?He ever work in a butcher shop??

?He didn?t say. Why??

?What did Claudel find out from the people he works with??

?Nothing we didn?t know. Keeps to himself, teaches his classes. Nobody really knows him all that well. And they?re not thrilled at a call late in the evening.?

?Sounds like Grammama?s profile.?

?The sister says he?s always been antisocial. Can?t remember him having friends. But she?s nine years older, doesn?t remember much about him as a kid. She did throw us one interesting tidbit.?

?Yes?

Ryan smiled. ?Tanguay?s impotent.?

?The sister volunteered that??

?She thought it might explain his antisocial tendencies. Sis thinks he?s harmless, just suffers from low self-esteem. She?s big into the self-help literature. Knows all the jargon.?

I didn?t reply. In my mind I was seeing lines from two autopsy reports.

?That makes sense. Adkins and Morisette-Champoux tested negative for sperm.?

?Bingo.?

?How did he become impotent??

?Combination congenital and trauma. He was born a one-baller, then wrecked it in a soccer accident. Some freak thing where another player was carrying a pen. Tanguay caught it with his one good nut. Bye-bye spermatogenesis.?

?And that?s why he?s a hermit??

?Hey. Maybe Sis is right.?

?Could explain his lack of sparkle with the girls.? I thought of Jewel?s comments. And Julie.

?And everyone else.?

?Isn?t it odd he?d choose teaching?? Ryan mused. ?Why work in a setting where you have to interact with so many people? If you really feel inadequate, why not choose something less threatening, more private? Computers? Or lab work??

?I?m not a psychologist, but teaching might be perfect. You don?t interact with equals-you know, with adults; you interact with kids. You?re the one in charge. You have the power. Your classroom is your little kingdom and the kids have to do what you say. No way they?re going to ridicule or second-guess you.?

?At least not to your face.?

?Could be the perfect balance for him. Satisfy his need for power and control by day, feed his sexual fantasies at night.?

?And that?s the best-case scenario,? I said. ?Think of the opportunities for voyeurism, or even for physical contact that he has with those kids.?

?Yeah.?

We sat in silence for a while, Ryan?s eyes sweeping the room much as they had in Tanguay?s apartment. He looked exhausted.

?Guess the surveillance unit isn?t necessary anymore,? I said.

?Yeah.? He stood.

I walked him to the door.

?What?s your take on him, Ryan??

He didn?t answer right away. Then he spoke very carefully.

?He claims he?s innocent as little Orphan Annie, but he?s nervous as hell. He?s hiding something. By tomorrow we?ll know what?s in the little country getaway. We?ll use that and hit him with the whole thing. He?ll roll over.?

When he left I took a heavy dose of cold medicine and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. If I dreamed, I couldn?t remember.

The next day I felt better, but not well enough to go to the lab. Maybe it was avoidance, but I stayed home. Birdie was the only one I wanted to see.

I kept busy reading a student thesis and responding to correspondence I?d been ignoring for weeks. Ryan called around one as I was unloading the dryer. I knew from his voice things weren?t going well.

?Crime scene turned the cabin inside out and came up empty. Nothing there to suggest the guy even cheats at solitaire. No knives. No guns. No snuff films. None of Dobzhansky?s victim souvenirs. No jewelry, clothing, skulls, body parts. One dead squirrel in the refrigerator. That?s it. Otherwise, zipp-o.?

?Signs of digging??

?Nothing.?

?Is there a toolshed or a basement where he might have saws or old blades??

?Rakes, hoes, wooden crates, an old chain saw, a broken wheelbarrow. Standard garden stuff. And enough spiders to populate a small planet. Apparently Gilbert?s going to need therapy.?

?Is there a crawl space??

?Brennan, you?re not listening.?

?Luminol?? I asked, depressed.

?Clean.?

?Newspaper clippings??

?No.?

?Is there anything to tie this place to the room we busted on Berger??

?No.?

?To St. Jacques??

?No.?

?To Gabby??

?No.?

?To any of the victims??

He didn?t answer.

?What do you think he does out there??

?Fishes and thinks about his missing nut.?

?What now??

?Bertrand and I are going up to have a long talk with Monsieur Tanguay. Time to drop some names and start turning up the heat. I still think he?ll give it up.?

?Does it add up to you??

?Maybe. Maybe Bertrand?s idea isn?t so bad. Maybe Tanguay?s one of these split personalities. One side is the biology teacher who lives clean, fishes, and collects specimens for his students. The other side has uncontrollable rage against women and feels sexually inadequate, so he gets his rocks off stalking them and beating them to death. Maybe he keeps the two personalities apart, even to the extent of having a separate place for the stalker to enjoy his fantasies and admire his souvenirs. Hell, maybe Tanguay doesn?t even know he?s nuts.?

?Not bad. Mr. Peepers and Mr. Creeper.?

?Who??

?Never mind. Old sitcom.? I told him what I?d found out with Lacroix.

?Why didn?t you tell me about this sooner??

?You?re a little hard to pin down, Ryan.?

?So Rue Berger is definitely tied in.?

?Why do you think there were no prints there??

?Shit, Brennan, I don?t know. Maybe Tanguay?s just slick as black ice. If it?s any comfort to you Claudel?s already got this guy convicted.?

?Why??

?I?ll let him tell you. Look, I?ve got to get up there.?

?Keep in touch.?

I finished my letters and decided to take them to the post office. I checked the refrigerator. My pork chops and ground beef wouldn?t do for Katy. I smiled, remembering the day she announced she?d no longer eat meat. My fourteen-year-old zealot vegetarian. I thought she?d last three months. It had been over five years.

I made a mental list. Humus. Tabouli. Cheese. Fruit juices. No sodas for my Katy. How had I produced this child?

The scratch in my throat was back and I felt hot again, so I decided to stop by the gym. I?ll blast these buggers with exercise and steam, I thought. One of us will come out the victor.

The exercise turned out to be a bad idea. After ten minutes on the StairMaster my legs trembled and perspiration poured down my face. I had to quit.

The steam had mixed results. It soothed my throat and released the bands that squeezed my forehead and facial bones. But as I sat there with the vapor swirling around me, my mind reached for something to play with. Tanguay. I ran through what Ryan had said, Bertrand?s theory, J.C.?s prediction, and what I knew. Something about Tanguay bothered me. As my thoughts gathered speed I could feel myself tensing. The gloves. Why had I blocked their relevance before?

Did Tanguay?s physical handicap really lead him to sexual fantasies that ended in violence? Was he really a man with a desperate need to control? Was killing the ultimate act of control for him? I can just watch you, or I can hurt you or even kill you? Did he also play out the fantasy with animals? With Julie? Then why murder? Did he keep the violence in check, then suddenly succumb to a need to act out? Was Tanguay the product of abandonment by his mother? His deformity? A bad chromosome? Something else?

And why Gabby? She didn?t fit the picture. He knew her. She was one of the few who would talk to him. I felt a wave of anguish.

Yes. Of course she fit the picture. A picture that included me. I found Grace Damas. I identified Isabelle Gagnon. I was interfering, challenging his authority. His manhood. Killing Gabby vented his rage against me and reestablished his sense of control. What next? Did the picture mean he would have gone for my daughter?