The Dead of Winter

THREE

DECEMBER 25

8.25 AM

The jangling phone woke Vanier from a fitful sleep on the couch. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.

“Hello?”

“C’est moi, Papa. Joyeux Noel.”

“Elise, ma belle. How are you? Merry Christmas. God it’s great to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“Chez Maman, in beautiful downtown Toronto, as they say.” She was whispering in a perfect English accent. He knew that she was talking softly so as not to let her mother know.

“You sound like you’re still in bed.”

“I am, Papa. I wanted to call you to say Merry Christmas before the day gets started. It’s the first thing I did, Papa. I haven’t even checked to see if there is a sock from Santa at the end of my bed. Probably not, though. That was your job wasn’t it?”

“What? Elise, how can you suggest such a thing?” he said, continuing the fable. “I had absolutely nothing to do with any socks — except for lending you one of mine, because they were the biggest!”

She giggled like the child she no longer was. And then there was silence. He could hear her breathing. He listened, wanting the moment to last, enjoying the unconscious communication of love. Words would break it so he said nothing. Eventually, she stirred.

“I got your present. I love getting parcels in the mail.”

“I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will, Papa. I haven’t opened it yet.” He knew it was probably in her room, out of the way, not to disturb Marianne with a sign of his presence. Elise would open it when she had time to herself.

“Will you let me know what you think? It’s only a small thing.”

“I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

There was a silence. Then, “So, Papa, have you heard from Alex?”

The moment was broken, and the tension flooded in.

“Not yet, Elise. I’ve booked a call for tomorrow. It’s hard to get to speak to him, but he told me that you guys email each other.”

“Yeah. He emails me all the time, and we talk on Skype. You should get yourself set up on Skype. It’s easy, I’ll show you how next time I’m in Montreal. Alex would like that, I know he would.”

He knew it would be a while before she was next in Montreal. Maybe in the summer, but he couldn’t ask. She would take that question as pressure.

“That would be great, Elise. How does he sound to you?”

“It’s tough in Kandahar. But he seems to be holding up. It’s like he’s found his place in the Van Doos. He’s assigned to protect the Provincial Reconstruction Team, that’s what he calls it. Says he’s doing good work too. But it’s dangerous. I think of him all the time.”

“So do I, Elise, so do I.”

“So, when you speak to him tomorrow, wish him Merry Christmas from me. And be easy on him, Papa. I know that you guys fight sometimes but he loves you, Papa, just like me.”

“I know, Elise, I know. I am a lucky man.”

“So, Papa. Merry Christmas. Je t’aime.”

“And I love you too, ma belle. Come back to Montreal soon. Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah. I love you too, Papa. Joyeux Noel.”

“Joyeux Noel, ma belle.”

With a click the phone went dead, and Vanier stared at the floor. The single thing that he wanted to do on Christmas Day, and it was done. He looked at the clock. 8.40.

He rose stiffly from the couch and walked to the bathroom, replaying the conversation in his head.

11.15 AM

The Metro Security Headquarters consists of a small series of windowless offices deep under the street in the Berri Metro station. Vanier pulled the door open and walked in, already impatient with the diplomatic burden of not stepping on toes. Most people, even policemen, bristle at the sight of metro officers. They don’t carry guns, and they make up for that inadequacy with intimidating swat-team uniforms, complete with bulletproof vests and the swagger of schoolyard bullies. But when below ground in their system, even cops have to show them respect.

An officer approached Vanier and introduced himself with an outstretched hand. He was dressed like he was going to lead a Special Forces team to take out a bunch of terrorists.

“Inspector Vanier, it’s wonderful to see you again. Inspector Morneau, Metro Security.”

Morneau flashed a white-toothed smile that was more formal than friendly, and Vanier racked his brain to remember where the hell he had seen him before.

“Inspector Morneau, good of you to come out on Christmas morning.”

“Thank you, Inspector. We’re taking this very seriously. We must get it cleaned up as soon as possible.”

“It not easy to clean up five bodies, Inspector. It’s not like litter.”

Morneau didn’t notice the rebuke. “Your Detective Sergeant St. Jacques has already been here for some time,” he said, gesturing to the back of the office. Vanier followed the gesture and saw Sylvie St. Jacques looking over the shoulder of a computer operator at a bank of TV screens. She was wearing black pants and a thick sweater and had the aura of someone tightly coiled but in control. She smiled up at Vanier as he approached, beckoning with her hand as if to get him to move more quickly.

“Take a look at this, sir,” she said. “Victim number four in the station at 8.30 last night.”

Vanier looked at the screen she was pointing to. There was a bag lady in a heavy dark coat shuffling down the platform with two large bags in each hand and two smaller ones tied to her belt. She kept her head down as she moved forward to a bench and sat down, arranging the bags around her feet. Then she leaned back against the wall and was still.

“She sits there for half an hour without moving, and nobody so much as looks at her. People wait for trains, get on them and leave or get off and leave. And it’s like she isn’t there. They all walk around her. Now, fast forward to 9.05.”

Vanier watched as the image jumped and then stilled, with 21:05 printed in the bottom left hand corner of the screen.

“Just here, sir. Look.”

On the screen, the unmistakable figure of Santa Claus appeared from the platform entrance, complete with a white beard and a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up and down the platform and then walked directly up to the bag lady, put his bag down beside her, and leaned forward, seeming to whisper to her.

They watched as she raised her head and then her arms as if to welcome Santa. He reached into his sack and pulled out something in the shape of a fire log and handed it to her. She took it and held it for a moment before smiling up at him again. Vanier wondered if she recognized him, or was simply happy to see Santa Claus.

“Now watch this, sir.”

In the grainy black and white image, Santa leaned in even closer to the woman, held her chin and kissed the top of her head.

St. Jacques counted, “One, two, three, four, five. Five seconds, sir. He held the kiss for five seconds!”

Breaking the kiss, Santa stroked the old lady’s hair and, again, seemed to whisper something to her. Then he picked up his sack and started back along the platform. Before he turned into the platform exit, he stopped and lifted his arm in a farewell wave to the bag lady. Then he was gone.

“We have him going up the escalator and out the door onto St. Catherine Street. Then we have nothing more until 10 p.m.,” said St. Jacques.

The operator skipped the tape forward to 22:00, and the image showed the bag lady slowly rise to her feet and put Santa’s gift in one of her bags. Then she pulled them all up and began shuffling along the platform, away from the entrance.

“What did he give her?” asked Vanier, trying to understand what he had just seen.

“They found a brand new woolen throw with her, the sort you can find anywhere. Probably useful to keep you warm if you’re sleeping rough. Rolled up tight, it could be the gift.”

“Anything else from the CC cameras?”

“That’s all we have for the moment, but we’ve lots to review. M. Savard here has been a lot of help.” She put her hand on the operator’s shoulder and he swiveled around in his chair to face the pair, a huge grin on his face. He was enjoying working with St. Jacques.

“I’ll let you get on with it, then. I want every image of Santa that we can get. See if we can get a face shot. And get Santa’s timing down; time in, time out.”

“What about the Santa suit, sir? Maybe it’s a rental.”

“Right. Have someone contact the owners of every rental shop in town; there can’t be that many. Let’s get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a Santa suit. I don’t care if it is Christmas morning.”

St. Jacques was writing things down. “I’ll get onto it but there aren’t many people about today. Everyone is off.”

“See what you can do. And find out if anyone keeps records of homeless deaths. Take a look at the numbers over the last few months and see if there’s anything suspicious. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and this, sir.” She picked up a brown envelope from the table and handed it to Vanier. “These are the photos of the victims.”

Vanier reached into the envelope and pulled out five colour photographs. Each was a front-on headshot, like mug shots except the eyes were all closed.

Inspector Morneau had been watching from a discreet distance, listening to the exchange.

“Inspector Morneau. If I go to the McGill Metro, could you have one of your people meet me and show me where the victim was found last night?”

“Certainly, Inspector. I’ll send someone. When you arrive, he will be waiting at the ticket booth inside the University Street entrance. He’ll be in uniform. Just introduce yourself.”

12.30 PM

Montreal is rooted in hard, volcanic rock by a giant system of tunneled spaces, an underground city that grew like an ant colony. It started with the metro system, opened just before Expo 67, and hasn’t stopped spreading. Tunnels are main streets connecting underground neighbourhoods where food courts in shopping centres replace village greens. A 35 square kilometre, neon-lit, climate controlled, private metropolis, a Disney-like masquerade of public space controlled so tightly that real city mayors are jealous. Metro Security and private guards swarm through the spaces keeping order, while security cameras manned in real-time see everything so that reaction is always swift. Doors that open early in the morning to welcome consumers are locked at night like the gates of ancient walled cities. By unwritten and ever-changing rules, access is granted and denied at the whim of high school dropouts with uniforms and failed candidates for the police force. It’s a modern world where piped music replaces birdsong and artificial scents replace flowers.

In this world, the homeless must adjust to a constantly changing level of scrutiny. They may be grudgingly tolerated in one area, providing they keep moving through, and forbidden in others. When they walk from a semi-public metro tunnel into a commercial space they are picked up on security cameras, and guards appear to make sure that they either don’t come in or that they leave quickly.

The McGill Metro station is the heart of the underground city, occupying a four-acre rectangle at the basement level of surrounding buildings. There are only three street entrances to the station, but there are six others through the adjoining shopping centres. The middle of the station concourse is cut open like a trench, and you can watch the trains on the lower level. Two sets of turnstiles guard access to the platforms, one at each end of the concourse.

Vanier tried an office building on University Street but the door was locked, with access only for those with electronic keys. He crossed the street to use one of the street entrances.

It was warm inside, and he undid his coat as he walked towards the ticket booth. A metro security officer was waiting for him. A kid, Haitian by the look of him, with everything hanging from his belt but a gun.

“Inspector Vanier, I presume,” he said, reaching out his hand with an ear-to-ear grin that lit up his face.

Vanier took his hand and smiled broadly, reading the name badge, “Constable Duvalier.”

“Yes, sir. And before you ask, no relation.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” said Vanier, “Papa and Baby Doc were not the best of people. So, Constable Duvalier, can you show me where the body was found?”

“Of course, Inspector. It was on the eastbound platform, last night. Follow me.”

Constable Duvalier waved him through the turnstiles with a sign to the sullen ticket seller locked in his booth.

“He’s not happy to be working on Christmas,” said Duvalier apologetically, leading Vanier down the stairs. “Time and a half, and an extra day’s vacation and he’s not happy. What does it take?”

He led Vanier down one flight of stairs to the eastbound platform.

“The body was found down there in the corner,” said Duvalier, pointing to the end of the platform. “He was asleep on the floor.”

“And nobody told him to leave?”

“That’s the thing, Inspector. The rules are clear, no sleeping in the metro. Believe me, it’s on the exams to become a metro officer. We all know it. But just because you put on a uniform doesn’t mean you hang up your humanity.”

Vanier thought about that.

“And all the others, they’re in the union. It’s not part of their job description.”

“And we’re all human.”

“Christmas Eve, it’s minus twenty degrees outside, all the shelters are full, or closed, or they won’t take them because they’ve been drinking. So what do you do? You throw someone out in the street? No. People look the other way. The cleaners push the machines up and down the platform and notice nothing. The train drivers come and go and see nothing. And my colleagues don’t happen to look in that direction. The guys on the screens, for some reason, they can’t pick it up. What’s that? A conspiracy? So he lay there. And he was dead. Who knows how long? Who’s to blame?”

“Constable Duvalier, if I was blamed every time I looked the other way I’d be selling newspapers.”

“It’s not easy. Do it too much and the rules become arbitrary.”

Vanier thought about that too.

They walked down the platform to where the body was found. Duvalier stood in a corner at the end of a metro platform and pointed at the floor. The sleeper would have been clearly visible to a driver going in the opposite direction, and to the cameras trained on the platform.

“That’s it?” said Vanier, almost to himself.

“That’s it,” said Duvalier.

They went back upstairs.

“You’ll have to exit to the street. All the building entrances are closed.”

“Thank you, Constable Duvalier,” said Vanier as he turned to climb a shut-down escalator to the street.

1.35 PM

On Christmas afternoon, the building housing the Montreal Police Headquarters was almost deserted. Interview Room 6 had been set aside for the personal possessions of the victims, and Vanier was in there because he had nothing better to do. Four separate piles of garbage bags were propped against the wall; the possessions of the fifth victim had still not been found. On a sheet of white paper, someone had given each pile a number. He grabbed two garbage bags that sat under the sheet marked Number 1 and brought them to the edge of the table, next to where he had dropped a yellow note-pad and a pen. He tipped the contents of the first bag onto the table and started taking inventory, listing each piece before putting it back into the bag. Before he had refilled the first bag, he changed his mind and decided to walk to the exhibit room to get cardboard boxes and labels. He grabbed as many of the flat, unfolded boxes as he could manage, putting sheets of sticky labels and a felt pen in his pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and returned to the room. He pulled on the gloves and got to work, ignoring the fetid smell filling the room.

Sorting through the first pile again, he began listing bulkier items: a sleeping bag and two blankets; a couple of T-shirts, one from St. Petersburg, Florida, the other from the last world tour of the Police; three pairs of formerly white Y-front underwear, three pairs of socks, and three oversized acrylic sweaters. He wrote it all down. Next was a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the Journal de Montreal — the insulation of choice for the homeless. The second bag was less bulky. It held a hairbrush and a toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, an empty plastic drinking cup from Starbucks, a zip-lock bag full of cigarette butts, and a half-eaten hamburger from McDonald’s. He wondered what kind of homeless person would buy his coffee at Starbucks, and remembered the container found by Neilson last night. He pulled the top off and sniffed. It smelled of rancid milk and alcohol. He set it aside for testing and returned to his inventory. There was a thick plastic bag from the Societe des Alcools filled with coins. Vanier counted the coins and wrote down $37.88. There remained two bottles of pills, both Celebrex 200 mg, one empty, the other half-full. Prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier to George Morissette. The labels on the pill containers also said they were dispensed by the pharmacy at the Old Brewery Mission.

Taking a felt pen from the desk, he wrote on a sticky label: George Morissette. Putting a name on the possessions was progress. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. He emptied the envelope, laid the papers on the table, and sat down.

There was a disintegrating certificate issued by the Ordre de Notaires du Quebec certifying that Maitre George Edouard Morissette was admitted as a Notary of the Province of Quebec in 1970. Next, there was an old photograph of a pretty woman holding a child of about two on her lap, sitting in a garden, and smiling at the camera. There was a social insurance card, a driver’s license that expired in 1980 and gave Maitre Morissette’s date of birth as March 25, 1949 and a booklet entitled: Alcoholics Anonymous Montreal Meetings. Vanier flipped through it, surprised at how many meetings there were, you could go to a different one, three times a day every day and never go to the same place twice in a month. Each listing showed the language: French, English, Italian, Spanish, and there were even bilingual meetings. Finally, Vanier picked up a small book worn with use: Twenty Four Hours A Day. Flipping to December 25, he read:

I pray that I may be truly thankful on this Christmas Day.

I pray that I may bring my gifts and lay them on the altar.

Morissette never got to see December 25. Maybe he would have been thankful if he did. Vanier wasn’t sure. He got up and started to assemble the first folded box. Even though the instructions were clear on the box, and he had seen it done countless times, it took effort and cursing until he had a functional Exhibit Box. He filled it, throwing the half-eaten hamburger in the garbage. Assembling another box, he filled it too, and then a third. When he finished, he reached for the sheet of labels. He looked at the name he had written on the first label, George Morissette, and added Notaire, 25/03/49, and Box 1 of 3, before peeling it off and attaching it to the first box. He prepared another label and attached it to the second box, Box 2 of 3, then Box 3 of 3. He placed the boxes one on top of the other against the wall and turned to the bags labelled Number 2.

He continued methodically, stopping only after the third pile to go to the staff canteen for a coffee. When he started in the force, the only choice in coffee was milk and sugar. Now the machines interrogated you: Columbian, Costa Rican, Sumatran, or House Blend? And not just regular coffee, perhaps a latte or cappuccino, or even an espresso? Caffeinated or decaffeinated? Vanier pushed the buttons for his usual blend of Columbian regular, milk, no sugar. It tasted a little better than when he had started in the force.

He took the coffee and walked back to the interview room. With only one more pile to go, his mood was lightening. He felt comfortable with this work in the quiet of the deserted building. He was fascinated by the lives of others and how much you could tell about someone by looking at what they hold precious. He was doing something, and time was passing.

The smell from the possessions in the interview room had become stronger, filling the place with a human smell of sweat and dirt. After a struggle, he got one of the windows to open, and cold air entered with a cleansing presence. He kept his face in the rush of outside air flooding into the room while he sipped his coffee and surveyed the work. Eleven boxes were stacked against the wall; he had put a photograph of each victim on their boxes. George Morissette, the Notary from McGill; Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk from the cleaning room in the Berri Metro; and Edith Latendresse kissed by Santa. Mme. Latendresse had four boxes, more clothes but fewer papers, only a social insurance card and some prescription medicine to identify her.

He began emptying the contents of the last two bags onto the table. Victim number 4’s bags contained the usual assortment of old clothes, rotting food and little else. There was $8 in change in a sock, a roll of toilet paper and drugs, again prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier, this time for Pierre Brun: Zeldox and an empty bottle of Oxycodone, a powerful painkiller with street value. Pierre Brun could have eased his pain by taking the pills or selling them. Vanier wondered which he did. And he wondered about Dr. Alain Grenier, who had prescribed drugs for all of the victims.

It was 4.30 p.m. and already dark when he finished by placing the picture of Pierre Brun on top of two boxes piled against the wall. Feeling cold for the first time, he struggled again with the window and closed it.

The temperature outside was still falling, but he had no idea what the weather was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t listened to a weather forecast in days. He had all but given up listening to the radio weeks ago, admitting defeat to the omnipresent Christmas spirit. The only exception was the hourly news. Several times a day he tuned to CBC to listen to the news. If there was a death or serious injury of a soldier in Afghanistan, it was always the first story. If nobody had been killed or injured, if there were no ambushes or roadside bombs, he turned it off, relieved until the next time.

He wondered about the people sleeping outside, realizing how little he knew about them. The last few nights had been cold and damp, and he imagined the shelters were full. But there were still people who chose to stay out in the cold. People who refused the warmth of a shelter to hide in a corner somewhere and take the ultimate risk. He grabbed a phone book, turned to the A’s and sat down. Minutes later he grabbed his cell phone and pushed number 6 on his speed dial.

“Allo?”

“Anjili, it’s me.”

Dr. Anjili Segal was one of Montreal’s six coroners. She and Vanier had been friends for over ten years until a brief affair at the end of the summer ended quickly when they realized that they were better friends than lovers. As lovers, they brought out the worst in each other. Vanier hoped that they could salvage their friendship, but it was proving difficult; they had crossed so many lines.

Silence, and then, “Calling to wish me Merry Christmas, Luc?”

“Well, yes. Anjili, Merry Christmas. How was your Christmas?”

“Just bloody marvelous, as you Anglos say.”

“Anjili, how many times do I have to tell you I am not an Anglo. My name is Luc Vanier, you can’t get more Quebecois than that.”

“Luc you’re an Anglo. You spent too much time in Ontario. OK, so we’ll settle for Franco-Ontarian. You prefer that?”

“Call me whatever, Anjili. The bodies from the metro.”

“Ah, business.”

He ignored the rebuke. “I thought maybe you could help me. I’ve found prescription bottles in the belongings of the victims from Christmas Eve. They all have Dr. Alain Grenier as the prescribing doctor on them, but I’ve checked. There are 23 people listed as Alain or A. Grenier. I was wondering…

“The code?”

“Well, yes. The numbers on the label. They link to the doctor, right?”

“That’s why you’re the detective. Give me the numbers Luc, I’ll look them up.

He grabbed a bottle from Pierre Brun’s box and read off the numbers. “Wait,” she said, and he heard the clunk of the phone on a table. She was back in three minutes. “Dr. Alain Grenier. His office is at 5620 boulevard St. Joseph. That’s it, no suite number. The phone number is 514-450-1872. By the way, he was admitted in 1973, which would put him in his sixties. Anything else?”

“I was wondering. I know it’s the holidays, but how soon can we get autopsy results?”

“Luc, you never change. Always work, isn’t it?”

“Anjili, this is important. There are five people dead.”

“I know, Luc.”

“I’d like to see something as soon as possible, even something preliminary. We’re spinning our wheels here until we get a cause of death.”

“We can probably start the autopsies tomorrow morning, I’m not certain but I’ll try. It’s going to take two days at least to do all five. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know some specifics.”

“Thanks, Anjili. And listen, Happy Christmas.”

“Yes, Luc. You too.” Vanier knew that tone of voice, tired and unhappy. And he wished he could do something about it.

“I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, but if we have a murderer out there, I want to get him.”

“I know you do Luc. I know.” She disconnected before him. He dialed Grenier’s number, leaving a message with the operator of the answering service for him to call. Vanier clicked off his phone, turned the light off and made his way to the parking lot.

7 PM

Two hours later, Dr. Grenier faced Vanier from behind his desk in his office on St. Joseph Boulevard. He had been at home when he got Vanier’s message and called back to suggest they meet at his office where he kept his records. Grenier was tall and thin, with an angular face that struck Vanier as not much given to smiling. He was having trouble making eye-contact. The doctor was wearing a canary yellow cardigan that Vanier decided must have been a Christmas present; it was too bright for him to have chosen it himself.

The office was spartan, a cheap desk with two chairs in front of it, and two grey filing cabinets against the wall. Files were stacked neatly on the right corner of his desk, and others, with notes attached by paperclip, on the left. There was an impressive collection of framed certificates on one wall and a large black crucifix with a suffering Christ on another. Unless you counted the bleeding Christ or the certificates, there was no artwork.

“Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Doctor. The holidays are always hard and I appreciate your time,” said Vanier.

“What can I do for you?” asked Grenier.

Vanier opened the envelope and slipped five photographs onto the desk. Grenier spread them out and looked shaken. He didn’t look up. “These are the victims from Christmas Eve?”

“Yes, Doctor. Four of them had prescription bottles with your name on them. We’re still looking for the possessions of the fifth. Do you recognize them?”

“Of course I do. I was their prescribing physician.”

“For all of them?”

“Yes.”

Grenier confirmed the names of the first four and identified the fifth, Celine Plante. Then he stood and pulled five files from one of the cabinets. He looked at each and rattled off the dates of birth. Mme. Plante would have been fifty-two on January 3. He looked at Vanier like he was finished.

“I’m trying to piece together as much information about them as possible. Anything will help”

“Well, I’m not sure that I can be of much help. I was only their doctor.”

“Why were they seeing you?”

“They were sick, Inspector.”

“How sick were they?”

Grenier hesitated. “Very sick. If you were to ask me to name ten of my patients who feature most in my prayers, these five would be on the list.”

“Why is that?”

“Different reasons. I can go through the files individually and give the Coroner the precise information. However, to put it bluntly, each of them was terminally ill.”

“That’s why you prayed for them?”

“What do my prayers have to do with anything?”

“Well, if you prayed for them, you were worried about them. And now they’re dead.”

“Yes, I prayed for them. I pray for many people. I see pain every day, and terrible suffering is the companion of many of my clients. I suppose that’s an inevitable part of human existence, but in the bosom of a close family it can, at least, be endured. For the homeless, there is no relief. Without family or friends there’s only the pain. That is why I devote so much of my time to my clinic at the Old Brewery Mission. I try, as best I can, to ease their burden, and when medicine isn’t enough, I pray for them.” His fingers were running slowly over the photographs, touching each one in turn.

“So all five were terminal cases?”

“For one reason or another, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s hard to understand the level of suffering they were enduring, Inspector. It’s not just physical. Street people, the homeless, the destitute, they were all children once, although for most, even their childhood was hell. But, they were all young once with ambitions higher than the streets. And things went wrong and kept going wrong. These five all had their own stories. Pathetic, tragic, inhuman, whatever. Their lives were hell and they knew it. Well, except for Madame Latendresse.”

He picked up her photograph and stared at it.

“Except for Madame Latendresse, they were all aware of how bad their situation was. You don’t lose your ability to feel just because you’re on the street. You can still hurt. And these people hurt terribly. Not just because of their diseases. That’s why I prayed for them. That their burdens be eased.”

Vanier looked at him. The doctor’s eyes were fixed on the photos, and he was talking without giving any information, as if filling the room with sound was enough.

“Was prayer that important to them? You ministered to their health.”

“Prayer is important for all of us, even for you. When all else fails, there is always prayer. These people were hopeless cases. There was nothing left to do for them medically except ease their pain. They had entered the jurisdiction — as you policemen are fond of saying — the jurisdiction of St. Jude.”

“The patron saint of hopeless causes?”

“I see you remember something of your religious training.”

“Were they aware of that?”

“Of what?”

“That there was no hope.”

“As aware as they could be.”

“So they could have decided to end it all? Suicide?”

Dr. Grenier thought for a moment and looked up at Vanier.

“No. Not suicide. It’s true that some street people kill themselves, but it’s the younger ones, the drug addicts, people who have fallen too fast. If you can survive two years on the streets, you can survive 30. The streets weed out the suicidal very quickly, and these five were veterans. None of them was suicidal. Madame Latendresse, for example, is, I’m sorry, was — Madame Latendresse was so disconnected from reality that she couldn’t contemplate non-existence. She would have carried on in her own world until that world stopped. The others? The others were like the Legionnaires of Cameron.”

“What?”

“Not what, Inspector. Who. The Legionnaires of Cameron. Sixty soldiers of the French Foreign Legion who held off two thousand Mexican infantrymen and cavalrymen for twelve hours. At the end, only six legionnaires remained, and when they ran out of ammunition, instead of surrendering, they fixed bayonets and charged the Mexican army. Surrender was simply not an option. It is the same with these people. Suicide was not an option in their universe. If it had been, they would have done it long ago. These people have been losing all their life but they just didn’t know how to give up. They had fallen as far as they did precisely because they couldn’t give up and end it all.”

“So why would they all die on the same evening?”

Grenier’s hands gave a slight tremble. He was making an effort to control himself. “I believe the Coroner will find it was natural causes. Quite a coincidence, I agree. And the scientist in me hesitates to believe in coincidences of that magnitude. But the believer in me knows that it is often difficult to understand God’s work.”

“Is there anyone else I can speak with to find out more about these people? Who else would have known them?”

Dr. Grenier had a distant look on his face, as though he was operating on two levels, talking to Vanier and thinking; and thinking was taking up more of his mind.

“Well, they were all known in the community, the shelters and the drop-in centres. You might try their social workers; there would be files on them. But social workers have case loads so unmanageable that they can never get to know their clients.”

“Anyone else?”

Grenier hesitated again. “If you’re looking for someone who might know these people as individuals rather than faces or numbers, you might try Father Drouin. My friend, Henri Drouin. He works out of the Cathedral. He’s a good man, a holy man. If he knows these people, he will be able to tell you much more than I.”

“How do you know him?”

“Our paths crossed in our missions, and we became friends. He does wonderful work with this community. Sometimes I think that my drugs are a pale substitute for the spiritual comfort he gives to his flock. Because of him, I started attending mass in the Cathedral.”

“Could he be involved with these deaths?”

Grenier seemed shocked at the suggestion. “Father Henri? If you knew him, you would know how ridiculous a proposition that is. Take it from me, if that’s the direction of your investigation, you are on the wrong track. Father Henri is incapable of hurting anyone. All of these unfortunate people were going to die soon, and they all died on Christmas Eve. That’s it. There’s nothing more. It’s a tragedy, but I don’t think there was any human intervention. They were simply called home.”

“One last thing, Doctor. Do you own or have access to a Santa Claus costume?”

“What?”

“A Santa Claus costume. Do you have one? Or if you had to, could you get one?”

“Well, I suppose if I needed one, I could always rent one, but no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume. Why do you ask?”

“Just one of the questions that we’re working on, that’s all. And where were you on Christmas Eve?”

“Me? You think I could have killed these people? Really, Inspector, that’s going too far.”

“I’m sorry if the question upsets you. But I would like an answer.”

“I was at home until about 10 p.m., with my wife. I went to Midnight Mass at the Cathedral. My wife stayed home. She was tired. After Mass, I came home.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Vanier. “One last thing. Could I have a copy of your files on these people?”

“I can’t turn them over just like that, it’s a question of patient confidentiality. But if the Coroner’s office calls, I can have the files copied and delivered tomorrow. I need an official request.”

Vanier sat back in his chair, hoping that silence would prompt the doctor to say something, if only to fill the void. Grenier continued staring at the photos for a few moments and then looked up. “Is there anything else?”

“I don’t think so. But don’t hold back on me, Doctor. If there’s anything you think might help me, you should tell me.” Vanier stood up and leaned forward with his hands on the desk leaving grease marks on the polished surface. “What are you thinking about that you can’t tell me?”

Grenier tried to look Vanier in the eyes but could only manage it for a moment. “There is nothing. I’ve told you what I know.”

“Maybe. But what about what you suspect? Do you have any hunches, Doctor?”

More silence. Grenier was waging an inner battle. “There is nothing more, Inspector.”

“If only life were so easy. If only we could choose to avoid the difficult by ignoring it. Doctor, I need help and I get the impression that you’re not being entirely candid with me. I think you’re holding back.”

“That’s an outrageous suggestion. If I knew something that might help you I would tell you.”

“Doctor, I love my job. And sometimes I get calls from lawyers, from the Chief, from the Mayor’s office, asking, Why are you persecuting this poor man? I love those calls. If I weren’t good at what I do, my ass would have been canned long ago. But I get results. And if I find out that you’re holding something back, I’ll be persecuting you.”

“Are you suggesting…?” he asked, indignant.

“No suggestions. I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you. These people were killed, and I’m going to find the killer. If you know anything and choose not to tell me, that’s your problem. But when I find out who did this, I’ll figure out if you haven’t been entirely cooperative, and I’ll come back for you. Accessory? Withholding evidence? Who knows? But I’ll be back to haunt you. As for the killer? Pray to St. Jude for him, because his really is a hopeless case. I’ll get him.”

“You don’t even know that they were killed.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, Doctor.”

Vanier lifted his hands from the desk and stood up.

“One last thing, Doctor. They don’t stop. You know that, don’t you? Once they start, they don’t stop. If you know anything and don’t tell me, the next victim is yours. So why don’t you go through your Top 10 list and try to predict who that will be. Here is my card, Dr. Grenier. Call me. I don’t sleep well, so anytime is good.”

Vanier handed him the card. “I can see myself out.”

He left Grenier motionless at his desk, looking at Vanier’s business card. Grenier hardly noticed him leaving.

9.30 PM

The Cathedral, Marie Reine du Monde, squats on a downtown block next to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, imposing the Catholic Church’s presence on Montreal. It’s a scale model of St. Peter’s in Rome, but along its mantle it’s not 13 statues of Jesus and his apostles but the patron saints of Montreal’s 13 parishes keeping a close watch on the faithful. Behind the Cathedral, two long three-story buildings house the offices and apartments of the soldiers of the Church.

The snow banks had been cleared outside the Cathedral, and Vanier parked in front. He followed a pathway that had been shoveled from the street up to the main doors, and tried each without success. He followed the cleared snow-track back to the street and walked around the building until he found a shoveled path to a door with a light over it, like a stage door behind a theatre, the only way in after the show was over. He rang the bell. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and a frail old priest in a cassock looked at him, his bony, pink hand holding the door, ready to slam it shut it as soon as he could get rid of the visitor.

“Good evening, Father. Merry Christmas.”

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. I’d like to see Father Henri Drouin.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”

“And when might that be?”

“Please, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn’t have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”

Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it’s important that I speak to him.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”

The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.

Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the criminals.

The inside of the Volvo was cold, and Vanier cursed as it took three turns of the ignition for the engine to turn over. His breath was visible and clouding the windscreen as he pulled out of the parking space. He was hungry, and there were only empty cupboards at home; a curry would be just the thing. Pakistanis don’t celebrate Christmas, do they?

He turned left onto Sherbrooke and continued west to Notre Dame de Grace. Lights from the Ganges restaurant reflected on the snow outside. The street was deserted except for two cars parked in front of the restaurant, and he parked behind them. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by a small dark man in a white shirt, hand out and grinning at his arrival. He reached out for the soft hand, as the awesome, comforting smell of an Indian kitchen went to work on his stomach.

“Luc. Wonderful to see you again. Can I wish you a Merry Christmas?” Midhat Mahmud welcomed his first non-Asian guest of the night.

“Midhat, it’s great to see you.” The restaurant was empty except for members of an extended family from the sub-continent who were close to finishing their meal.

“We are a little quiet tonight, so you can sit wherever you like. Can I get you something from the bar?”

“A pint of Bass, Midhat.”

The Bass came with a plate of pappadum, and Vanier drank and began to relax. He munched on the pappadum and inhaled the aromas. Sitar music played in the background, and Christmas was a thousand miles away. The waiter came, and Vanier ordered batata wada to start, followed by lamb dopiaza, mixed vegetable bhaji, rice and nan.

Midhat returned from the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite his friend. They had met years ago when Vanier, still in uniform, had stopped in for a meal after a long shift. As Midhat was presenting the bill, Vanier asked him what he thought of the execution of Prime Minister Bhutto in Pakistan. It had happened years earlier, but Vanier had been fascinated by what amounted to a judicial murder. His question struck a chord, and Midhat, who had recently graduated from Concordia and had been thrown into running a family business serving strange food to an even stranger population, sat down and unloaded. Born in Pakistan and educated in the West, he had a lot to say and was happy to have a Quebecer to say it to. Vanier had tried to explain that he wasn’t a native Quebecer, but it didn’t matter, the restaurateur was happy to have any connection to the society he and his family were living in.

On that first night, Vanier learned about the corruption of Pakistani politics, the revolving doors of civil and military governments, and a people cursed to be ruled by criminals whose main ambition was to suck everything of value from the poor country. Vanier kept coming back to Ganges, and kept learning.

After a few years, they began to call each other by their first names. Then Vanier’s son Alex was born, and Midhat and his new wife Jamilah showed up unannounced at the Vanier house with a hand-made vase from Pakistan for the baby. Vanier reciprocated a few years later, bringing a selection of OshKosh baby clothes to the new parents of Samir in their first floor walk-up in Park Extension.

“So how are the children, my friend?” asked Vanier.

“Wonderful. A real blessing. Samir is working with some of the best doctors in blood diseases. I can’t believe it but in three years he will be a fully qualified doctor and a specialist. And it’s not too soon. He’ll be able to take care of the aches of his poor father. And Aliza, bless her. In her second year in law, and what a mouth on her! She would argue with you over the colour of the sky. She is brilliant, and what a sense of justice she has. Just think Luc, if I am ever run over by a bus, I’ll have my son to look after me and my beautiful daughter to sue the son of a bitch who drove the bus — and the City for letting the son of a bitch drive the bus!”

They both laughed.

“And yours, Luc? How are Alex and the beautiful Elise?”

Midhat was one of the few people Vanier had told about Marianne’s leaving, and he did it only after Midhat asked one time too many why Vanier was eating so often in the restaurant.

“Alex tells me that he is doing important work in your part of the world. He seems to think that he is making a difference,” said Vanier.

“Making a difference? If only you could know, Luc. He is changing the world and making it better. I wish you Canadians knew how important it is. You should be bloody proud, Luc, a son like that.”

“I am, Midhat. But you know how it is with fathers and sons. We can’t say what we want to say. We think a nod is a paragraph and a sentence is a book, and, in the end, all that’s important is left unspoken.”

“We keep a lot inside, Luc, that’s true. Too much, maybe. But you tell Alex when he comes back here to get his skinny Canadian ass down to Ganges, and we will fatten him up, all on the house. I don’t think they serve good Indian food in the military.”

“They probably don’t serve any Indian food in the army. I’ll bring him down myself.”

“And Elise? Tell me, how is Elise?”

“I spoke to her this morning. It seems like a long time ago. She called to wish me Merry Christmas. She’s with her mother in Toronto. Still studying. She goes to university next year. Journalism. Maybe one day we’ll be looking at her on television. I can just see it now. Alex fighting in some foreign war, and Elise reporting on it, and me down on my knees in front of the television praying for both of them.”

They laughed again.

“Already, they are adults.”

“It happened too quickly, Midhat. Twenty years in a heartbeat. One moment, you’re building sandcastles in Kennebunk, and the next you’re waiting for a phone call from Kandahar.”

The food arrived, bubbling in stainless steel bowls on a hot plate with two candles. Vanier had ordered for one, but Midhat gestured for an extra plate, sitting with his friend through the meal, and helping himself to the comforting food of a homeland he hardly knew.

When they had both eaten their fill, they sat in silence listening to a plaintive sitar solo. A waiter took away the plates and came back with a brown bag with the leftovers. Vanier left a fat tip, because he knew that when he got home he would be amazed at how much food he had been given to take home. Enough for two meals during the week, even things he couldn’t remember ordering.

A honking noise broke through the sitar music and brought them back to Montreal. Tow trucks were cruising up and down the street, blaring their horns as a warning that any cars on the street were about to be towed to allow the plows to remove the snow. Vanier rose slowly, lifted the bag from the table, and reached for Midhat’s outstretched hand.

“You take care of yourself, Luc.”

“You too, Midhat, you too. Give my love to Jamilah and the children.”

“To be sure.”

Vanier walked out into the night, accelerating with each step, as he pondered the possibility of his car being towed. It was still safe. He opened the back door of the car and put the brown bag carefully on the floor, snug between the seats. Settling into the driver’s seat, he turned on the radio. Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” He turned off the radio and drove home in silence.