Deadly Decisions Read Online Free PDF Page A

disease, or by periods of inadequate diet. When things get better, growth resumes, but the stoppages leave permanent markers.
    The X rays were showing opaque lines on numerous splinters ofarm and leg bones. The narrow bands ran transversely across the shafts and indicated periods of arrested growth. I placed tissue with affected fragments on one table, and tissue with normal bone on the other.
    One of the tangles of shattered flesh contained several hand bones. When I teased them out I spotted two metacarpals with irregular shafts. These lumpy areas showed increased density when X-rayed, suggesting one of the victims had broken these fingers at some time in the past. I set that tissue aside.
    Tissue without bone was a different matter. With that I studied the adherent fabric, working backward from the sorted tissue, matching threads and fibers from one table or the other to the pieces of tissue remaining on the gurneys. I thought I could make out a woven plaid, khaki of the kind found in work pants, denim, and white cotton. Later, experts from the hair and fiber section would do a full analysis to see if they could corroborate my matches.
    Following lunch and my discussion with LaManche, I went back to the bomb victims. By five-fifteen I’d divided approximately two thirds of the tissue. Without DNA I saw no hope of associating the remaining fragments with specific individuals. I’d done what I could do.
    I’d also set a goal for myself.
    As I’d waded through the Vaillancourt body parts I’d found it hard to empathize with the persons I was reconstructing. In fact, I felt annoyance at having to do it. These men had been blown up while preparing to blow up others. A rough justice had prevailed, and I felt more bafflement than regret.
    Not so with little Emily Anne. She was lying on LaManche’s autopsy table because she’d been walking to dance class. That reality was not acceptable. The death of an innocent child could not be dismissed as an incidental casualty of maniacal warfare.
    Vipers could kill Heathens, and Outlaws murder Bandidos. Or Pagans. Or Hells Angels. But they must not kill the innocent. I pledged to myself that I would apply every forensic skill I could muster, and however many hours I was able, to develop evidence to identify and convict these homicidal sociopaths. Children had a right to walk the streets of the city without being cut down by bullets.
    I transferred the sorted remains back to the gurneys, rolled them to refrigerated compartments, scrubbed, and changed to street clothes. Then I rode the elevator to search out my boss.
     
    •    •    •
     
    “I want to work this,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “I want to nail these bastard child killers.”
    The tired old eyes stared at me for what seemed a very long time. We’d been discussing Emily Anne Toussaint. And the other youngster. A boy.
    Olivier Fontaine had been on his way to hockey practice when he pedaled too close to a Jeep Cherokee just as the driver turned the key. The bomb exploded with enough force to blast shrapnel into Olivier’s body, killing him instantly. It happened on his twelfth birthday.
    Until seeing Emily Anne I’d forgotten about the Fontaine murder. That incident had taken place in December of 1995 on the West Island, and involved the Hells Angels and the Rock Machine. Olivier’s death had raised a cry of public outrage, which led to the creation of Opération Carcajou, the multiagency task force devoted to the investigation of biker crime.
    “Temperance, I can’t—”
    “I’ll do whatever is needed. I’ll work on my own time, between cases. If Carcajou is like everyone else they’re probably short-handed. I could do data entry or historic case searches. I could liaison among agencies, maybe work links to intelligence units in the U.S. I cou—”
    “Temperance, slow down.” He held up a hand. “This is not something I am in a position to do. I will speak with Monsieur