The Dead of Winter

FOUR

DECEMBER 26

5 AM

Vanier was nervous, preparing himself to talk to a boy who was a man. Not a man, a soldier — a different kind of man. Vanier knew soldiers. On his mother’s side they were all farmers, tied to the same patch of land for generations. But his father and his father’s father had been soldiers. His father had dragged the family to every military base in Canada. Often to leave them waiting while he served overseas. More often to leave them waiting while he drank with his soldier buddies. Then one day he left them for good with an inconvenient bullet that entered his brain through the roof of his mouth and left a red splash pattern on the living room wall for Vanier’s mother to clean off. Vanier had watched while she did it.

All Alex knew of his grandfather were the photos and medals, a hero his father never talked about or explained.

The phone rang at 5 minutes after 5 a.m.

“Alex?”

“Hey. Merry Christmas, Dad. How’re you doing?” Vanier tried to picture his smile.

“It’s me should be asking that. I’m fine. Stuck in the snow and the cold as usual. Hey, Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“It’s got to be better than here. Fucking desert gets to you pretty quick. So what’s new with you?”

“You know how it is Alex, crime’s a growth business. Close one file, open another. There’s always something going on. For everyone we put away, there are two more getting out. And there are always the kids following in the father’s footsteps. I guess we’re fighting our own war over here.”

“Yeah? They got IEDs in Montreal?”

“Well no, it’s not a war, Alex. Not like what you’re doing. Sorry. I just meant…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I suppose we’re both fighting evil, eh?”

“I suppose. But I got bigger guns!”

“They won’t be issuing C7A2s here for a while. But I bet it would get me respect in Hochelaga.”

“We ain’t getting respect here. They’re laughing at us. Fucking government is corrupt, and we’re getting shot at to keep them in business. The Afghan soldiers would sell you out in a second if they could make a deal. The place stinks.”

“Alex, I saw your guys on TV the other night. It looks pretty rough over there. I worry.”

“Ah come on, Dad, don’t start that again. I’m here. I’m serving in this shithole, but it doesn’t do me any good to know you’re worrying about me. I’m not a kid.”

“OK, Alex, but I’m your father. That’s what fathers do, they worry.”

“Yeah, but that puts pressure on me, you know.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that what we see here is the worst. On TV, it’s always the bad stuff.”

“There’s a lot of bad shit to film. It’s fucking dangerous, but I’m surrounded by great guys, and we all look out for each other. So the journalists want blood and guts and blown-up troop carriers. Maybe that’s a good thing, let people know what the fuck is going on, you know?”

“I suppose. But you don’t see much good news.”

“Good news? There isn’t any. And if you read crap in the papers about how we’re changing lives, don’t believe it. It’s a gang of fucking thieves running the country, and another gang of murdering bastards trying to take over — and neither side gives a fuck about the average Afghan.”

“So you think we should leave?”

“No. Just let us do the job. We’re fighting people who don’t give a fuck about the Geneva Convention, and we have to do it like Boy Scouts. It burns me up.”

“Don’t worry, Alex. Your tour is up in four months and you can come home.”

“Yeah. I guess. Anyway. Change the subject.”

Vanier changed the subject. “I spoke to Elise yesterday, she sends her love.”

“I know. She sent me an email. She said that you might be thinking of joining the human race and getting Skype.”

“Ha. Well, no promises, but you never know. I’ll give it serious thought. Elise said she’d help me.”

“Do it. You’ll be amazed how easy it is once you get started.”

“So, tell me, what do you do for relaxation?”

“Well, last night we had a concert with Blue Rodeo and a bunch of comedians. And we had a Christmas supper, turkey, roast potatoes. The food was good. We even had the Minister of Defence spooning out the gravy.”

“And how was he in the kitchen?”

“He was shit in the kitchen. Just over here to get his photo taken.”

“That’s what the politicians are for, Alex, spooning out the shit!”

“Yeah, that’s funny. It’s true. But my time’s up. I gotta go. There are guys lined up behind me, Merry Christmas, Dad. Take care.”

“Love you, Alex. Take care.”

The phone clicked dead. Vanier picked up the cold coffee and focused on the conversation, trying to recognize what was really said; the statements, the inflections, the pauses. It was a police technique to squeeze meaning from everything. Often what was unsaid was the most important. He knew that he couldn’t understand what it meant to serve in Afghanistan. But he knew enough to be scared. He was scared for Alex. And scared of what he recognized in his son. When Vanier was honest with himself, and it didn’t happen often, he saw in Alex the same attitude that he saw in the violent scumbags that he spent his life trying to shut down. And when he tried to dismiss those thoughts, he’d think of his father, and know his fears were justified.

It was still dark outside. The sun wouldn’t rise until after seven. Vanier looked down on the white and grey city. He turned back from the window and put the half cup of coffee into the microwave and pushed one minute. It was steaming when he took it out. He thought about cooling it with a shot of whiskey and decided against it.

8.30 AM

Vanier pulled into the parking lot of Police Headquarters and saw Chief Inspector Bedard’s car parked in its reserved spot nearest the door. It was a bad sign. There was nothing going on except the homeless deaths, and Vanier hated to think that the Chief Inspector was taking a special interest in the case.

Even in the quick walk to the door Vanier felt the cold. It was at least minus twenty Celsius, and he didn’t think it was going to get any warmer. The last storm was long gone, and the temperature had tumbled under the cloudless sky. The only consolation was the sunlight.

In the first floor Squad Room, Sylvie St. Jacques was pinning photos and coloured arrows to a map of downtown Montreal mounted on corkboard, putting together the visual layout of what had happened. Sergeants Janvier and Roberge were staring at computer screens, and D.S. Laurent was reading a newspaper. When he saw Vanier, he held up the Journal de Montreal, his bald head disappearing behind it. The headline read: “Santa Slays the Homeless.”

“And a good morning to you too,” said Vanier.

“The Chief asked to see you as soon as you got in,” Laurent said.

“Shit.”

It was the last thing Vanier needed after a few hours sleep on the couch. He took the newspaper from Laurent and opened it to the main story, scanning it quickly. It was accurate, with too many details, even down to Santa as a suspect.

“They got everything pretty much right, didn’t they?” said Vanier. “But they don’t know anything we don’t know. I suppose that’s a good thing. How do they know about Santa?”

“My guess is someone in the Metro Security told them,” said Laurent. “The only ones that knew about the Santa character are us and the Metro guys. It had to be one of them.”

“And where did they get the murder angle? Suspicious, yes, but murder?”

“Suspicious doesn’t sell papers, sir. Mass murderer on the loose gets people out of their beds to buy the rags.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Vanier, imagining what the Chief would make of it. The Chief had probably already taken calls from the Mayor.

Vanier glanced at the other newspapers lying on the desk. They each had the story on the front page. The Gazette: “Christmas Spirit Dies With Five Homeless Deaths;” The Globe and Mail: “Mass Murderer in Montreal?;” La Presse: “Homeless Deaths Ruled Suspicious;” and the National Post: “Metro Deaths: Montreal’s Homeless at Risk.” Only Le Devoir, Montreal’s intellectual daily, reputed to have a paid circulation in the high three figures, was understated: “System Failing the Homeless.” Only the Journal de Montreal had the Santa angle.

Vanier turned to leave, “I’m off to see the Chief.”

As he passed St. Jacques, she turned to him. “I’ll be finished with this in a few minutes.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Vanier said, glancing at the map as he walked out.

9 AM

Chief Inspector Bedard’s door was open, the secretary who usually guarded his lair off for the holidays. The Chief was sitting behind his desk in full dress uniform reading the papers. When you started as a cop, you got a uniform, and if you climbed the ladder high enough, you finished with a better uniform, but there were two differences between recruits and the polished brass. The obvious one was the amount of equipment you carried on your belt; recruits had more stuff hanging from their belts than New Guinea headhunters. Vanier sometimes thought that when he retired he could make a fortune designing stuff that could be attached to the belts of recruits. The Chief had nothing, not even a gun. The other difference was the amount of bullshit you could generate and consume before you felt sick. Recruits had a low tolerance for bullshit, but if you wanted to rise up the ladder, you had to develop a taste for it.

Vanier walked in and stood in front of the Chief’s desk, waiting for him to look up, examining the fat that bulged under his uniform. He was like a giant, over-ripe pear with his neck bulging three chins out of a white shirt collar. Bedard looked up warily.

“Good morning, Luc, sit down.”

Vanier dropped into the wooden chair in front of the desk, and the two men stared at each other in a test of who would speak first. There was no contest. Vanier was still a working cop, and Bedard broke.

“The press, Luc. How does Journal de Montreal know more about this investigation than I do? Am I supposed to read the damn newspapers to know what is going on in my own squad? Does that make sense?”

Again the stare, eye to eye, Bedard trying to remember the old days interrogating suspects. Vanier stared back.

“No, sir. But they have more staff than we do. We’ve been working with close to zero.”

“It’s Christmas, Luc. I know how you feel. But all you have are five suspicious deaths. I can’t cancel leave on the basis of a suspicion. It’s going to take time to find out how they died. Even so, I need to show some progress. Results, Luc, I need some results. And I need to know what’s going on.

“Does that mean that I get more officers?”

“No. Not unless you tell me that you have something real to go on. Are these five deaths a coincidence, or do we have a maniac on the loose?”

“We don’t know yet. It could be nothing, sir.”

“I know that. But the papers don’t think it’s nothing. Have you seen the TV? It’s the first story on every newscast. Before long, the entire city will be yelling for answers. The Mayor called me at home last night. Did you ever try to bullshit the Mayor?”

“No, sir. I’ve never spoken to the Mayor. But I suspect that he recognizes bullshit.”

“He’s an expert. He can recognize it a mile away. And I don’t want to be giving him too much.”

“Sir, we’re doing what we can. Any available officers you can throw our way would be appreciated. That way, you can tell the Mayor that you’re dedicating resources to the case.”

“I know what I can tell the goddamn Mayor, Luc. And I am dedicating resources to the case, Luc. You have a bloody team. What leads are you following?”

“Sir, we’ve got a good start on the identities, and we’re following up with the families and people who knew them. We’re canvassing the shelters and other spots to see what we can find out. We’re also following up on Santa suit rentals. Even without a cause of death, that’s a lot of work, sir. The more people we have, the quicker we can get through all the details. With more manpower we can cover leads faster.”

“Look, I’ll see what I can do about extra officers. In the meantime do what you can. And Luc, you have my numbers, call me. When the Mayor calls I have to answer the phone even if I’m taking a shit. I want to be able to give him something more than he can read in this rag,” he said, gesturing at the Journal de Montreal. “I can’t have him knowing more than I do just because his staff spoke to the bloody journalists. Treat this as a mass murder until we know it’s not. Pull out all stops, Luc. I need results. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. So, does that mean that I’m off budget? Even if I don’t get extra people, can we authorize overtime?”

“Luc, you know that we’re close to year-end, and I’m not going to piss away a good year because we panicked before we knew anything for sure. If you can tell me there’s a mass murderer loose, things will change. For the moment, do what you can with the resources you have.”

“What we have is a skeleton staff. Everyone is off singing carols.”

“People need family time at Christmas. Luc, do what you can. Give me something.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vanier. Figuring the meeting had ended, he got up from the chair.

“And think about this, Luc. How do these journalists know so much about this situation? Some of them were on top of this from the start. There are details here,” he said, lifting the paper for emphasis. “Stuff that only someone connected to the investigation would know: the Santa character, the unknown cause of death, the absence of a suspect. How do they know so much? Find out who it is, Luc. I don’t want anyone from my squad talking to the press.”

“Neither do I, sir, but I don’t think that it’s one of our people. It’s probably someone in the Metro Security.”

“Luc, if there is a madman loose I want you to catch him. I don’t want this played out in the media. And keep me informed of every move that you make.”

“Yes, sir.” Vanier turned and grabbed the door handle to leave.

“And, Luc, why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, sir,” Vanier lied, turning back to face him. “I called yesterday on your cell number. I couldn’t get through.”

“Well, OK. Sorry. I may have had my cell phone off for a few hours. You know how it is, Christmas and all. Anyway, from now on keep me informed.”

“Absolutely, sir. In fact, after my meeting with the team, I’ll call to debrief you.”

Bedard was on the phone before Vanier closed the door.

9.45 AM

D.S. St. Jacques had transformed one wall of the Squad Room, pinning photos of the five victims in situ on the map of downtown Montreal, with arrows leading from them to the places they were discovered. Next to each photo she had pinned a bullet-point list of what was known of each of the victims. Most of that came from Vanier’s notes on their possessions. Off to the side were several of the clearest prints of Santa, but nothing approaching a clear face shot. He was tall, probably six two or three, not overweight. His costume made it difficult to tell, but he looked fit.

Vanier took a seat. “So what do we know?”

St. Jacques looked over to Laurent and saw that he wasn’t going to take the lead.

“Well, sir, we have five unexplained deaths on Christmas Eve. From your work yesterday with the possessions, we have four unverified identifications: George Morissette, found at McGill, Joe Yeoman and Edith Latendresse, both found at Berri, and Pierre Brun in Cabot Park. We need to confirm the identifications and get a positive I.D. on the fifth. We’ve started tracking down the next of kin, and we also need to find the possessions of the fifth victim.”

“The identities are verified,” said Vanier. “Dr. Grenier confirmed them from the photos. We have names and ages. The fifth victim is Celine Plante, 52 years old, well, almost 52. An alcoholic who has been on the streets for most of her life. And Dr. Grenier says they were all terminally ill. What else?”

St. Jacques looked at Vanier. “That’s all I know,” he said. “The bastard wouldn’t give me specifics.”

St. Jacques continued. “The Coroner’s office reports that they can do two or three autopsies today and the rest tomorrow.”

“Ask them to request the medical records from Grenier. He refused to turn them over without an official request.”

“Will do,” said St. Jacques. “There’s not much else. We’re waiting to learn more from the Coroner.”

“We have a person of interest, Father Henri Drouin. He’s not a suspect, but I want to talk to him in a bad way. He’s a priest who works in the Cathedral, and Dr. Grenier says he was the spiritual advisor to the victims and knew them all. I went looking for him last night, and he’s disappeared. We need to find him as quickly as possible. Any luck on the Santa suits?”

“Not much, sir. There were almost 400 Santa suits rented out over the holidays. Four different companies — two downtown, one in NDG, and the other in Laval. We’ve talked to the owners of all the stores, and they’re all ready to show their records.”

“OK. Have a couple of officers pick them up and bring them to their stores. No, forget Laval for the moment. Let’s concentrate on the Island. Not all Santa suits are the same, so bring photos of our Santa and get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a similar suit. See if they recognize anything special. And tell them that when the rentals come back, they should check for dirt and moisture and hold onto anything that looks that looks like it was worn outside. You can’t go wandering around in the middle of winter in a Santa costume without getting wet.”

“Yes, sir,” said St. Jacques. “Oh, and the Coroner’s office is having someone dig out what they can on any similar deaths in the last year. They said that it might take some time but I’ll keep after them. Nobody seems to keep records on the numbers. I called the city, the hospitals, the shelters. Nobody counts them but people were guessing anywhere from twenty to forty people, depending on what you include: drug overdoses, beatings or just plain natural causes.”

“Any calls?”

“Since I came on shift, we’ve had 23,” said Janvier. I’m taking them with D.S. Roberge.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing on the victims. The usual crap on Santa: looks like my cousin Pierre, that sort of thing. We’re taking the details but it’s going to take time to check them all out. But look at the photos. You can’t see the guy’s face, and he’s dressed in a costume.”

“So how did the papers get the photos? Can someone talk to Morneau and see if he has any ideas?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” said Janvier.

“So, St. Jacques, you keep following up with the Santa suits. Janvier and Roberge, keep on the phones and let me know if anything strange turns up. See if you can track down next of kin. And can we all try to figure out who’s feeding the press? Laurent, you and I are going to find Father Drouin.”

Vanier’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and didn’t recognize the number.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Inspector Vanier, this is Sergeant Julie Laflamme. Just calling to tell you that I’ve had a call from Chief Inspector Bedard. He wants me to handle the media on the homeless cases. I am on my way to Montreal now, and I wanted to ask you not to make any public statements until we have had a chance to talk. Is that OK, sir?”

“Perfect, Sergeant Laflamme. When are you proposing to get here?”

“I should be there in two hours. I was skiing in Tremblant. I’m trying to set up a press conference for 3 p.m. They’re clamouring for information, but let’s keep things quiet until then, Inspector. It’s important that we manage the communications on this one, sir.”

“Sergeant Laflamme, the media seem to be doing pretty well without any help from me. But you have my word on it. I’ll hang up on any journalist who calls me. See you soon.” Vanier clicked disconnect.

Turning to Laurent, Vanier asked, “Who were you with on Christmas Eve? I didn’t see anyone.”

“D.S. Fletcher, sir. He worked Christmas Eve, but he’s off today.”

“So where was he when I was there?”

“He was interviewing staff, I think. It’ll be in his notes. He’s been following up, though. I spoke to him twice this morning.”

“Can’t he let it go? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

“He’s keen on the case. He wants to be up to speed when he gets back.”

The phone on Laurent’s desk rang. He picked it up and listened.

“OK. Thanks.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Vanier.

“Father Drouin is downstairs. He showed up at the front desk and said that you had been looking for him.”

“Have them put him in Interview Room 2. I’ll talk to him. You watch from outside. Make sure that we get it all on tape. I want a transcript. Let’s go.”

They took the elevator down to the basement. The building was quiet. Headquarters was on minimal staff, with officers taking a short break from the madness, trying to build family as kids laughed and friends told stories. Vanier wondered why Fletcher couldn’t let go. Why was he calling for updates?

10.30 AM

Interview Room 2 was designed to elicit the kind of communication that occurs between doomed miners trapped hundreds of feet below ground, intimate, and of no consequence to the outside world. It was a stark, windowless box, empty except for a table and two chairs, with a two-way mirror built into one wall. The mirror encouraged introspection. Father Henri Drouin sat on one of the flimsy plastic chairs, his shoulders sagging and his eyes staring at the floor. Vanier walked in carrying a yellow note-pad and a brown envelope, nodding at Drouin without saying anything. Drouin half rose from his seat and returned to his sitting position. Vanier reached out his hand, and Drouin stood again to shake it, looking like he hadn’t laughed in twenty years, like he was carrying an invisible weight.

“I’m Detective Inspector Vanier, Major Crime Squad. I was looking for you last night at the Cathedral. The priest who answered the door said that you disappeared after lunch and nobody knew where you were.”

“It’s a problem that I have, Inspector. Every Christmas it’s the same thing. The priestly equivalent of post-partum depression, I suppose.”

Vanier thought that was an attempt at humour, but checked himself. Drouin was serious. “Are you depressed?”

Drouin sat up. “Advent is such a wonderful time in the Church, building up inexorably to that glorious moment when our Saviour is born. The churches gradually fill with the faithful until Christmas morning, when it’s standing room only for the flock adoring their Creator. And then, the next moment, it’s empty again. They’re only there for the show. When I look at the packed church at Christmas, I can’t help thinking how empty it will be after the last service, and how it will stay empty for most of the year.”

“The three Bs, I suppose,” said Vanier.

“What?”

“Baptism, bondage and burial. Most people only want the church to be there for the baptism, the wedding and to see them off in style at the end.”

“Something like that, Inspector. It’s the church as theatre, and Christmas is a perennial favourite. It’s always a shock, and I’ve never learned to deal with it. I get angry. Then I get sad and question myself. Then I question the faithful. Then I question the church itself. With experience, I have found that the best thing to do is to just get away.”

“So where did you go yesterday?”

“I went to my family, to my sister and her husband in Dorval. That was a mistake. They have their children and their Christmas is for the children, you know, presents first, video games and toys, then a feast and as little thought about Our Lord as they can manage. I’m an embarrassment to her.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Vanier.

“Oh, she loves me, in her own way, but she thinks that I’ve wasted my life.”

“And what do you think?”

The priest looked up at Vanier, but didn’t answer.

“So how long did you stay?”

“They had guests, and I saw I was holding them back. My presence seemed to remind them of what Christmas was supposed to be. I was making everyone uncomfortable. So I stayed for an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, and then I left. I drove back to town and parked at the Cathedral.”

“So what time did you get back to the Cathedral?”

“Around 5.30, maybe six o’clock, I suppose. But I didn’t want to go in. I decided to go for a walk. Around Old Montreal mostly, it was beautiful, very quiet and peaceful. There was hardly any traffic. Walking through the old streets I felt that I was back in a Quebec of the past. In a Quebec that still believed in Christ. It was comforting.” The priest drifted off, remembering his walk, Vanier waited for him to come back.

“So what did you want to see me about, Inspector?”

“I am investigating the deaths of five homeless people on Christmas Eve. Your name came up as someone who might know the victims.”

“I’ve seen the newspapers. You think they were killed, Inspector?”

“I didn’t say that. Right now, I don’t think anything. I just want to find out who these people were. We’ve got their names, but we don’t know anything about them. I thought you could give us some information about who they were.”

Vanier sat back into the chair like someone with nowhere to go, but desperately in need of a rest. He stared at the wall, giving Drouin room to talk.

Drouin waited.

Vanier barely stirred. “I’m tired. Maybe it’s the season,” he said, almost to himself. “This time of the year is difficult for many people, isn’t it, Father?”

Drouin was lost in thought and didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, “It should be a time of rejoicing.”

“I haven’t been rejoicing. You know what I have been doing? I’ve been pulling corpses out of holes. At this time of year, who wants to do that? But you know what keeps me going? These people were daughters and sons, maybe sisters or brothers. Maybe they even had children, grown children. Grown children celebrating Christmas in their own families while their mother or father slept on the street. Did anyone spend a few seconds this Christmas wondering where any of these people were? Christmas is a time for families isn’t it, Father Drouin? No matter how dysfunctional. And yet they all died alone. I suppose that’s what hit me the most. Five deaths in one night, and they all died alone. That shouldn’t happen at Christmas.”

Vanier sat up and pulled the pack of photographs out of the envelope. He laid each of them out on the table in front of Drouin.

“Do you recognize any of these people?”

Drouin leaned over and examined each photo carefully. “Yes, Inspector. I know all of them.” He began pointing to each photograph. “Celine, Joe Yeoman, Madame Latendresse, Pierre Brun, and George Morissette. They were all what we call clients. I ministered to them. It’s hard to believe they are all dead in one night.”

“You don’t seem shocked.”

“I am beyond shock, Inspector. When I saw the reports in the newspapers I knew that I would probably know some of them. I don’t know what’s happening. I have to believe that God is at work. But He knows so many ways to test us poor humans.”

Vanier pulled a pen out of his pocket and began writing as Drouin talked, scribbling bits and pieces of information of the lives of the unknown. Even though the interview was being taped, he felt compelled to take notes, to write things down. Scribbling scraps of information in an effort to create individuals where before there had been only empty space, to make people out of corpses.

Laurent watched through the two-way mirror as Drouin released every scrap of information he had on the five. Vanier slouched in his chair but he was listening intently, for similarities and for differences, to hear what connected them, other than their common status at the bottom of the pile. Drouin talked of people who used drugs and alcohol to feel nothing, and of the more effective disconnection of mental illness. He talked of diets of hostel meals and rotten food scavenged from dumpsters at the back of restaurants, clothes picked from piles of cast-offs with nothing ever fitting or doing the job of keeping you warm or your feet dry. And he talked of the terror of street life in the winter, when the choice was between a quiet, dark corner where you might never wake up or a single bed in a warehouse of coughing, ranting, fighting, and crying outcasts like yourself. Each of the victims was a walking encyclopedia of medical disorders: scabs and sores that never healed on the outside, and fevers, diseases, and delusions that ate away the inside.

Drouin’s streets were full of thieves, con men, liars, murderers, and bullies, people who were by turn predators and victims, depending on circumstances and opportunity. Alcoholics who craved nothing but a deadening slumber. Young girls taking their first hit in a desperate search for happiness. And end-of-the-road junkies secretly hoping the next trip would be their last. Men, women and children selling their bodies because that was all they had left to sell. Children running from abuse. The depressed, the schizophrenics, the paranoid, the delusional who don’t know what planet they’re on, and the just plain unlucky souls life has decided to torture. A population of modern-day Jobs, invisible to all, including Vanier.

He learned about the individuals.

Pierre Brun, who appeared every winter and disappeared again in the late spring, nobody knew where. Some said to a farm in the country, others that he walked to the Maritimes and back. He never said. He just disappeared every June to reappear in October. Nobody remembers seeing Brun in Montreal in the summer.

The completely and irredeemably mad Madame Latendresse, who had more interaction with the voices in her head in one hour than she had in a week with any human. If you got her to speak, she was disappointed to have been dragged away from her imaginary friends and impatient to return to them.

Celine Plante, an alcoholic prostitute who knew nothing but life on the street from the time she was 12 years old. When Vanier suggested that, given her state, she might have been a former prostitute, Drouin disagreed; there was always a market, no matter how rotten the fruit. From time to time she would show up at the various missions and shelters, and most times she would be refused because she was drunk. She worried about her diminishing client base but couldn’t imagine any way out.

George Morissette, a notary whose wife and only child died 30 years ago in a fire in their cottage up north. That was at the end of the summer he had skipped cleaning the chimney to save $50. He had spent thirty years dying with them. It took him twenty years to descend from notary to bum, but he had managed it with the help of the bottle and a broken spirit. It took ten years to descend from bum to corpse.

Finally, there was Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk whose life was a progression in and out of prison; who used anything, drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence, to numb whatever pain he felt.

“Father Drouin, can you think of a link between these five people? A person, maybe, or even a place? Did they know one another?”

“Inspector, the homeless live in a small world. They know everyone in their brutal village. Their world is so small that what connects them is trivial compared to what keeps them separate. All paths cross. From what I read in the papers, these people were found where they were sleeping for the night. It may be hard for you to imagine, Inspector, but if you have a place to sleep for the night, you have a sanctuary. These people were found dead in their sanctuaries. For people like this, a place where you can be alone and safe is a prize, and there are only a limited number of such places in any city. What the human spirit needs, even the homeless, is privacy. When you go home at night and close your door, I assume you can be alone, even when you live with someone you love. Imagine never being able to do that. Imagine never having a private moment. That’s why for some lucky ones, there is a secret place where they can stay warm and unmolested for a whole night, perhaps longer. When a street person finds such a place, it must be protected. It must be approached with caution, for fear that others will discover it. Imagine, Inspector, if you haven’t slept warmly or with any privacy for months, what it would mean to find one space where you could lie down and sleep undisturbed for an entire night. It would be a dream. These people seemed to have found their private space. Where they were found may have been their sanctuary.

“If these people were murdered, it wasn’t random, it was by someone that knew where they slept, and I can’t think of anyone they would have trusted with that knowledge.”

“That’s an interesting point, Father. If I wanted to learn more about who these people were and who knew them, what should I do?”

“You could start with the shelters. They’re the great centres of traffic for the displaced. Some are exclusively for men and others take only women; some take both, but in different facilities. And it’s not just for the overnight stays, it’s for the lunches or dinners. These five would have used several different shelters. If you use one shelter too much, you get pressured to begin a program, and none of these would have started a program. After the shelters, there are the drop-in centres, usually in church basements. In the drop-in centres, street people can escape the cold by paying the modest price of exposing themselves to volunteers who want to save their souls. Then there are the meeting points, the low traffic corners of the city that street people have made their own. You would be amazed how many such spots there are, Inspector.”

“These people would have a fairly regular existence?

“Of course, they are human beings like you and me, Inspector. We all have routines and follow them. The homeless have routines, too. You just have to be able to see them. Haven’t you ever seen the same person every day at a particular spot? With each of these five, if I wanted to find them on a particular day, it wouldn’t be too hard. They all had more or less regular routines; areas of the city where they hung around, shelters they frequented, parks or lost corners of the city where they rested during the day.”

“And who are the people that connect these five?”

“Well, to start with, me, I suppose. I ministered to them all. But there are many others, Inspector. The people who work at the shelters and the drop-in centres, the social workers, the doctors, the nurses. That may seem like a lot, but think about all of the people you have contact with every day. With these people, it’s possible to name everyone who might have had some real contact with them. I doubt you could say that about you or even me.”

Vanier resisted the urge to tell him that he knew what it was like to go an entire weekend without talking to anyone other than clerks at the supermarket and the liquor store.

“How did you minister to them, Father Drouin?” asked Vanier.

“I talked to them. No, more importantly, I listened to them. I got to know them. And I’ll tell you something, Inspector, I loved each one of them. If these people were murdered, you must find the person who did that. These people were children of God, not garbage. Society would like to ignore them. But remember, Jesus said, Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, you do unto me.”

Vanier tried to look beyond all the priests he had known, and tried to understand the man in front of him.

“So what were you doing on Christmas Eve, Father?”

“I’ve told you. Christmas is a very difficult time for me. I battle resentment. I resent all those people who show up in church only at Christmas, all those seasonal Christians. God’s house is full one or two days a year and empty all of the others. I can’t understand that. I want to tell these people if you don’t believe, don’t come, don’t waste your time and mine. And yet I have to welcome them. And I have to work very hard at being welcoming.”

“So where were you on Christmas Eve?”

“I was free until Midnight Mass when I was needed for the big show with all the costumes. I skipped supper. I went for a walk at about 4.30 and didn’t come back to the Cathedral until about an hour before Mass. About 10.30, I suppose.”

“Where did you go?”

“I walked, Inspector. There was a snowstorm. It was like being in one of those glass souvenir balls that you shake to make the snowflakes float all around. It was beautiful. The city was silent and I felt God’s presence. Perhaps that’s an occupational hazard, but it was peaceful in the storm. I felt like I was walking with God. I walked for hours.”

“You walked for six hours?”

“I suppose so. Is that odd?”

“Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone?”

“No. I avoided contact. If I saw someone approaching, I crossed the street. Sometimes I would turn into a side street and walk the other way to avoid contact. I craved solitude. Well, not solitude exactly. I just didn’t want to share the experience. As I said, I felt like I was walking with God and I didn’t want to share that with anyone.”

“And what time did you get back?”

“I told you. I got back to the Cathedral at 10.30.

“Who was the first person you saw when you got back?”

“Monsignor Forlini, when I presented myself for duty. That would have been about 11.”

“So, just so that I can get this clear, between 4.30 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, there is nobody who can confirm where you were?”

“That’s correct, Inspector. I suppose you could say I was missing in action during that period.”

“Father Drouin, do you own a Santa suit?”

Drouin looked at Vanier as though he had asked if he wore a yarmulke.

“That’s what’s wrong with Christmas. Christmas is about Jesus Christ, not Santa Claus. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of humanity’s Savior. And Santa Claus is the last thing that Christians should be thinking about. So, to answer your question, Inspector, no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume.”

“I need to ask these questions, Father,” said Vanier.

“I understand, Inspector. If someone killed these poor people, you must find him.”

“I intend to,” said Vanier. “I will probably have more questions for you. But that’s it for now.”

“Anything I can do to help, just ask me. You know where I am.”

“I do, Father.”

Through the two-way mirror, Laurent watched both men rise from the table. Vanier led Drouin out and walked him down to the main entrance, and waited in the cold while he went to his car. The priest didn’t look back.

Vanier returned and joined Laurent in the viewing room.

“What do you think, sir?” asked Laurent.

“I don’t know. I’m struggling to get over my prejudices against the Church, trying to see him simply as a man with a mission to love his fellow man. I have no problem understanding people who dedicate their lives to others. But I don’t get the inner joy from him. People who do this type of work, the ones I’ve seen exude goodwill, they’re happy. Drouin is angry, not joyful. Maybe he was shocked by the deaths. Who knows? But he was missing when Santa was giving out his gifts.”

“So he’s a suspect?”

“Damn right. So let’s see what we can find out about him. Get some history, but do it delicately. I don’t want the Archbishop calling the Chief. And nail down the time of the last image of Santa in the Metro. Would he have had time to get back to the Cathedral for 10.30? While you’re at it, check out the alibi. Can we get confirmation that he was seen at 11?”

“I’ll get onto it.”

12.45 PM

There was a line of people waiting in the numbing cold to be let into the Holy Land Shelter for lunch. A few were recognizable as down-and-out street people, but others would not have been out of place on the bus, or in the checkout line at the supermarket. Some were only boys trying their best to look like men; others looked old before their time. Most of those in line ignored Vanier and Laurent as they walked past, but some instinctively reached out a hand with an ingratiating smile, unable to miss an opportunity to ask for change.

Laurent held the door for Vanier and followed him into the warmth. Their path was blocked by an unsmiling man standing like a nightclub bouncer in a suit cut tight to emphasize muscle that you can only build with regular work with weights.

“Don’t I know you?” Vanier asked, searching his memory for a name.

“I’ve met a lot of cops. After a while they all look the same. Know what I mean?”

“We’re looking for M. Nolet.”

“Through those doors, to your right.”

The detectives started to move towards the door, and then Vanier stopped. “Audet. Marcel Audet, isn’t it? You were put away, what was it, seven years ago?”

“Yeah. And? I’ve done my time.”

“Got lucky, didn’t you? The poor bastard didn’t die from the beating, just became a vegetable. So it was assault, not murder. Now you’re back out on the street.”

“Like I said, I’ve done my time.”

“And the other guy’s probably still hooked up to some machine somewhere, wishing you’d come back and finish him off.”

“That’s all behind me. I’m clean. I’ve found a purpose in life.”

“I bet you have,” said Vanier.

“What do you know? When you deal with filth every day, you become filth,” he said, turning away from Vanier.

Audet walked to the front doors and opened them, letting the patrons stream in. He had them well trained. There was no pushing or shoving. They were on their best behaviour, like schoolchildren passing the headmaster. Vanier watched the parade of desperate men shuffling towards a meal. He didn’t believe in change. Once a villain, always a villain. He turned to follow the directions to Nolet’s office, and his path was blocked again, this time by a short balding man with a broad smile.

“I am Nolet. You were looking for me?”

Vanier was puzzled until he noticed the closed circuit cameras. Christ, they’ll have them in churches next.

“You have closed circuit TV in a homeless shelter?” asked Vanier.

“We have a difficult clientele. Certain security measures are in the best interests of everyone. How can I help you?”

“We’d like to talk to you about the five people found dead on Christmas Eve. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Yes, of course,” said Nolet, looking quickly to Audet as though he was asking permission. Audet turned away from them. “Let’s go to my office.”

The desk and chairs were the throwaway type. A threadbare orange carpet covered the floor, and papers covered the desk. In contrast to the cheapness of the rest of the office, a bank of six television monitors flickered with images from different parts of the shelter. Nolet seemed to feel the need to explain.

“Times have changed, gentlemen. We live in a tough world and we have to take steps to protect our guests. Fights and thefts are common. So we had a security system installed.”

Vanier stared at the screens. They covered the spot where people lined up to enter the shelter, the doorway, the dining room, what looked like a recreation room, and the two massive dormitories.

“Very impressive, M. Nolet. What are you scared of?”

“I am not scared, Inspector. I’ve worked here fifteen years, and I understand the clientele. They don’t scare me. To tell you the truth, I hardly use the cameras but M. Audet finds them useful. And I must admit that there are fewer incidents since he joined us. He seems to have a knack for keeping things under control.”

“And when was that, M. Nolet.”

“What?”

“When did M. Audet join you?”

“Maybe four months ago. The new Board decided that we needed a stronger hand to beef up security.”

“So it wasn’t your choice?”

“I didn’t disagree. I knew his background and I was happy to give him a chance to turn his life around.”

Laurent was distracted, looking at the television monitors.

“M. Audet has had quite an influence on this place since he’s been here. He manages the shelter on a day-to-day basis. He’s Operations Manager, that’s the title the Board gave him. That frees me up to do more important work, like raising funds, buying supplies and the like, making sure we don’t go bankrupt. He has a firm hand, but you need that around here.”

Nolet moved behind the desk and motioned them to sit in the two chairs in front. He gathered the papers on the desk and moved them to the side, folding his hands in the cleared space. Vanier pulled the photographs out of the envelope and placed them face up on the desk.

“We think we have their names but would like you to confirm any that you know.”

Nolet picked up each photograph and named each one.

“What do you know about them?”

“They were all hardcore street people, desperate cases — and we know desperate in this business. These are the kind of people who brought me into this work. Back in those days, I thought I could change things, you know, really help people. But, I’ve known Joe Yeoman for close to twenty years, and nothing’s changed. The others, ten, fifteen years each. It doesn’t matter. You know what I’ve learned over twenty years? We can’t change them. Sometimes we can make them comfortable, but their fate is what it is. Or was, I suppose. And worse than that, they kill the idealism that was in you. They don’t change, but you do. You get hard, immune. It’s a tough life, Inspector.”

“You don’t seem surprised that they’re dead.”

“Surprised? No. With these, and too many others, it’s just a matter of time. You get to recognize it, Inspector, when people are on their way out.”

“I can understand that, M. Nolet, but all five on Christmas Eve?”

“Coincidences don’t happen. Is that it? You sound like an educated man, Inspector, and I get educated people in here all the time, from the universities or the government. Like they just figured out the solution to the problem. They tell me about the importance of measurement, of empirical data: probabilities, cause and effect, action and consequence, and all that shit. Last week someone told me that if you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it, like that was supposed to help me. Well, I know a little bit about statistics. I understand the odds. And let me tell you, statistics don’t predict real life. Real life happens. Shit happens. So all five of them died on Christmas Eve. You know what’s surprising? That they weren’t all dead years ago. They defied the odds for years. And, you know what the tragedy is? It’s the lives that they led for the last twenty years. You didn’t come to me last month and ask why these people were on the streets. That’s the goddamn crime.”

“M. Nolet, if these people were killed on Christmas Eve, I want to find out who did it.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. If they were killed, that’s just one more affront they shouldn’t have had to endure. It’s just I don’t believe they were killed.”

“Why not?”

“Because nobody cared enough about them to kill them.”

“Maybe somebody did.”

“It will be a first. What do you need to know?”

“Well, when was the last time you saw them?”

“That’s difficult, Inspector. Of course, if they stayed the night, there would be a record. But we don’t keep records of people who simply come in for a meal. And these were not regular sleepers. We have rules here, and lots of people can’t deal with the rules. Doors close at eight o’clock, a shower and a shave and in bed by nine. No smoking, no booze, and no drugs. We’re not running a hotel here. That’s why so many still stay out, even in winter.”

“Could you check your records and let me know if any of them stayed overnight in the last month?”

“Of course, Inspector.”

“And the monitors,” Vanier pointed to the bank of screens. “Do you keep the tapes?”

“Well, I’m not an expert, but I’m told that everything is held on a disc for forty-eight hours, and then it disappears. So that won’t help you. Everything before Christmas will be gone.”

“Did they have any friends?”

“Friends? Inspector, these people don’t have friends. They might have a regular spot where they go and whoever is there is their friend for the moment. If they don’t show up, they’re not missed. This is a sad community of loners. Look,” he said, pointing at one of the monitors, “that’s the dining room. What do you see?”

They looked up to see men sitting around tables and servers passing out food.

“Who’s talking to who?”

When asked to look for one, the officers saw a pattern. The servers touched shoulders and elbows and whispered into ears while depositing plates. Some diners reacted with a smile, others didn’t. But between the diners, there was silence. It wasn’t so much a communal meal but a hundred men eating alone.

“Our people are trained to say a word or two to everyone. Food for the soul you might say. But look at how our clients act with each other.”

“It’s like there’s no one there,” said Laurent.

“Right. If you’re living on the street, you’re alone.”

Laurent was staring intently at one monitor. Then he got up and moved to the wall behind the door just as Audet came bursting in. Nolet rose sheepishly to his feet like a child caught sitting in his father’s chair.

“I was just…” Nolet said to Audet.

Audet ignored him, turning to Vanier. “You still here?”

Vanier grinned at Audet.

“Very useful, these monitors, M. Audet,” said Laurent.

Audet spun around to face Laurent.

“So, why would you be assaulting one of your own clients?” asked Laurent.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“On screen three. About ten minutes ago. I saw you punch an old man in the stomach. He fell to his knees. What was that about, M. Audet?”

“Listen, my job is to keep order. It’s for everyone’s good. If someone gets out of hand, well, I have to calm them down. That’s all. I didn’t do any damage to him. I just calmed him down.”

“He didn’t look excited, M. Audet. He was eating his dinner. Looked like you called him over, said a few words in his ear, and then punched him in the stomach. It looked like an unprovoked assault to me, M. Audet.”

“Well, why don’t you go see him? See if he wants to press charges.” Audet pushed passed Nolet and sat down behind the desk. It might have been Nolet’s office, but Audet was in charge.

“Now, if you’re finished wasting my time, I’ve got work to do.”

Vanier rose, “Thank you, gentlemen.”

In the parking lot, Vanier turned to look back at the shelter before getting into his car and saw Audet staring at them from the office window.

“Curious,” said Vanier, as he turned the ignition.

“What’s that, sir?” asked Laurent, buckling himself into the passenger seat.

“Marcel Audet, working in a homeless shelter. A man more at home kicking the life out of a bum than helping him into his pajamas. What’s he up to? ”

“Conversion is out of the question?”

“Conversion? Doesn’t happen with people like that. When he punched that guy, he was showing his authority, you know, like a schoolyard bully, one punch just to show who’s boss. He’s not changed. Only question is, what’s he up to?”

Vanier was lost in thought as they drove west along St. Antoine, parallel with the Ville Marie expressway, the unofficial border between rich and poor. North of the expressway were the offices and high-rises of downtown; south were the working-class neighbourhoods of the Point and St-Henri, whose proximity to downtown was making them vulnerable.

In most cities, the poor clung as close to downtown as they could, while the middle classes and the jobs moved to satellite towns along circling freeways that sucked the heart out of a city. But Montreal is an island, and the drift out of downtown wasn’t an easy option. Everyone wanted to live on the island to avoid nightmare commutes across the bridges. So, instead of retreating to the leafy suburbs and leaving the poor to reign over a hollow shell of an empty city, the rich have been fighting the poor in a street-by-street campaign for territory. Gentrification almost always wins, pushing the working poor out, or limiting them to the least accessible enclaves. The Ville Marie expressway used to be a natural barrier, a concrete river that repelled the condominium developers, but now the concrete river had been forded. Condominium projects in abandoned factories next to the canal served as beachheads from which developers launched drawn-out campaigns to take block after block of the surrounding neighbourhood. Working class communities that had thrived for generations in the shadow of downtown were being destroyed as condo developments raised rents and made the poor unwelcome in their own streets. Families scattered to find affordable places to live, always further away, and, inevitably, with less of a community than they had known before.

“Tell you what, Laurent. When you get a chance, get me a list of everyone who’s involved with Holy Land Shelter, employees, management. Don’t forget the Board of Directors. These places usually have a Board stacked with upstanding members of the community. Nolet said that Audet was brought in by the new Board. What’s going on? See who’s involved. As much as you can find out.”

Laurent was lost. “You think there may be a connection to the homeless deaths?”

“No. But it’s curious all the same. I’d love to know what Marcel Audet is doing serving the homeless. He’s a parasite. When he thinks of other people, it’s only to figure out how he can profit from them. He’s a thug, with just enough brains to be dangerous.”

3 PM

The Press Room was steaming hot from television lights and loud with the chatter of journalists. Wires littered the floor, threatening to topple the distracted. Sergeant Julie Laflamme was at the podium trying to impose calm in a tailored uniform that emphasized authority and curves in that order. Vanier stood behind her with his hands in his pockets, scanning the room and nodding with a half smile to reporters he recognized.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we can get started,” said Laflamme for the third time.

The noise level diminished slightly, and cameramen began to focus.

“I am Detective Sergeant Laflamme of the Communications Division. I propose to read a prepared statement first, and then I will take some questions.” She waited for five beats to allow a gap in the recordings, a gift to the news editors, and then she started.

“Between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, the bodies of five people were discovered in various parts of downtown Montreal, three men and two women. The victims were found at various locations. One, a male, in Cabot Park; a female in the entrance to a parking garage on Atwater; two victims, one male and one female, were found at different spots in the Berri-UQAM complex; and another male was found inside the McGill Metro station. Until we have notified their next of kin, we are not releasing the identity of any of the victims.

“We wish to stress at this point that we are treating these deaths as suspicious, but this is not officially a murder inquiry. We are keeping an open mind on every possibility. We are continuing to collect information and follow up on certain lines of inquiry. The investigation is being led by Detective Inspector Vanier of the Major Crimes Squad.” She waved her hand to indicate Vanier, who smiled for half a second.

“The Coroner is in the process of conducting autopsies on the victims to determine the causes of death. We expect to have one or two preliminary reports tomorrow.

“In the meantime, we ask that all requests for information be made through my office, and we promise to respond quickly. The Montreal Police Service is taking these incidents very seriously, and is sparing no resources in its efforts. Now, any questions?”

“Inspector Vanier. Were there any signs of violence on the bodies?”

“Let me answer that,” Laflamme responded, and Vanier looked bemused. “The investigation is still at a very preliminary stage, and we cannot discuss details concerning the deceased or of the various scenes at this point.”

“Inspector Vanier, were you at the crime scenes?”

If Laflamme was under pressure she didn’t show it.

“It is premature to refer to the places where the individuals were discovered as crime scenes. As we said earlier, we have no evidence yet to confirm or to discount a crime. We are treating the deaths only as suspicious. But we can confirm that Inspector Vanier has been working on this investigation from the beginning.”

“There have been suggestions that someone dressed as Santa Claus was seen with some of the victims. Can you confirm?”

“We are reviewing hours of closed circuit television footage to identify who, if anyone, may have had contact with the victims during the hours prior to their death. It does appear that a person dressed in a Santa Claus costume may have had contact with at least one of the deceased, but it would be premature to confirm any more than that.”

“Wouldn’t Santa have been very busy on Christmas Eve?”

The room erupted in laughter, and Laflamme put on her patient schoolmistress-dealing-with-hijinks face.

“Next.”

“Is there any connection between the victims? Did they know one another?”

“We believe that all of the victims were what you might call street people. They were homeless. While that might be a connection, we have not yet established if they knew each other.”

“Have there been any other suspicious deaths of homeless people in the last months?”

“We are looking into that. We have asked the Coroner’s office to provide us with a report of all the homeless deaths in the last three years. We want to know if there is anything unusual in the past that might have been missed. Last question.”

“Has the squad cancelled leave to deal with the investigation?”

“As I said, Inspector Vanier and his team have been working on this throughout the holidays. We do not expect the holiday period to interfere with our work. Thank you.” Laflamme picked up her notes and began to walk away from the podium, followed by Vanier.

“Inspector Vanier.” Laflamme looked back to see Vanier level with the microphone at the podium as the question was shouted. “How do you like your new handler?” Laughter again.

Vanier leaned into the microphone. This time his smile lasted longer. “No comment.”

6.15 PM

Vanier gunned the Volvo through light snow onto Highway 40 heading west. Laurent had told him that a major storm was on its way, thirty centimetres before dawn. It was already dark. The highway was deserted, and he pushed the button to let Tom Waits sing of Warm Beer and Cold Women, the wipers keeping time, snow flakes hitting the windshield hypnotically, and a box wrapped in Christmas paper on the seat beside him.

He followed the highway to Hudson, the horse-rearing capital of Quebec, fishtailed through the slippery exit, and, after fifteen minutes of slow driving, pulled into the empty visitor parking lot of the Lafarge Retirement Home.

He rang the bell, and Sister Veronique appeared in the opened doorway with a smile on her old face as though she was relieved to see someone from the living, and not another delivery of someone who would not be leaving.

“M. Vanier, how good to see you again. Come in, come in. What a night it is.”

He walked past her as she poked her head out to look at the storm. Closing the door with an exaggerated shiver she turned, extending both hands to Vanier.

“And a holy and happy Christmas to you, M. Vanier.” She smelled of lemon, pine, and wax.

“The same to you, Sister. I hope you’re keeping well.”

“I am, thank God. And who wouldn’t at this time of the year? Isn’t this a joyous time?”

“It is, Sister.”

“Every mother should have a son like you who would come out to see her on a night like this. She’s in the lounge. Let me take your coat and we can go in.”

She hung his coat in a closet.

Vanier eyed the expanse of deep red carpet and the shining wood beyond and bent down to remove his wet boots, leaving them to drip into the carpet while he followed her silently in stockinged feet.

As they entered the lounge, a sea of heads rose expectantly. No such luck, ladies, it’s only Luc Vanier, visiting his mother on the day after Christmas. Some looked away when they realized that it wasn’t son Marc or daughter Mary, or one of the grandchildren. Others still tried for eye contact. She was sitting alone in a straight-backed chair at the far end of the lounge. She hadn’t raised her head when he entered.

He pulled up an armchair and sat in front of her, staring into the blank eyes. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Mum.”

He dropped the Christmas package lightly into her lap. It could have been a grenade or a flower for all the reaction it got. He had had it wrapped in Place Ville Marie by volunteers collecting money for the Children’s Hospital. Since Marianne had left, he had every important present, and there weren’t many, wrapped by women who could wrap presents better than he could. It made no difference. The hands lay unmoving underneath the package. He reached over and turned each hand upwards so that they held the gift.

“So things are going great, Mum, really great. Elise is growing up so fast, it’s incredible. She’s becoming a real lady. She couldn’t come today. She has a thing at the church but she told me to give you a big hug from her. And to wish you a Merry Christmas. That’s what she said, merry, not just happy.”

Vanier stood up and leaned over to hug his mother. “That’s from Elise, Mum,” he whispered into her ear. She stared, unblinking.

“Marianne couldn’t come either. She sends her apologies. Had to be with Elise at the church too,” he lied, “and Alex sends his love.”

Vanier looked around. The room was quiet, as though the residents were waiting for the party to begin, like toys waiting for a child. Or maybe they were having the party when he arrived and stopped, unwilling to let him into their secret. Three women were looking at him, smiling.

“So we had a great Christmas, Mum. I wish you had been there. We had the whole thing. The turkey was the best in years, crisp golden brown skin and moist inside. The whole house smelled of roast turkey. Potatoes, mashed, sweet, and roast. You remember Mum, how much I love roast potatoes, don’t you? Especially the way you used to make them. And the stuffing Mum, nobody makes stuffing like yours, with the sage and onions, but Marianne’s came in a close second. She uses your recipe. We had Brussels sprouts, peas, green beans, and those carrots that you like in thin sticks. And then we had one of those old-fashioned Christmas puddings with holly on the top. I poured some brandy on it and set it on fire. What a feast. We had friends over to help us eat it all, and there’s still enough left over for a week.”

He reached across and took her hand. “Mum, I wish you could have been there. You should have seen us. What a time.”

He took the package from her hand. “Aren’t you going to open your present, Mum? Let me help.”

Vanier took the present and began to unwrap it. He opened the box and looked inside like it was a surprise. Reaching in, he took out a fur scarf and held it up. “What do you think, Mum? It’s made of fox, I think. It’s like one you used to have years ago, the one you were wearing in that photograph of you and Dad in Winnipeg. When was that? Could have been 1953, before my time. Let me help you put it on.”

He gently placed it around her neck, took her hand, and drew her fingers down its soft length a few times. He placed her hand back in her lap and sat down. He looked into her eyes and convinced himself that they had changed, softened a little.

“So, I’m still busy Mum. Always something new, always chasing after the bad guys. This time, we have a really bad sort. But we’ll get him, Mum. We’ll get him soon.”

Vanier sat there looking into her eyes. Eventually, he became aware of eyes on him and stood up to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“I have to go now Mum. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

He bent again and kissed her on her head, holding the kiss. Standing up, he looked around at several faces that had been watching, and mustered a broad grin. “And a very Merry Christmas to all of you.”

Most smiled back.

Vanier left, turning once at the door to the lounge to look back at his mother sitting motionless in her chair. Bye, Mum.

The drive back was difficult. The storm was in full force, and visibility was close to zero. He played Coleman Hawkins, and, as always with the Hawk, felt better, like a load was slowly lifting. Tom Waits to walk with you on the way down, the Hawk to bring you back up.