Онлайн книга Monday Mourning

”

“The leopard skin a Tuesday motif, Doc?” Tibo asked.

“I hear Wednesdays it’s circus day,” another voice answered.

I cocked what remained of one eyebrow at Charbonneau.

He started to speak, but Tibo cut him off.

“Don’t worry, Doc. Claudel’s got a whole set of boxers with them little smiley-face things. Keeps his ass beaming while the rest of him sulks.”

Scooping a file from his in-basket, Claudel rose, and the three of us trooped to an interview room.

“I see my panties have been entered as evidence.” My voice could have kept ice cream solid for a week.

“Word spreads,” said Claudel.

“Indeed.”

“It didn’t come from us, Doc,” added Charbonneau. “Honest to God.”

Somehow, I believed that.

We took chairs around a battered government-issue table.

“I trust you are feeling better,” Claudel said.

“Yes.” Claudel had sacrificed his pricey cashmere to warm me? “Thank you for the use of your coat.”

Claudel nodded.

A beat went by.

“Menard is dead?” I asked.

Claudel nodded again.

“How can you be certain?”

Claudel opened his file and slid a photo across the table.

The picture was black-and-white, the image off angle on the page, like an amateur, homemade print. Despite some fading, the subject was clear. A tall, thin man in a shallow grave, knees flexed, wrists tethered to ankles. Though distorted in death, Menard’s face was unmistakable.

I flipped the print. On the back someone had written the initials S.M., and the date 9/26/85.

“Catts killed Menard in California in September 1985? And kept a photo of the body?”

“The sheriff’s going to do some digging around Catts’s old trailer,” Claudel said.

“Angela Robinson disappeared in October eighty-five,” I said. “According to neighbors, Menard returned to Vermont the following January.”

“Only it wasn’t Menard.” Charbonneau placed both forearms on the table and leaned forward. “We’re thinking Catts got the idea for his little horror show by following the Cameron Hooker–Colleen Stan media coverage.

“About that same time Catts was getting chummy with Stephen Menard,” Claudel cut in. “Catts didn’t want to repeat Hooker’s mistake of remaining close to the scene of the abduction, so Menard’s farm was the perfect solution for playing out his fantasies. Catts killed Menard, then waited for his prey.”

“Angie Robinson,” I said.