Sonofabitch, I thought, but held my tongue.

Charbonneau and I turned our attention to the desktop. A stack of newspapers leaned against the wall. Charbonneau used his pen to rifle through them, lifting the edges then allowing the sections to drop back into place. The stack contained only want ads, most from La Presse and the Gazette.

?Maybe the toad was looking for a job,? said Claudel sardonically. ?Thought he?d use Boden as a reference.?

?What was that underneath?? I?d seen a flash of yellow as the bottom section was lifted briefly.

Charbonneau nudged the pen under the last section in the pile and levered it upward, tipping the stack toward the wall. A yellow tablet lay under it. I wondered briefly if pen manipulation was required training for detectives. He allowed the newspapers to drop back to the desktop, slid the pen to the back of the stack, and pushed at the tablet, sliding it forward and into view.

It was a lined yellow pad, the type favored by attorneys. We could see that the top page was partially filled with writing. Bracing the stack with the back of his hand, Charbonneau teased the tablet out and slid it into full view.

The impact of the serial killer stories was nothing compared to the jolt I felt on seeing what was scrawled there. The fear that I?d kept down deep in its lair lunged out and grabbed me in its teeth.

Isabelle Gagnon. Margaret Adkins. Their names leapt out at me. They were part of a list of seven that ran along the bound edge of the tablet. Beside each, running sideways across the page, was a series of columns separated by vertical lines. It looked like a crude spreadsheet containing personal data on each of the individuals listed. It did not look unlike my own spreadsheet, except I didn?t recognize the other five names.

The first column listed addresses, the second phone numbers. The next held brief notations on the residence. Apt. w/ outsd. entr., condo, 1st flr.; house w/ yd. The next column contained sets of letters behind some names, for others it was blank. I looked at the Adkins entry. Hu. So. The combinations looked familiar. I closed my eyes and ran a key word search. Kinship charts.

?Those are people they live with,? I said. ?Look at Adkins. Husband. Son.?

?Yeah. Gagnon?s got Br and Bf. Brother, boyfriend,? said Charbonneau.

?Big fag,? added Claudel. ?What?s Do mean?? he asked, referring to the last column. St. Jacques had written it behind some names, left no notation for others.

No one had an answer.

Charbonneau flipped back the first sheet and everyone fell silent reading the next set of notations. The page was divided in half with one name at the top and another halfway down. Below each was another set of columns. That on the left was headed ?Date,? the next two were marked ?In? and ?Out.? The empty spaces were filled with dates and times.

?Jesus H. Christ, he stalked them. He picked them out and tracked them like goddamn quail or something,? exploded Charbonneau.

Claudel said nothing.

?This sick sonofabitch hunted women,? repeated Charbonneau, as if rephrasing it would somehow make it more believable. Or less.

?Some research project,? I said softly. ?And he hasn?t turned it in yet.?

?What?? asked Claudel.

?Adkins and Gagnon are dead. These dates are recent. Who are the others??

?Shit.?

?Where the fuck is recovery?? Claudel strode over to the door and disappeared into the corridor. I could hear him swearing at the patrolman.

My eyes wandered back to the wall. I didn?t want to think about the list anymore today. I was hot and exhausted and in pain, and there was no satisfaction in the realization that I was probably right, and that now we would work together. That even Claudel would come on board.

I looked at the map, searching for something to divert myself. It was a large one showing in rainbow detail the island, the river, and the jumble of communities comprising the CUM and surrounding areas. The pink municipalities were crisscrossed by small white streets, and linked by red arterial roads and large blue autoroutes. They were dotted by the green of parks, golf courses, and cemeteries, the orange of institutions, the lavender of shopping centers, and the gray of industrial areas.

I found Centre-ville and leaned closer to try to locate my own small street. It was only one block long and, as I searched for it, I began to understand why taxis had so much difficulty finding me. I vowed to be more patient in the future. Or at least more specific. I traced Sherbrooke west to intersect Guy, but found I?d gone too far. It was then I had my third shock of the afternoon.

My finger hovered above Atwater, just outside the orange polygon demarcating Le Grand S #233;minaire. My eye was drawn to a small symbol sketched in pen at its southwest corner, a circle enclosing an X. It lay close to the site where Isabelle Gagnon?s body had been discovered. With my heart pounding, I shifted to the east end and tried to find the Olympic Stadium.

?Monsieur Charbonneau, look at this,? I said, my voice strained and shaky.

He came closer.

?Where?s the stadium??

He touched it with his pen and looked at me.

?Where?s Margaret Adkins?s condo??

He hesitated a minute, leaned in, and started to point to a street running south from Parc Maisonneuve. His pen rested in midair as we both stared at the tiny figure. It was an X drawn and circled in pen.

?Where did Chantale Trottier live??

?Ste. Anne-de-Bellevue. Too far out.?

We both stared at the map.

?Let?s search it systematically, sector by sector,? I suggested. ?I?ll start in the upper left-hand corner and work down, you start with the lower right and work up.?

He found it first. The third X. The mark was on the south shore, near St. Lambert. He knew of no homicides in that district. Neither did Claudel. We looked for another ten minutes, but found no other X?s.

We were just starting a second search when the crime scene van pulled up in front.

?Where the fuck have you been?? asked Claudel as they came through the door with their metal cases.

?It?s like driving through Woodstock out there,? said Pierre Gilbert, ?only less mud.? His round face was completely encircled by curly beard and curlier hair, reminding me of a Roman god. I could never remember which one. ?What?ve we got here??

?Girl killed over on Desjardins? Pussbag that lifted her card calls this little hole home,? said Claudel. ?Maybe.?

He indicated the room with a sweep of his arm. ?Put a lot of himself into it.?

?Well, we?ll take it out,? said Gilbert with a smile. His hair was clinging in circles to his wet forehead. ?Let?s dust.?

?There?s a basement, too.?

?Oui.? Save for the inflection, dropping then rising, it sounded more like a question than an assent. Whyyyy?

?Claude, why don?t you start down below? Marcie, take the counter back there.?

Marcie moved to the back of the room, removed a canister from her metal suitcase, and began brushing black powder on the Formica counter. The other technician headed downstairs. Pierre put on latex gloves and began removing sections of newspaper from the desktop and placing them in a large plastic sack. It was then I had my final shock of the day.

?Qu?est-ce que c?est?? he said, lifting a small square from what had been the middle of the stack. He studied it a long time. ?C?est toi??

I was surprised to see him look at me.

Wordlessly I walked over and glanced at what he had. I was unnerved to see my own familiar jeans, my ?Absolutely Irish? T-shirt, my Bausch and Lomb aviator sunglasses. In his gloved hand he held the photo which had appeared in Le Journal that morning.

For the second time that day I saw myself locked at an exhumation two years in the past. The picture had been cut and trimmed with the same careful precision as those on the wall. It differed in only one respect. My image had been circled and recircled in pen, and the front of my chest was marked with a large X.