?Gagnon.? It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded. Isabelle Gagnon. Age twenty-three.

?I?ll have the coroner request dental records,? he said.

I nodded again. He seemed to bring it out in me.

?Cause of death?? he asked.

?Nothing apparent,? I said. ?I may know more when I see the X rays. Or I may see something on the bones when they?re cleaned.?

With that he left. He didn?t say good-bye. I didn?t expect it. His departure was mutually appreciated.

I stripped off my gloves and tossed them. On the way out I poked my head into the large autopsy suite and told Daniel I was finished with this case for the day. I asked him to take full body and cranial X rays, A-P and lateral views. Upstairs I stopped by the histology lab and told the head technician that the body was ready for boiling, warning him to take extra care since this was a dismemberment. It was unnecessary. No one could reduce a body like Denis. In two days a skeleton would appear, clean and undamaged.

I spent the rest of the afternoon with the glued-together skull. Though fragmentary, there was, indeed, enough detail to confirm the identity of its owner. He wouldn?t drive any more propane tankers.

Returning home, I began to feel the sense of foreboding I?d experienced in the ravine. All day I?d used work to keep it at bay. I?d banished the apprehension by centering my mind fully on identifying the victim and on piecing together the late trucker. At lunch the park pigeons had been my distraction. Unraveling the pecking order could be all-consuming. Gray was alpha. Brown speckles seemed to be next. Blackfoot was clearly low on the list.

Now I was free to relax. To think. To worry. It started as soon as I pulled into the garage and turned off the radio. Music off, anxiety on. No, I admonished myself. Later. After dinner.

I entered the apartment and heard the reassuring beep of the security system. Leaving my briefcase in the entry hall, I closed the door and walked to the Lebanese restaurant on the corner, where I ordered a Shish Taouk and Shawarma plate to go. It?s what I love most about living downtown-within a block of my condo are representative samples of all the cuisines of the world. Could the weight gain . . . ? Nah.

While I waited for the take-out I perused the buffet selections. Homos. Taboule. Feuilles de vignes. Bless the global village. Lebanese gone French.

A shelf to the left of the cash register held bottles of red wine. My weapon of choice. As I looked at them, for the thousandth time I felt the craving. I remembered the taste, the smell, the dry, tangy feel of the wine on my tongue. I remembered the warmth that would start in my gut and spread upward and outward, navigating a path through my body, lighting the fires of well-being along its course. The bonfires of control. Of vigor. Of invincibility. I could use that right now, I thought. Right. Who was I kidding? I wouldn?t stop there. What were those stages? I?d move right on to bulletproof and then to invisible. Or was it the other way around? No matter. I?d carry it too far, and then the crash would come. The comfort would be short term, the price heavy. It?d been six years since I?d had a drink.

I took my food home and ate it with Birdie and the Montreal Expos. He slept, curled in my lap, purring softly. They lost to the Cubs by two runs. Neither mentioned the murder. I appreciated that.

I took a long, hot bath and fell into bed at ten-thirty. Alone in the dark and quiet I could no longer suppress the thought. Like cells gone mad, it grew and gathered strength, finally forcing itself into my consciousness, insisting on recognition. The other homicide. The other young woman who?d come to the morgue in pieces. I saw her in vivid detail, remembered my feelings as I?d worked on her bones. Chantale Trottier. Age: sixteen. Strangled, beaten, decapitated, dismembered. Less than a year ago she?d arrived naked and packaged in plastic garbage bags.

I was ready to end the day but my mind refused to clock out. I lay there as mountains formed and the continental plates shifted. Finally, I fell asleep, the phrase ricocheting in my skull. It would haunt me all weekend. Serial murder.

GABBY WAS CALLING MY FLIGHT. I HAD AN ENORMOUS SUITCASE and couldn?t maneuver it down the jetway. The other passengers were annoyed, but no one was helping me. I could see Katy leaning out to watch me from the front row of first class. She was wearing the dress we?d chosen for her high school graduation. Moss green silk. But she?d told me later she didn?t like it, regretted the choice. She would?ve preferred the floral print. Why was she wearing it? Why was Gabby at the airport when she should have been at the university? Her voice over the loudspeaker was becoming louder, more strident.

I sat up. It was seven-twenty. Monday morning. Light illuminated the edges of the window shade, but little seeped into the room.

Gabby?s voice continued. ?. . . but I knew I wouldn?t be able to get ya later. Guess you?re an earlier riser than I thought. Anyway, about to . . .?

I picked up the phone. ?Hello.? I tried to sound less groggy than I was. The voice stopped in midsentence.

?Temp? Is that you??

I nodded.

?Did I wake ya??

?Yes.? I was not yet up to a witty response.

?Sorry. Should I call back later??

?No, no. I?m up.? I resisted adding that I?d had to get up to answer the phone anyway.

?Butt outa bed, babe. Early worm time. Listen, about tonight. Could we make it se-? A high-pitched screech interrupted her.

?Hang on. I must?ve left the answering machine on automatic.? I set down the receiver and walked to the living room. The red light was flashing. I picked up the portable handset, returned to the bedroom, and replaced that receiver in its cradle.

?Okay.? By now I was fully awake and starting to crave coffee. I headed for the kitchen.

?I was calling about tonight.? Her voice had an edge to it. I couldn?t blame her. She?d been trying to finish one sentence for five minutes now.

?I?m sorry, Gabby. I spent the whole weekend reading a student thesis, and I was up pretty late last night. I was really sound asleep. I didn?t even hear the phone ring.? That was odd, even for me. ?What?s up??

?About tonight. Uh, could we make it seven-thirty instead of seven? This project has me jumpier than a cricket in a lizard cage.?

?Sure. No problem. That?s probably better for me too.? Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I reached into the cabinet for the jar of coffee beans, and transferred three scoops to the grinder.

?Want me to pick ya up?? she asked.

?Either way. I can drive if you want. Where should we go?? I considered grinding, decided against it. She already sounded a little touchy.

Silence. I could picture her playing with her nose ring as she thought it over. Or today it might be a stud. At first it had bothered me, and I?d had difficulty concentrating in conversations with Gabby. I?d find myself focusing on the ring, wondering how much pain was involved in piercing one?s nose. I no longer noticed.

?It should be nice tonight,? she said. ?How ?bout someplace we can eat outside? Prince Arthur or St. Denis??

?Great,? I said. ?No reason for you to come down here, then. I?ll be by about seven-thirty. Think of someplace new. I feel like something exotic.?

Though it could be risky with Gabby, that was our usual routine. She knew the city much better than I, so the choice of restaurant usually fell to her.

?Okay. #192; plus tard.?

? #192; plus tard,? I responded. I was surprised and a bit relieved. Normally she?d stay on the phone forever. I often had to manufacture excuses to escape.

The telephone has always been a lifeline for Gabby and me. I associate her with the phone as I do no one else. This pattern was set early in our friendship. Our graduate student conversations were a strange relief from the melancholy that enveloped me in those years. My daughter Katy finally fed, bathed, and in her crib, Gabby and I would log hours on the line, sharing the excitement of a newly discovered book, discussing our classes, professors, fellow students, and nothing in particular. It was the only frivolity we allowed ourselves in a nonfrivolous time in our lives.