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“Of course.” Knowing I dislike being asked for an opinion before completing my full analysis, LaManche raised two gnarled hands, palms toward me. “I apologize. Take your time. I will not rush you.”
“I’m seeing no evidence of trauma. I may not be able to determine cause of death.”
“Such a sad business. But that is not why I’m here.”
I waited.
“Witnesses have reported seeing a man struck by lightning while observing the fireworks last Saturday night. You may recall there was a violent storm?”
Oh, yeah.
“The man was watching from the Jacques Cartier Bridge. When struck, he pitched from the safety grating onto which he’d climbed and into the river. Although the crowd was dispersing hurriedly, many witnessed the incident.”
“Does anyone know who he was?”
“No. Apparently, he was alone. Attempts to recover a body began on Sunday. The effort proved unsuccessful until today.”
Merde.
I knew what was coming.
“First thing this morning, I received a call from Jean-Claude Hubert.” LaManche referred to Quebec’s chief coroner. “Monsieur Hubert said that his office had been contacted by an SPVM officer named Roland Plante. Constable Plante stated that at 0730 this morning he responded to a report of a body in the Bickerdike Basin. Do you know it?”
“It’s a ferry dock in the old port?”
“It is some manner of dock. Constable Plante said that he drove to the basin and met with a boater named Ernest Legalt. Fairly certain that Legalt was correct and that human remains were present at the site, Plante called the coroner.”
Again. Dragging corpses from water is one of my least favorite chores.
“I hate to send you to death scenes twice in one week, but…”
Dipping his chin and raising his brows, which resembled bushy gray caterpillars hugging his orbits, LaManche let the unstated request hang between us.
“Of course,” I said.
“Assess the situation,s’il vous plaît. If the remains are human, and you suspect there is a possibility of recovering more, I will request a search boat and divers.”
“I’m on it.”
“Would you like transport?”
“No. Thanks. I’ll drive myself.”
Twenty minutes later I was back in my car. Passing under the Pont Jacques-Cartier, I thought of the man struck by lightning while standing on the structure. I wondered how he’d managed to get onto the overhead guard rail and fall into the water.
Heading west on Viger, I passed the Molson brewery that sprawled along the river to my left, then accelerated past the round tower of the Radio-Canada building. I followed signs toward BoulevardRobert Bourassa and the Ponts Champlain and Victoria. Montreal is an island, thus the abundance of bridges.
I exited onto Chemin des Moulins and, after a bit ofU-turn maneuvering, was skimming along Avenue Pierre-Dupuy, a narrow strip of pavement bisecting a pointy spit of land ending at Dieppe Park. Ahead on the right were several high-end condo complexes, beneficiaries of the spit’s large green spaces. I recognized Tropiques Nord and Habitat 67, an address that Ryan had once called home.
Ahead on the left was Bickerdike Basin, a man-made rectangle of water carved from the St. Lawrence River between the green spit and a massive concrete pier. Shoreward from the pier was another basin, shoreward of that the lower reaches of the old port.
The road ended in an expansive parking area surrounded by chain-link fencing. Eighteen-wheelers and smaller trucks waited here and there, some with cargo containers, some without. Ahead, on the basin’s near end, a container-handling gantry crane rose high into the sky, a colossal and extraordinarily complex arrangement of cables and beams and other components I couldn’t possibly name.
To the right of the crane, an opening in the fencing gave onto a strip of pavement that sloped downward, then continued as a single lane paralleling the right side of the basin. A sign warned:Defense d’entre sans autorisation. No entry without authorization.
Reinforcing the sign’s sentiment, an SPVM cruiser sat blocking the narrow access point, light bar strobing the area red and blue. A uniformed officer stood beside his vehicle, gesturing with both arms that I reverse and proceed no farther. Rolling to a stop, I alighted and walked toward him.
The officer spread his feet and planted his hands on his hips. He was not smiling. He probably didn’t want to be there, with the heat, the screeching gulls, the smell of oil, dead fish, and algae. Well, neither did I.
