Deja Dead
Chapter One
I WASN'T THINKING ABOUT THE MAN WHO'D BLOWN HIMSELF UP. Earlier I had. Now
I was putting him together. Two sections of skull lay in front of me, and a
third jutted from a sand-filled stainless steel bowl, the glue still drying on
its reassembled fragments. Enough bone to confirm identity. The coroner would
be pleased.
It was late afternoon, Thursday, June 2, 1994. While the glue set, my mind
had gone truant. The knock that would break my reverie, tip my life off course,
and alter my comprehension of the bounds of human depravity wouldn't come for
another ten minutes. I was enjoying my view of the St. Lawrence, the sole
advantage of my cramped corner office. Somehow the sight of water has always
rejuvenated me, especially when it flows rhythmically. Forget Golden Pond. I'm
sure Freud could have run with that.
My thoughts meandered to the upcoming weekend. I had a trip to Quebec City
in mind, but my plans were vague. I thought of visiting the Plains of Abraham,
eating mussels and crepes, and buying trinkets from the street vendors. Escape
in tourism. I'd been in Montreal a full year, working as forensic
anthrop ... read full excerpt from: Deja Dead ebook
