gloves and stepped closer. I expected Lonergan to turn away. To clamp her jaw. Perhaps to spit at me. Instead, she opened her mouth, revealing teeth so rotten that I wondered how she could chew.

I scraped her cheek, sealed the swab in the tube, and marked it with a Sharpie. Slidell took the specimen without comment. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Looking at Lonergan, I felt a bubble of pity rise in my chest. The woman had nothing. Her sister was dead. Her niece was missing, probably dead. She had no present. No future. Only enslavement to a habit that would inevitably take her life.

“I know you care about Colleen,” I said softly.

Lonergan’s snort was meant to show apathy. What I heard was guilt and self-loathing.

“You did the best you could, Laura.”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“You haven’t given up.”

“Yay, me. I leave the porch light on.”

“You didn’t let it drop.” Desperate to find something comforting to say. “You reached out to check on your niece’s case.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“According to Colleen’s file, you phoned last August to ask for an update.”

Lonergan looked at me in genuine confusion. “Phoned who?”

“Pat Tasat.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Do you know a woman named Sarah Merikoski?”

One bony shoulder rose, dropped. “Maybe.”

“She reported your niece missing. Tasat was the detective looking into it.”

“Lady, I’m not sure of much. But one thing you can take to the bank: I’ve never dimed a cop in my life.”

Was the meth speaking? Had Tasat gotten it wrong? Or had he missed something?

“Does Colleen have more than one aunt?” I asked.

“If the kid had options would she have stayed in this dump?” Sweeping a skeletal arm to take in the room.

A buzz rippled my nerves.

My eyes shifted to Slidell.

He was listening.

I WAS SO
pumped, I overlooked the mélange of odors polluting Slidell’s Taurus.

“If Lonergan didn’t call Tasat, who did?” I said.

“You can count on one hand the cells still firing in that chick’s head.”

“She sounded so certain.”

Slidell offered a sniff.

“I can’t recall if the notation included a callback number.”

“Knock yourself out. I’m gonna run the swab by the lab.”

We were at the LEC in minutes. Rose through the building in silence.

My pulse was high-stepping. Was the discrepancy due to Lonergan’s impaired wiring? Had Tasat gotten it wrong in his notes? Or had we stumbled on to one of Ryan’s big bang breaks?

I got off on two and headed past the CCU to the conference room. Slidell continued up to four.

The Donovan file was on the table with the others. It took little time to locate the entry.

Investigative Notes (Tasat) (
8
/
07
/
14
)

Laura Lonergan, family member, phoned to ask about progress on MP Colleen Donovan. Lonergan is Donovan’s maternal aunt. When asked if she had thoughts where Colleen might be, Lonergan stated that she did not. When asked where she could be reached, she provided a cellphone contact and stated she had no work or home lines.

Lonergan’s mobile was listed at the end of the entry.

After blocking my own caller ID, I tried the number. A voice told me it wasn’t in service.

I was sitting there, frustration oozing from every pore, when Slidell lumbered through the door. “What?” Seeing my face.

“There’s nothing in the file to indicate where the call was made. The mobile number given by Lonergan”—hooking the name with air quotes—“is bogus. And Tasat’s not around to take questions.”

“I’m telling you. The woman’s brain is hamburger.”

“I think we should check it out.”

Slidell sighed, über-patient. Yanked out his spiral. “You got the date the call came in?”

“August seventh.”

“The time?”

“No.”

“I’ll have to get Tasat’s number.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Then I’ll have to subpoena Ma Bell.”

“How long will that take?”

“A couple weeks, a couple days. Some companies are friendlier than others.”

“Shall we tell Barrow?”

“Tell him what? A tweaker’s having memory issues?”

Easy, Brennan.
“Where is Barrow?”

“Heading here now.”

Slidell’s words were barely out when the head of CCU stepped into the room.

I explained the call. And my suspicion that someone other than Lonergan had placed it.

“Nice catch.”

“Maybe.” I knew in my gut that it was. “The mobile number Lonergan gave Tasat isn’t in service. And it’s not the one she’s currently posting on Backpage.com.”

“So she got dropped or switched carriers.” Slidell’s skepticism was a real buzzkill.

“You on the trace?” Barrow asked him before I could respond.

“Wanna bet it’s a waste of time?”

“I could pass it to Tinker.”

Slidell took his leave, muttering about paperwork. And horseshit.

Barrow took the chair opposite mine. “How was the far north?”

“Cold.”

“Bring me up to speed.”

I did.

Barrow listened, now and then clearing his throat.

When I finished, he sat thinking about it. Then, “The brass wanted stronger links between Leal and the other cases. Said they’d reassess when the situation changed.”

“They did.”

“We need to share this with the deputy chief.”

“When?” I looked at my watch. It was ten past five. I’d risen before dawn to fly back to Charlotte.

“Now.”

“Since 2007, three adolescent females have been abducted in broad daylight and later found dead. Nellie Gower, Hardwick, Vermont, 2007. Lizzie Nance, Charlotte, 2009. Tia Estrada, Salisbury, 2012. The victims are of a type. The VICAP crime profiles show striking similarity. In each case, the body was left in the open, fully clothed, and posed. In no case was there evidence of sexual assault. In no case could cause of death be determined.” At Barrow’s urging, I was taking the lead.

Deputy Chief Denise Salter kept her eyes level on mine. They were brown, darker than her caramel skin, lighter than the black hair pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her shirt was eye-scorching white, the creases on its long sleeves sharp enough to perform microsurgery. Black tie, black pants, black patent-leather shoes gleaming like marble.

Salter had rescheduled another meeting to make time for us. She was listening, her expression neither kind nor unkind.

“Over the same seven-year period, at least two others girls have disappeared in North Carolina. Avery Koseluk from Kannapolis in 2011. Colleen Donovan from Charlotte in late 2013 or early 2014.”

Barrow placed five photos on the desk facing Salter. She slipped reading glasses onto her nose and scanned the lineup. Then looked pointedly at me.

I went on, “Koseluk was thought to be a noncustodial-parent abduction, Donovan a runaway. Both remain open MP files.”

“Cut to the chase.” Behind the lenses, Salter’s eyes looked E.T. huge.

“Identical DNA was found on Gower and Nance.”

Barrow added the age-progressed pic of Pomerleau to the blotter. Salter picked it up and studied the face. “Hers?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get the hit?”

“The NDDB, the Canadian equivalent of CODIS.”

If that surprised Salter, she hid it well.

“Who is she?”

“A Canadian national named Anique Pomerleau. She and an accomplice, Neal Wesley Catts, aka Stephen Menard, are wanted for the deaths of at least three individuals. Their MO was to imprison, torture, and rape young women. Angela Robinson, Menard’s first victim, was kidnapped in Corning, California, in 1985. Marie-Joëlle Bastien and Manon Violette were taken in Montreal in 1994. All three died in captivity.”

“You know this because?”

“I identified their remains.”

“Go on.”

“In 2004, Pomerleau slipped the net just as the Montreal cops closed in. She’s been in the wind ever since. Until now.”

“And Menard?”

“She either killed him or he killed himself just before she disappeared.”

“You think Pomerleau is now murdering kids on my turf?”

“No.”

Salter’s brows floated up in question.

“Two days ago I assisted at Pomerleau’s autopsy.”

I summarized my trip to Montreal and St. Johnsbury. Ryan. The interviews with the Kezerians, Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes.

I described the Corneau property, the barrel, the autopsy. The furnace mechanic who’d seen a second person present at the farm.

“You think Pomerleau and an accomplice killed Nellie Gower. Then, a year and a half later, the pair came here and killed Lizzie Nance.”

“We do.”

Barrow and I exchanged glances. He nodded. “And we believe there were others,” I added.

A flick of Salter’s wrist told me to continue.

“A skeleton was discovered in Belmont in 2010. I determined that the bones were those of a twelve- to fourteen-year-old female, probably fully clothed when her body was dumped.”

“Probably?”

“The remains had been scavenged by animals.”

Salter tossed her glasses to the blotter and leaned back into her chair.

“During Shelly Leal’s autopsy, Larabee pulled hair from her throat,” I said.

“The child just discovered under the I-485 overpass.”

I nodded. “DNA sequencing says at least one of those hairs came from Anique Pomerleau.”

“That’s big.”

“But puzzling. Circumstantial evidence suggests Pomerleau died in 2009.”

“Explanation?”

“The hairs could have transferred from Pomerleau to her accomplice,” Barrow said. “Maybe via a shared article of clothing. Or his ritual could include wearing something Pomerleau wore.”

“Larabee also found a lip print on Leal’s jacket,” I said. “It contained DNA. Amelogenin testing indicated the DNA came from a male.”

“I’m guessing lip boy is not in the system.”

“No.”

Silence filled the room for a very long moment. Salter broke it. “Let me get this straight. Pomerleau and a male accomplice operated out of a farm in Vermont until 2009.”

“Yes.”

“Was anything found to suggest kids were held there? A soundproof room? Handcuffs bolted to a wall?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.” Neutral. “This mysterious accomplice eventually kills Pomerleau and stashes her body in a barrel of syrup.”

“Yes.”

“Motive?”

“We have none.”

“He then moves south. Does Nance, Estrada, maybe Koseluk, Donovan, and the kid found near Belmont. Now Leal.”

“Yes.”

“Why shift his blood sport here?”

I described the
Health Science
article. The picture of me clipped and saved at the Corneau farm.

“You’re saying the perp’s in my town because of you.”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“Why?”

“Revenge? Taunting? Who knows?”

Salter’s phone rang. She ignored it.

“Explain the dates again,” Barrow said to me.

I did, leaving out Mama’s role in spotting the pattern.

“So victims are taken on the anniversaries of abductions in Montreal.” Statement, not question, Salter wanting affirmation.

“That’s the idea,” I said. “Possibly on the dates they died.”

“And Pomerleau’s accomplice continues the game even though he’s taken her out.”

“So it appears.”

“And the intervals are decreasing.”

“Yes,” Barrow said. “And another anniversary comes up in two months.”

I could hear my own breathing in the silence that followed. Salter’s folded glasses tapping the desktop. Finally, when I thought she was about to blow us off, “Slidell’s working Leal, right?”

“Yes,” Barrow confirmed.

“Anyone else assigned to this?” She swept a hand over the photos.

“Ex-officio, a detective from Montreal, another from Hardwick, Vermont.”

“I’ve seen Beau Tinker in the halls. The SBI here at your invitation?”

“Not exactly.”

Another beat. Then Salter pocketed the glasses. “Write it up. Everything you’ve got.”

THE WEATHER HAD
turned colder while I was in the LEC. Not enough to make me hate it. But enough to make me think about getting out gloves I’d stashed in a closet last March.

Birdie showed more interest in the contents of my Roasting Company bag than in my return. I filled his bowl, clicked on CNN, and settled at the kitchen table.

The Situation Room had closed for the night. A Democrat was bickering with a Republican about health care and immigration reform. Irritating. I want news at the end of the day, not a bout of extreme verbal sparring.

I turned off the set. Tossed down the remote.

Birdie jumped onto the chair beside me, preferring warm chicken to the hard brown pellets I’d served up. Couldn’t blame him.

As I ate, Tasat’s note filled my thoughts.

“Lonergan didn’t make that call,” I said through a mouthful of succotash.

Birdie cocked his head. Listening, or hopeful for poultry.

“So who did?”

The cat rendered no opinion.

“A relative? A friend? Supposedly, Donovan had none.”

I placed a sliver of drumstick on the table. Bird tested it with one in-curled paw, then seized it delicately with his front teeth.