The Dead of Winter

FIVE

DECEMBER 27

7 AM

The early morning sun reflected red and gold off downtown buildings, promising a cold day under a cloudless sky. Sunlight was flooding into Vanier’s apartment, and he was feeling good. After watching the sunrise over the river, he had taken a long shower and dressed in a clean suit and ironed shirt. He sat on the couch, his face bathed in the light of the rising sun, and closed his eyes. There was no alcohol fuzziness and no fatigue from sleeping on the couch. Christmas was over.

He focused on his breathing, belly out for the inward breath, in for the outward breath, and relaxed. Thoughts bubbled up from the depths, and he acknowledged them as he had been taught, and let them continue their upward journey out of consciousness. After five minutes, there were no more thoughts, just steady breathing, awareness and a sense of wellbeing. He let twenty minutes roll into thirty, like a child refusing to come out of the pool in summer, and finally surfaced with an unconscious smile on his face.

He got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen, cut chunks from a block of extra-old cheddar, and put an English muffin in the toaster. The kettle boiled, and he made a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the table eating and looking at downtown through the picture window. The phone rang.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Luc,” said Dr. Anjili Segal.

“Anjili. How are you?” said Vanier, happy that he didn’t sound like he had been drinking all night.

“I’m well Luc. So, you survived Christmas?

“It was wonderful,” he lied. “And you?”

“The same, Luc. But I’ll be glad to get back to work. I’m booked for the fourth and fifth autopsies of your Christmas Eve victims. If you want to be there, I am starting at 11.30 on the first. Probably three o’clock on the other one.”

“I’ll be there, Anjili. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“You don’t have to be facetious, Luc. I just thought you would be interested in attending.”

“Anjili, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll be there. I may even bring a guest.”

“I’ll see you then, Luc,” she said and hung up.

9 AM

St. Jacques put the phone down as Vanier walked into the Squad Room. She didn’t look happy.

“The Santa suits are a dead end, sir. We checked the rental stores on the Island without any luck. There are only four stores that rent them out, but there’s any number of other places that sell them. Even Wal-Mart sells them. Of the four rental places, only two rented suits with fur trim on the bottom of the pants. Apparently, it’s a premium item, and our Santa had fur on the hem of his pants. Only eight of those suits were still out on Christmas Eve. It seems that the big trade in rentals is for parties before Christmas, not for the night itself. Anyway, all but eight of them were returned before Christmas Eve.”

“Have we tracked them down?” asked Vanier.

“Seven were accounted for, and both the owners and their suits were far away from downtown on Christmas Eve. The eighth was rented by a Tony Martino, who was at home Christmas Eve, but he left the suit in his office. He was supposed to have returned it on December 23 but didn’t. He was nervous during the interview with the uniforms. He said he left the suit in the office after the Christmas party because there was a stain on it and he wanted to wash it out before giving it back.”

“He couldn’t bring it home for the wife to wash, I suppose?” said Vanier.

“Exactly, sir. Human frailty,” said St. Jacques. “The stain seems to have been semen, his own, the result of an encounter with one his staff that got out of hand, so to speak. Kind of like the Lewinsky dress. He wanted to clean it up before he brought it back, but didn’t have time, so he left it in the office. He told the officers where he left it, and that’s where it was when Martino brought the officers to the office. Martino says that nobody could have got into the office after it closed, and he was with his family on Christmas Eve.”

Vanier sighed. “So no easy trail to Santa. The perfect disguise at Christmas. Everyone sees it but there’s nothing special about it.”

St. Jacques continued her summary. “Two ticket sellers at the metro remember seeing Santa entering. He used tickets to clear the turnstiles, so we can’t check monthly pass information. Only one of them remembers seeing him leave. He said he was moving quickly and not looking around him. But there was nothing to distinguish him from any other Santa. From the camera images, we know he didn’t use the metro to go from one station to the next. He entered and left each station he visited. From the timing of his appearances, he didn’t have time to walk or take a bus either. We checked the taxi companies, and none of the drivers remembers picking up any Santa. He wouldn’t have been riding a bike in that weather. So that leaves a car. He must have driven from station to station. From the camera images, Santa was six foot two and, from the way he walked and filled out the suit, he was in good shape. Hard to tell an age, but probably under forty.”

“OK, St. Jacques. Keep looking at the films. What else do we have?”

D.S. Roberge spoke. “Dr. Grenier’s alibi checks out. I spoke to his wife, and he was home Christmas Eve. As for Drouin’s return to the Cathedral, I spoke to Monsignor Forlini, he was the senior priest at Midnight Mass. He wasn’t sure of the exact time when he first saw Drouin, but said that it could have been between 10.45 and 11.15 p.m. He said that Drouin was rushing to get into his vestments, and Mass started at 11.35.”

“And what was the last sighting of Santa?”

“10.30, sir, at the Berri Metro. I had them go back and confirm,” said St. Jacques.

“That’s tight, but possible. If he had a car he could get back to the Cathedral by eleven easy. But Drouin said he left his car at the Cathedral.”

“He could be lying,” said Laurent.

“Would be lying if it were him. Did we check out parking tickets in the area?”

“I’ll do it,” said Roberge.

Vanier noticed Laurent shuffling papers, getting ready to speak. “Laurent, we can talk about the Holy Land Shelter in the car. We have an opening to go to.”

A tired joke. Laurent sighed. “You drive or me?”

“I’ll drive,” said Vanier. “Give me a few minutes.” He turned to the group. “Everyone have something to do?”

Heads nodded, and Vanier picked up the phone.

11 AM

The drive to the Coroner’s building was easy. Most people were still on vacation, and the only serious traffic was caused by giant trucks loaded with snow going to the dump or returning empty for their next load. Vanier drove fast, speeding up through yellow lights and anticipating the greens.

“So what’s the story at the Holy Land Shelter?” asked Vanier.

“Well, up to last March, Father Drouin was on the Board.” Laurent was leafing through his notebook. “Then there was a huge turnover in March, seven new members on a ten-member Board. That means seven resigned or were kicked out. That has to be pretty disruptive for the organization. I’ve started to get the stories on the ones who resigned first. I figured, if there was a problem, the outgoing members would be more inclined to talk.”

“Who can we talk to besides Drouin?”

“I’m running through the names, trying to figure out how to get in touch with them. A likely one is Pascal Beaudoin. I found a listing for Pascal Beaudoin as the Secretary of the Board for the last four years. And I found a lawyer downtown called Pascal Beaudoin with Henderson amp; Associates.”

“How do you know it’s the same Pascal Beaudoin?”

“The new Secretary is a certain Gordon Henderson, the same name as the main guy in Henderson amp; Associates. I figure it’s not a coincidence.”

“So why don’t you call this Beaudoin and see if we can go to see him after the autopsies.”

Laurent got on the phone and had an appointment confirmed with Beaudoin by the time they were pulling into the parking lot. The Coroner’s building sat on rue Parthenais in the East End, in a poor residential neighbourhood. A typical 1960s government building, unimpressive in form, style, and functionality, someone’s idea of building up the local economy by dumping a government building in the middle of a depressed area.

The autopsy viewing room was a small, utilitarian space designed to allow students to watch and learn; wooden benches and a large picture window overlooked the business area. On December 27, the students had found better things to do, and the detectives were alone.

Vanier and Laurent settled in and looked down on a theatre of three ribbed stainless steel tables. The naked body of an emaciated woman lay on one of the tables, dwarfed by its size. The table had been raised at one end to allow blood and other fluids to drain down into a collecting bottle. Vanier guessed it was Edith Latendresse from the Berri Metro, with her empty breasts nothing more than flaps of skin draped over a protruding ribcage. More bones than flesh, the skeleton wrapped in skin was a stark contrast to the plump cocoons of blankets he had seen on Christmas Eve. She had looked full then, bundled in layers against the cold.

Laurent perked up as Anjili Segal entered the room below them. Her dark hair was held tight by a headset that supported a microphone in front of her mouth, and her surgical uniform couldn’t hide the curves of a woman in good shape. She looked up to the viewing gallery and caught Vanier’s eye. They smiled at each other. Then, for Laurent and the transcript, she said, “Inspector Vanier, how good to see you, and you, too, Sergeant Laurent. A very Merry Christmas to you both. I was just getting ready to begin. So glad you could come.”

“Always a pleasure, Dr. Segal. Any word on the others? Anything unusual?”

Segal seemed to deflate as she thought about her response.

“Inspector, I did not perform the earlier autopsies, but I’ve looked at the initial reports. The first three victims were very sick, probably terminal. If it hadn’t been Christmas Eve, it could have been tonight, or next week, who knows? My colleague guessed at three months, maximum, for each of them. But you never know. A guess is a guess. Maybe with care one or two of could have lasted longer. But out on the streets, nature takes over, and nature hates frailty. These were all the walking dead.”

“Is there a cause of death?” asked Vanier, forcing himself to look away from Segal and stare at the body on the table. Naked is how we arrive and leave, naked and alone. Protocol demanded nothing be done to the body before the autopsy, and the grime of the street was obvious, even from a distance.

Segal picked up a clipboard and began reading from the reports: “The first, a male of about 63, had a stomach tumour as big as a full term baby. The second male was about 60 years old. Both his lungs were locked solid with emphysema. It does not say why, but it’s probably from smoking the discarded butts of more affluent smokers. The last, a female of about 50, had a liver that was close to non-functioning. Probably an alcoholic, drinking too much cheap wine from the depanneur for too long. Her blood alcohol level was elevated. For some reason, I don’t expect much different from Madame Sans-nom,” Segal said, gesturing to the naked cadaver on the table.

“She’s no longer nameless, Dr. Segal” said Vanier. “Her name is Edith Latendresse.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” She wrote the name on her clipboard and returned to reviewing the notes from the earlier autopsies. “From what I can see, my colleagues will probably conclude that death was from natural causes, Inspector. As if all this is natural.” She looked up at her guests. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m getting carried away. Perhaps it’s the season.”

“No excuses. This isn’t natural, Doctor,” said Vanier, meeting her eye. “It’s an affront. Let’s do them a service. If they did happen to die by the so-called grace of God on Christmas Eve, at least give them the best damn reports we can, write a few pages of details for them.”

“What are you asking for, Inspector?”

“The star treatment. Pretend it’s the Mayor or one of his buddies who turned up stiff. All the tests your people can think of. Every detail. It’s all we have. If we’re all letting this happen every day, at least we can record the details,” said Vanier.

“We will do our best, Inspector.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am sure that Madame Latendresse would thank you too,” he said nodding in the direction of Edith Latendresse.

“That’s something, isn’t it?”

“What?” asked Vanier.

“It’s something to have a name.”

“That’s all she has now.”

Dr. Segal turned to the emaciated body and began talking into the headpiece, bending over to inspect the body. After a fifteen-minute tour of the outer shell, always talking into the microphone, she reached for a surgical knife. Soon she would need sturdier cutting tools. Her first slice was clean, from just below the throat all the way down to the pubis. Vanier was getting squeamish when she sliced and pulled at the skin to expose Mme. Latendresse’s organs. He looked to the floor as she picked up the electrical tool and began to cut through bone. There was no reason for him to be here. Everyone knew it. But Vanier still kept coming. Three or four times a year he would sit through an autopsy and force himself to watch bodies being taken apart.

2.30 PM

The offices of Henderson amp; Associates were located in a tired high rise on University Street, reasonably well situated downtown but well past anything resembling its prime. Vanier and Laurent went up to the fifteenth floor and followed the arrow to an incongruous set of mahogany doors with gold handles that contrasted with the industrial carpet and painted gyprock of the hallway. Inside the heavy doors their feet sank into thick carpet in front of a fortysomething receptionist who was winning the war against age. She was wearing a headset and working a console like a D.J.

“Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Vanier, leaning towards her and getting lost in the faintest hint of perfume. “We’re here to see Maitre Beaudoin.”

She held her finger up and smiled at Vanier, pointing to the phone.

“Yes, and who can I say is calling?” She pushed some buttons and said, “Madame Delorme for you, sir.” She listened for a few seconds, pushed another button and said, “I’m sorry, Madame Delorme, Mr. Henderson is in a meeting at the moment, may I take a message?”

Vanier stood at the desk, imposing his bulk. She was used to the difficulties of the double duty and she held up her finger again, giving him another heartbreaker of a smile.

“Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

Vanier took a step back and then walked around the receptionist’s desk to the hallway leading to the offices. The impact was immediate. She took off her headphones and dashed after him, taking his elbow delicately and walking him back to the reception area like they were both looking for the dance floor. Vanier was enjoying it.

“I am so sorry, Mr…?”

“Detective Inspector Vanier.”

“I am so sorry, M. Vanier. Sometimes it gets so busy that I completely forget my manners. I’m Julie. Please excuse me.” She led him back to reception, holding his elbow.

“Not at all,” said Vanier, thinking that he could forgive her a lot under the right circumstances. “This is Detective Sergeant Laurent. We’re here to see Maitre Beaudoin. He’s expecting us.”

“Of course he is. He asked me to seat you in the main boardroom,” she said, still holding his elbow, like he might try to escape again. Laurent followed them through the glass doors of the boardroom, its tall windows providing a perfect view of the building next door. “Some coffee?”

“Wonderful,” said Vanier.

“Please take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the long, dappled green marble table. The room was decorated in an Oriental style with a large Chinese gong on one side table and several Chinese vases on another. The floor was polished hardwood, with a Persian carpet under the table. The walls were clear glass.

Julie returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a full pot of coffee, cream, sugar, china coffee mugs, and a plate of biscuits.

“Please, gentlemen, help yourselves, and call me if you need anything. Maitre Beaudoin should be here in a few moments.”

Vanier watched her leave, as Laurent poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Vanier. Vanier sat with his back to the window, facing out of the boardroom through the glass wall. Laurent was at the end of the table, which would make it impossible for Beaudoin to find a spot where he could look at both of them at the same time. They saw him approach and break into a smile even before he was through the door.

“Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake Vanier’s hand and then Laurent’s. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I’m always glad to help Montreal’s finest. Now, what can I do for you?”

Beaudoin exuded the good humour of a welcoming host, and wariness only broke through in the shortest of flashes. His short frame was carrying too much weight, and he sat down. They exchanged cards.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Holy Land Shelter,” said Vanier.

“The Holy Land Shelter? That’s police business?”

“We’re investigating the deaths on Christmas Eve and trying to understand the lives of the homeless. We’re just looking for background. You were heavily involved in the Shelter’s Board, and we thought you could give us some insight.”

“Well, yes, I was involved with the Shelter, but it was mostly legal and administrative work. I’m not really an expert on the homeless. All I know is that it’s a tough life.”

“You’d be surprised what can help in an investigation like this.”

“I suppose.”

“For instance, so much of the work is done by volunteers. What brings people in? What makes people leave? We’ve heard that there were big changes last year at the Shelter. I understand that most of the Board resigned. Why was that?

“Well, I can’t speak for the others but for myself, I was tired. Simple as that. Five years is a long time, and I needed a rest. And the Board needed fresh blood. There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“I didn’t say there was a problem. We’re just interested in understanding how these places work. Just a little curious, that’s all.”

Beaudoin looked down at the business cards. “Chief Inspector, you must be a busy man, and these latest murders must be taking up a lot of your time. Are you working on those, Inspector, or are you just interested in the Shelter?”

“Maitre Beaudoin, I have the best job in the world. When something interests me I can look into it. Luckily, not everything interests me, so I have time to do my job. Right now, I am simply trying to understand what it means to be homeless in Montreal. How they live, where they go, who they have dealings with. So the Shelter is a good place to start, isn’t it? After all, it takes in, what, 300 people a night?”

“The Shelter does great work, Inspector. It fills a desperate need. I enjoyed my time there. You have no idea what kind of a feeling that gives you. It’s rare, especially in this business. I didn’t do hands-on work with the homeless, but I think what I did was helpful. In a lot of ways I miss it.”

“So why quit?”

“Like I said, five years is a long time. I needed a rest. And they probably needed a rest from me.”

“What about Father Drouin? Did he need a rest too?”

“Ah, Father Drouin. A great guy, a great human being. He could be difficult, but it’s because he’s so shy. It took me over a year to get to know him properly, but when you do, you can’t help but love him.”

“He got tired too?”

“Perhaps. Yes. He was tired too.” Beaudoin’s answers were slowing down, like he was trying to guess where Vanier was going. “It’s not easy you know, it can take a lot out of you. And he had other things to do. He’s very busy for a priest. He’s involved in a lot of things.”

“In all, seven of the ten members of the Board from last year are no longer there. That quite a turnover isn’t it? It must be difficult for the organization to survive that sort of …turmoil?”

Beaudoin looked uncomfortable, but before he could answer, the conference room door opened, and a tall gaunt man walked in. He was dressed to announce his importance, peacock style. He looked straight at Beaudoin, ignoring the policemen.

“Pascal, I heard that you were having a meeting with some policemen. I thought you might need some back-up,” he said with a humourless chuckle, then turned to the two officers, with a broad smile that stopped well below his eyes. “Gentlemen, I am so pleased to welcome you to my offices. I am Maitre Gordon Henderson,” he said, emphasizing the honorific title for Quebec lawyers.

Vanier and Laurent introduced themselves, and they exchanged cards with Henderson.

“What is it we can do for you? Are you selling tickets for the annual ball?”

“The annual ball is a thing of the past, but if it is ever revived, I’ll put you down for a table, shall I?”

“Absolutely.”

“We were here to speak to Maitre Beaudoin about his work with the Holy Land Shelter.”

“Well, there are no secrets in this office. We supported Pascal’s efforts to help the needy. He has a big heart. But you know how it is Inspector, business comes first. After five years, it was time for him to direct his efforts elsewhere. We live in a very competitive world, and there are limits to how much time can be wasted. We are all slaves to the billable hour; the clients are more demanding by the day.”

Beaudoin looked down at the table, scratching notes on a yellow pad.

“And talking of the almighty billable hour, Inspector, it would be more efficient if you would write down your questions to Pascal and send them to us. We would be happy to provide you with answers to any questions you might have. But right now, I need Pascal on a call to Japan that I promised would begin in five minutes,” said Henderson, looking at his watch.

Vanier took the cue, hoping he could come back some day with a good reason to question Henderson. He’d been thrown out of bars with more subtlety. The two policemen stood up and exchanged handshakes with the lawyers. Beaudoin left them at reception, but Henderson waited to see them leave. Vanier cast a goodbye smile at the receptionist, who gave him one of her own and a small wave.

“Fucking bastard,” said Vanier as the elevator doors closed.

3.45 PM

When the door closed on the departing policemen, Gordon Henderson walked into Beaudoin’s office.

“Pascal, why didn’t you tell me that you were meeting with police inspectors? I don’t like having to find out things like that from Julie.”

“Well, Mr. Henderson, they just called this morning and asked if I would have time to give him some background on the Holy Land Shelter for their investigation. They’re the ones on the Christmas Eve deaths. I didn’t think anything of it, they just wanted background information.”

“Just background information? Pascal, you know that the Shelter is a very sensitive file. We can’t go around discussing it with just anyone, and particularly not with policemen. We have a duty to our client. I really am disappointed, Pascal.”

Beaudoin swallowed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have spoken to you first. It’s just … well, you’re right.”

“Just see that it doesn’t happen again. Now, where are you on the Blanchard letter? I need to send that out first thing tomorrow morning. Is it ready?”

“Almost, Mr. Henderson. Almost,” Beaudoin said. He hadn’t even started it. “It will be on your desk before you arrive in the morning,” he added, ruining not only his evening, but a good part of the night.

“Wonderful. I’ll leave you to it then,” Henderson said, and left.

Beaudoin pulled a file from the pile on his desk and began to focus on the problems of M. Blanchard, who wanted to double the size of his Westmount house over the objection of his neighbours and the city council. He began typing into the computer, drafting objections to the reasonable arguments of the city and the neighbours that the plans ignored the by-laws and the character of the neighborhood, and would be a palatial monument to bad taste. He would get to the threats against the individuals and the council later; it was always better to close with the threats. At 7.30 p.m., he stopped writing, picked up the phone and punched numbers.

“Hello?” a young voice, a girl.

“Hey, Chickadee!”

“Papa,” she squealed. “Where are you? Maman made shepherd’s pie, your favourite.”

“I’m still at the office, my love. I have to work late. Can you pass me Maman?”

“Maman,” she yelled into the phone. There was silence. Then she said, “Maman says if you’re going to be late, you can heat up your supper in the microwave. Are you going to be here before I go to bed? I can wait for you.”

“No, my love. It’s going to be late. Tell you what, though, I’ll see you in the morning. Tell Maman and David good night from me, and give them both a big kiss and a hug. I love you, Chickadee.”

“Me too, Papa. But I gotta go. Dinner’s on the table. Bye.”

He heard the click of disconnection and put the phone back in the receiver. He turned back to M. Blanchard’s problem, which was quickly becoming Westmount’s problem.

5 PM

From where he sat, Vanier could see the back of D.S. Fletcher’s head. Fletcher had just returned to work and was catching up. Vanier had spent the last hour reading interview reports and watching Fletcher. Eventually, Fletcher pushed his chair back and rose from his desk, stretching. “Anyone want coffee?”

“Sure,” said Vanier, fishing for change. “Regular Colombian, milk, no sugar.”

Fletcher took the coins and three other orders and left. His jacket was still on the chair, and Vanier was on his feet immediately, walking towards the wall that held the maps, photos and notes of the investigation. As he passed Fletcher’s desk, he bent slightly and pulled Fletcher’s cell phone from his jacket pocket. Back at his desk he quickly scribbled the numbers in the call log since Christmas Eve, along with the times and duration. He looked up from time to time and scanned the room, but if anyone had noticed, they were not saying anything. When the list was done, he wandered back towards the photo wall and slipped the phone back into Fletcher’s pocket. He was studying the wall when Fletcher returned with the coffee.

“So what do you think, sir?” said Fletcher, handing him the coffee.

“Thanks. Don’t know what to think. Maybe we’re wasting our time.”

“We won’t know till we get the cause of death, I suppose.”

Fletcher went back to his desk. An hour later, he went to the bathroom, and Vanier approached St. Jacques and handed her a paper.

“I have a job that needs discretion.”

She looked at the list.

“I want all these numbers identified, but don’t do the checking from here, and don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.”

She couldn’t help glancing at Fletcher’s desk.

“Yes, sir. When do you need this?”

“Soon as you can, Sergeant.”

11 PM

Vanier was wandering fitfully around his apartment, picking things up and putting them away, keeping busy. An unopened bottle of Jameson was calling to him, and he was doing his best to resist. It was late, and he wasn’t tired, but sleep would be the only way to quiet the bottle. The phone rang.

“Luc?”

“Anjili. What’s new?”

“Bad news. The five victims from Christmas Eve all died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.”

“Are you sure?”

“Normally toxicology can take weeks of tests, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are just too many variables. But we decided to test directly for potassium cyanide. All the victims were flushed.”

“Flushed?”

“Pink looking. First, we put it down to alcohol, but one of the doctors reported smelling almonds, which is typical with potassium cyanide poisoning. So we got one of the bottles from your people and tested the residue. It showed positive for potassium cyanide, along with rum and eggnog. Then we did blood tests and found significant concentrations in each of them. Luc, each of them had ingested enough to kill a horse. These people were poisoned, Luc.”

“Shit. What exactly is potassium cyanide?”

“It’s the same poison that Jim Jones used for the mass suicide of his followers. Remember Georgetown?”

“That was a cult, right?”

“Yes, it was a cult. He killed himself and 600 of his followers with potassium cyanide dissolved in Kool-Aid. Apparently, Kool-Aid hides the taste. It’s a gruesome death. It kills by inhibiting aerobic respiration. The blood cells can’t absorb oxygen and all of the body’s organs become oxygen deprived — it’s like smothering someone, cutting off their air supply. The victim goes into a coma in minutes, and then suffers cardiac arrest. We’re writing up the reports now, Luc, but I thought you would want the news early. You have a murderer out there, and you need to find him.”

“How much of the stuff do you need to kill someone?”

“It doesn’t take much, less than a gram will do it for a normal adult, and it’s very soluble in water.”

“So they all drank poison?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“How do you get this stuff? Can you buy it in the pharmacy?”

“No. But it’s a common industrial chemical. It’s not rare, it has several industrial uses, and plating jewelry is a big one. There are probably dozens of businesses in Montreal that keep stocks of it.”

“That’s nice to know. Isn’t it controlled? Isn’t there a central list of everyone who keeps the stuff?”

“I had someone check. Seems that there are rules for how you have to deal with it in workplaces, health and safety rules, that sort of thing. But there’s no central registry.”

Vanier was thinking, first start with the Canadian manufacturers, then the importers, then onto the distributors and end-users. “It sounds like a big job, tracking it down.”

“Isn’t that what you guys do best?”

“Yeah, if I had unlimited resources. This could take days. Anjili, listen, I have to go. Thanks for this. I’ll be talking to you. Can you fax the preliminary findings over?”

“First thing in the morning. Luc, you have to find this person.”

“I know Anjili. I’m working on it. Thanks,” he said, as he hung up the phone.

He remembered Santa Claus handing Edith Latendresse a gift and then bending down to kiss the old woman on the head. Santa Claus as executioner. That was a new one, even for Vanier. He checked the time, it was probably well past Bedard’s bedtime. He smiled as he punched the Chief’s number on his cell phone.

“Huh?”

“Chief Inspector? It’s Vanier here.”

“Inspector Vanier, do you know what time it is?”

“Yes, sir. But you said that you wanted to be kept informed of developments. We have confirmation that it’s murder. All of the victims were poisoned. Potassium cyanide. Apparently, it’s the same stuff that Jim Jones used.”

“Who?”

“Jim Jones, sir. Remember the mass suicide in Guyana?”

The Chief Inspector was awake. “What? Jesus, he killed hundreds, didn’t he? You’re telling me that we have a lunatic loose poisoning people?”

“Looks like that, sir.”

“I have to talk to communications. We have to manage this properly. Christ, a mass murderer, that’s all I need.”

“Sir, you said that I could go off budget, get more people. Well, I think that we need to ramp this up. Apparently, there’s lots of potassium cyanide lying around. If we need to track it down, I’m going to need resources.”

“Luc, you need overtime and extra people. I’ll give you the overtime; I’ll see what I can do about the extra people. I have to make some calls. How do we know this?”

“I just had a call from Dr. Segal.”

“OK, so it’s reliable. Let’s keep this quiet until we can talk to communications. Jesus, this could set the city into a panic. Do you have any leads yet? Do we have a suspect?” He was pleading.

“Not yet, sir. No suspects. But we’re following up some ideas. Sir, I need more people.”

“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get back to you on that. Listen, thanks for calling. Keep me informed.”

The line cut before Vanier could answer. “Yes, sir,” he said to a dead line.