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“This Hooker had to be some kind of psychotic mutant. People don’t go around snatching up girls and stashing them in boxes.”
“The phenomenon may be more common than we know,” I said.
Charbonneau stopped pacing. He and Claudel looked at me.
“In 2003, John Jamelske pleaded guilty to holding five women as sex slaves in a concrete bunker he’d constructed under his backyard.”
“Right down the road,” Claudel said, at last switching to English. “Syracuse, New York.”
“Oh, man.” Charbonneau again did the hair thing.
Leonard Lake and Charles Ng were a pair of pathological misogynists who built a torture chamber on a remote ranch in Calaveras County, California. At least two women were videotaped while being tormented by the pair. The tape was labeled M Ladies, M standing for murdered."
"“Whatever happened to those assholes?” Claudel’s voice dripped with disgust.
“Lake was collared for shoplifting and offed himself with a couple of cyanide capsules. Ng was nailed in Calgary, then fought extradition to the U.
“It took six years of legal wrangling, but Ng was finally returned to California for trial. In 1998, a jury found him guilty of murdering three women, seven men, and two babies.”
“Enough.” The chill had gone from Claudel’s voice. “You believe Menard brought his freak show to Montreal?”
“According to Rose Fisher, Louise Parent phoned to tell me she’d seen Menard twice with young girls. We found three buried in a basement under space he rented.
“You think Menard transported Angie Robinson from Corning, California, to Montreal?”
“Angie or her body.”
“And that he abducted and subjugated Anique Pomerleau?”
“I do.”
Claudel voiced my fear.
“And, if threatened, Menard might kill Pomerleau.”
“Yes.”
Claudel’s eyes pinched. He looked at his partner, then rose.
“A judge should consider this probable cause.”
“You’ll get a warrant?”
“When his ass hits the bench.”
“I want to go with you to Pointe-St-Charles.
“Out of the question.”
“Why?”
“If all this is true, Menard will be dangerous.”
“I’m a big girl.”
Claudel looked at me so long I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then he hitched a shoulder at Ryan.
“Ride shotgun for the cowboy. No one else will.”
I was stunned. The humorously challenged had attempted a joke.
The rest of that Sunday was agony. Puttering through tasks, I felt sadness mixed with deep disappointment in myself.
