Syndrome E

55

The two cops went on foot from the convent to Montreal’s central train station, which wasn’t far. They walked without speaking, plunged into their darkest thoughts. They could see those closed-off rooms in the hospital, echoing with the moans of the insane, the frightened little girls intermingled with the most dangerous cases. They could hear the crackle of electroshock treatments in padded chambers. How had something like this been allowed to go on? Isn’t a democracy supposed to protect its citizens from such barbarity? On the verge of nausea, Lucie felt a need to break the silence. She pressed against Sharko, slipped her arm around his waist.

“You don’t talk a lot. I’d like to know what you’re feeling.”

Sharko shook his head and pursed his lips.

“Disgust. Just deep, deep disgust. There really aren’t any words to describe things like that.”

Lucie leaned her head against his solid shoulder, and in that way they continued on to the station. Once at the entrance, letting go of their embrace, they headed toward one of the foyers of the vast edifice, which in the middle of summer was thronged with travelers. Carefree people, happy, or in a rush…

Detective Pierre Monette and a colleague were waiting at the coffee bar. The policemen greeted each other respectfully and exchanged pleasantries.

The lockers stretched in two long rows opposite a cash machine, under the red maple leaf of the Canadian flag. Lucie was surprised that someone of Rotenberg’s caliber should have picked such an open, heavily trafficked spot, but she figured he must have hidden copies of the information in various places, as Lacombe had evidently done with his film before burning to death.

Detective Monette pointed to locker number 201, at the far left.

“We already opened it. This is what we found.”

He took a small object from his pocket.

“A flash drive.”

He handed it to Sharko, who brought it up to eye level.

“Can you copy the files for me?”

“Already done. Keep it.”

“What did you think?”

“We couldn’t make heads or tails of it. I’m hoping you can figure it out. Your case has got me curious.”

Sharko nodded.

“You can count on me. We’re going to have to ask you for a bit more help. We need you to do a top-priority check on a man named James Peterson, or Peter Jameson. He was a doctor at Mont Providence Hospital in the fifties and lived in Montreal. He’d be about eighty by now.”

Monette took down the information.

“Got it. I’ll try to call you later this afternoon.”

As Lucie and Sharko headed back to the hotel, the inspector shot circumspect glances at the crowd, searching for Eugenie. He craned his neck, leaned over to check behind a nearby couple.

She was still nowhere to be found.