The Dead of Winter

SEVEN

DECEMBER 29

8.30 PM

Vanier and St. Jacques were sitting in a pew close to the back, waiting for Drouin to finish his eight o’clock Mass. When it ended, they followed him and two altar boys through the side door and into the sacristy. The boys bowed with the priest towards the crucifix on the wall and then went off-duty, dashing on either side of the two officers as though they were avoiding furniture, trying their best not to break into a sprint in their rush to get out of the room and back into their street clothes. Drouin stood in his mass regalia and tried a wan smile.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I’ve looked through your cards, Father.”

“My cards? They’re not my cards. I don’t own them. They are simply the prayers of the faithful.”

“Did you know that all five of the victims are named in your prayer cards?”

Drouin’s face lost what little colour it had, and he stared at Vanier, as though willing him to say more. Vanier looked back. Drouin turned to St. Jacques and saw he wouldn’t get anything better from her.

“I’d thought about that. I don’t remember all of the cards, there are so many. But I recalled praying for some of the victims.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“It didn’t seem important.” Drouin removed the stole, absentmindedly kissed its cross and hung it on a wooden valet.

“The prayers call for their release from suffering. Could that have been a message? Could someone have acted on it?” said Vanier.

“You think that someone in our group took it upon themselves to ensure that our prayers were answered? That can’t be true. It must be a coincidence, Inspector.”

The priest reached down and grabbed the hem of his white and gold chasuble, pulling it up over his head and draping it carefully over the valet. He turned back to them standing in his white alb, a symbol of purity.

“This is the Church. Human life, all human life, is sacred. You must know that, Inspector. It is inconceivable that any Catholic would do such a thing. Inconceivable.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence that your group has prayed for five people in the last few weeks and now they’re all dead? That’s some coincidence, Father.”

“Inspector, I don’t know what it is. All I know is that I cannot think of any connection between our prayer group and the kind of person who is capable of such an atrocity.”

“And if I told you that some prayers haven’t been answered yet? That we’re trying to track down five other people who’ve been singled out for divine intervention in your prayer sessions?”

Drouin was in the process of pulling the alb up over his head, revealing his civilian clothes beneath, but he stopped and stared at Vanier. His hands were shaking.

“Dear God. What’s going on? Tell me I can help.”

“You can help, Father. There’s nothing wrong with voicing your suspicions, no matter how far-fetched. In my job I see the far-fetched and ridiculous every day. How many newspaper stories have you read that start with, “The neighbours were surprised. He seemed such a nice family man”?

“What are you asking me to do? If there were anyone in our group I thought was capable of such acts, you would be the first to know. But there isn’t, Inspector. You’re asking me to imagine, to speculate, who might be capable of this. Well, I have no idea. But I will think hard about it, and I will pray for guidance.”

“While you’re doing that, why don’t you pray for the next victims?”

Drouin clutched the edge of the wooden countertop.

“Mary Gallagher. Know her? What about Denis Latulippe? Or Gaetan Paquin? Antonio Di Pasquale? Duane Thatcher? Know them? I have men looking for them right now. But I’ll bet someone else is trying to track them down as well. Pray that we get there first.”

The two officers couldn’t help but hear the intake of breath. Drouin sat down.

“Mr. Thatcher died in late November. He died of exposure one night in the entrance to the Simons department store on St. Catherine. And Antonio hasn’t been seen in months. People have been asking after him.”

“When in November?”

Drouin looked at the calendar on the wall. He got up and flipped it back a page. “November 20. I remember it was a horrible night. It was cold, not cold enough to freeze, but too cold to sleep outside. It had been raining, and the poor man was soaked, trying to sleep in a doorway. Everyone assumed he simply died of exposure. It’s more common than you think.”

“He may have been helped on the way. Father, anything you can think of that might be useful.”

“Inspector, I will go through all of the people that have attended the prayer services. If I can think of anything that might be helpful, I will call you.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

“Fifty, perhaps sixty.”

Vanier was surprised. “Do you have names, addresses?”

“No. This isn’t an organized group, nobody has to give their name. Some people show up every few weeks. Others are more regular. Please, Inspector, let me sit quietly and think about it. I’ll write a list of everyone I can think of and bring it to your office this afternoon.”

“That would be helpful.” Vanier reached into his pocket and pulled out two sheets. One was a photocopy of the prayer cards from the five victims on Christmas Eve. The other had the cards for the five remaining people. “Who wrote these?”

Drouin sat down with a sheet in each hand and scanned the cards. “Alain.”

Vanier could barely hear. ”Who?”

“Dr. Alain Grenier. They’re all signed by the initial A. I’ve noticed he does that. But he couldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps all he’s doing is giving directions. But you have no doubt that these, these prayers, were all written by Dr. Grenier?”

“He wrote these,” he said, handing the sheets back to Vanier.

“And you’ll bring the list over this morning?”

“I said this afternoon, but as soon as it’s done. I promise.”

Vanier handed him his card. “Just in case you lost the last one.”

He turned to leave, followed by St. Jacques.

Drouin sat down heavily on the wooden chair. Fifteen minutes later he was still there. He pulled up the hem of the alb, and reached into his pants pocket for his phone. Typing the first three letters of Grenier, the screen gave him a choice and he selected Call Home. It picked up immediately.

“Alain?”

“Father Henri, how good to hear from you. My best wishes to you for the season.”

“I’ve just had a visit from Inspector Vanier.”

“Yes. He came to see me on Christmas Day. A terrible business.”

“Alain, he says that the names of the victims were all on the Circle’s prayer cards.” There was silence on the other end of the line.

“He says that they were all on cards written by you, Alain. How can that be?”

“They were my patients, Father Henri, and they were all desperately ill. I don’t remember, but I could have asked for prayers for them. There was nothing else I could do for them but pray.”

“So there might be a connection. It’s not simply the Inspector’s imagination.”

“Father Henri, I’m not sure I would go that far. There’s nothing wrong in praying for those in desperate need. But that’s a long way from making a connection to murder. These people led very dangerous lives. If you ask me, it’s just coincidence.”

“The Inspector doesn’t seem to believe in coincidence, Alain. And, quite frankly, I find it hard as well. What if someone in our group took it upon themselves to kill them just to ease their suffering? Isn’t that our responsibility?” Drouin said, as though he were practising walking through the thoughts that were clouding his mind.

“I suppose it’s possible, anything’s possible, but it’s unlikely. Anyway, let the police do their work, and they’ll get to the bottom of this. Do what you can to help, but this is for the police. Let them do their work.”

“I suppose you’re right, Alain. But they said that there were five other names. One’s dead, one’s disappeared and the three others, who knows? What about them?”

“Do you know them?”

“I know one fairly well, Mary Gallagher, poor soul. The others I know vaguely. The Inspector gave me the names, but they’re not people that I’ve worked with. But it wouldn’t take me long to track them down. I didn’t tell him that. That’s strange, Alain. I should have told him I could help him to find them. But I didn’t.” Drouin fingered Vanier’s card.

“So why don’t you call the Inspector and tell him that you can help. If they’re in danger and you can help to locate them, let him know.”

“Yes, Alain. I’ll call the Inspector.”

Drouin clicked disconnect on his phone and started punching another name into his address book. Just one number showed up. He pushed the Call Mobile button.

It picked up on the fifth ring.

“John?”

10 AM

Vanier and St Jacques were in the car driving north to Outremont, St. Jacques was on the phone to Laurent, and Vanier was brooding. When she finished, she turned to Vanier.

“You’re very quiet,” she said.

“The usual woman’s opening. The all-time classic open question.”

“I just said, you’re very quiet. And it’s not a question.”

“You were on the phone.”

“Right.”

“What do you make of him?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Drouin, of course. You were thinking of someone else?”

“He’s strange, locked down. Like his inner life is running on speed, and real life is an accident. Make sense?”

“A little,” she said. “Think he’s a suspect?”

“He has to be, but I’m having trouble with the idea.”

Why?” She turned away to look out the passenger window.

“I don’t know. It’s not just the timing, although that should be enough. But he seems like he’s struggling with himself too much to take on murder. Like he’s carrying some personal burden that has all his attention. But he’s not telling us everything.”

“I doubt he’s telling anyone everything. But I get your point. He’s focused, but it’s inward.”

“So how do we get him to open up?”

“Good question. We turn left here.” St. Jacques was reading the street signs. They parked in the driveway, and St Jacques looked at the facade of the big house.

“Strange,” she said, as they walked up the steps to the front door. Vanier agreed. It was one of those houses that tried to make a statement but didn’t manage it, leaving you wondering about the architect, but not in a good way. It was a Frank Lloyd Wright imitation with all of the lines but none of the flow; concrete and glass without the poetry. She rang the doorbell, and a mouse of a woman in a blue nylon dressing gown and matching blue slippers answered the door, holding onto it for protection.

“Good morning, I’m Detective Inspector Vanier of the Montreal Police, and this is Detective Sergeant St. Jacques. Is Dr. Grenier home?”

She looked at Vanier as though he was speaking Farsi. She was saved by a voice from within asking who it was. She stepped back, opening the door wider to give a better view of the visitors, “It’s the police,” she said, almost an afterthought.

Dr. Grenier appeared behind her, clutching a newspaper. He put his free hand on her shoulders, and she moved out of the way.

“Thank you, Evelyn. I will see to our visitors.”

“Good morning, Doctor. I wonder if we can bother you with a few questions,” said Vanier.

“Certainly,” said Grenier, taking up a position in the doorway that said there would not be an invitation to come in.

“Can we come in?”

“Oh. Of course,” he said, backing away from the door. “If you would take your shoes off and leave them here.”

Vanier thought about keeping his on for show, but relented. St. Jacques was already shoeless. Grenier handed them each paper, disposable slippers, the kind they give out in dentists’ offices, and led them into a study that was as bare as his office.

He sat at the desk and beckoned them to sit down.

“I hope your investigation is progressing. It’s a terrible business.”

“Police business?” said Vanier. “It’s not so bad.”

Grenier looked him in the eye. “I meant the deaths of these poor souls.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re interested in Father Drouin’s Circle of Christ. You were an active member, I believe.”

“Well, that depends on how you define active, doesn’t it? But I suppose you could say I am a regular member. I participate as much as my work permits. I find prayer is good for the soul.”

“Don’t we all,” Vanier lied. “But what did you pray for?”

“I don’t see what this has to do…”

“Humour me, Doctor. What did you pray for?”

“Like everyone else, I prayed for the intentions that were expressed. They were varied, Inspector, success in school, family troubles. People used to bring …”

“What about your own prayers, Doctor? Did you ask the group to prayer for your wishes?”

“I filled out cards from time to time, like everyone else. That was the purpose of the group. And, yes, I asked the group to pray for the five individuals who died. You already know that.”

Vanier and St. Jacques exchanged a glance. Drouin had called Grenier after their visit. Vanier took an envelope out of his pocket and pulled out five prayer cards. Each was sitting inside its own plastic bag. He laid them face up in front of Dr. Grenier. “So you acknowledge that you filled out these cards?”

Grenier looked up, past the two officers. “No.”

St. Jacques turned to see Mme. Grenier reversing out of the room, a tray in her hand. She stood up and followed the woman.

“You didn’t write these cards, Doctor?” said Vanier.

“No. I mean, yes. I was confused. My wife was bringing coffee. They are the cards that I wrote for the prayer circle. Yes.”

Grenier looked at them, his hands palm down on the desk, not wanting to touch them.

“Do you see the names?”

“Of course I do. They’re the five victims from Christmas Eve,” he said, straining not to shout. “Of course I see them.”

“Do you think that your prayers have been answered?”

“What are you suggesting? That I prayed that they would be killed? Are you insane?”

”No, Doctor. I’m not insane. I see five cards begging St. Jude to deliver five people from their suffering, and I’ve got five corpses lying in cold drawers in the morgue. They’re not suffering any more. Haven’t your prayers been answered, Doctor?”

“I didn’t pray that they’d be killed. I prayed that they would be spared the suffering they were enduring. I didn’t pray for more suffering. Have my prayers been answered? Who knows?”

“Who knows?”

“Inspector. You can’t understand. You don’t know the pain that these people were enduring. You have no idea. You see someone pushing a supermarket trolley full of their possessions, and you think you understand.”

“So death is better?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

St Jacques walked back into the room with two mugs of coffee.

“You wife was coming in with a tray and turned around. Thought I’d salvage some coffee. We haven’t had breakfast.”

She put a mug of coffee before Vanier. He picked it up and leaned back.

“Sergeant, while you were away, Dr. Grenier admitted that he wrote the five prayer cards that name our victims, but he’s not sure if his prayers have been answered. Now, you were saying that I shouldn’t put words in your mouth, Doctor.”

“That’s right. Who are you to accuse me of being involved in this?”

“I’m not accusing…”

“I’ve spent thirty years bringing comfort to destitute people. I tended them, loved them. What I did, I did out of love, and with God’s blessing. You, Inspector, you might toss the occasional dollar in the direction of someone who holds his hand out in the street, but I live with these people every day.”

“What I was saying, Doctor-”

“Let me finish, Inspector. I’m not the one who decided to empty Quebec’s mental health institutions and force the sick and dysfunctional into the streets. I wasn’t the one who waved them goodbye and sent them off to fend for themselves with nothing but a bottle of pills. Blame the politicians, the liberals in the universities. Blame society. Those people who sit safe and warm in cozy houses, far away from the street, those who decided that the state shouldn’t pay to look after the sick and broken. They said, Put them into the community, and we can take better care of them there. Yes, a great idea. A great idea if we lived in a community of saints. But we don’t. We live in a community of isolated, self-absorbed individualists who don’t give a damn about their fellow man.”

Vanier and St. Jacques stared as Grenier continued as though a long-sealed tap had been opened. He was the one trying to ease the suffering caused by others, and it was an affront to think that he could do harm.

“We poured them out of the institutions like shit from a bucket to float away God knows where; but not into my neighbourhood. As soon as they stop in my street, or collect in my parks, well flush them away somewhere else. Make them move on. Sure, we buy virtue by writing cheques to charity, a cheque for little Angelica in some godforsaken hole in Africa, or Juan in a hovel in the Dominican Republic. And maybe we get a yearly photo of our good works that we can stick on the fridge and tell our friends about our adopted kids in the Third World. But we turn away from the sick, destitute, beaten and just damn poor that live right here. Every day, we cross the street assuming that a Samaritan will turn up to help the broken man lying on the ground.”

His eyes were getting cloudy.

“These are my people, Inspector. Praying for them, and asking others to pray for them, doesn’t make me a murderer. I cared for them.”

Vanier was taken aback. St. Jacques spoke up.

“Dr. Grenier, in the prayer cards, we found five other cards that we’d like to ask you about.”

Vanier took out the second envelope from his pocket and laid the last five cards on Grenier’s desk. Grenier looked at them.

“Oh my God.” He reached out his hand and touched one with his finger. “Duane Thatcher died in November.”

“We know that, Doctor.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Antonio Di Pasquale in, what, six to eight weeks.” He shifted his eyes to the third card. “Mary Gallagher, a lost soul in need of help, but what’s the point. She’s dying, like Denis Latulippe and Gaetan Paquin. They all know it. They know they are on their way out, and I think they accept it. Like it’s the natural trajectory of their lives. But don’t think for a moment that I wanted them to die. Nothing is more ridiculous. I put their names on these cards because, deep down, I want to have some grain of hope for them.”

“If four are still alive, where can we find them?”

“Inspector, these people are nomadic. They’re here one day and somewhere else the next. They might keep to regular haunts for weeks and then, a whim or a new friend might take them to a squat in St. Henri for a month. Try the missions, the shelters. That’s all I can say. And I’ll ask around. If they show up at my clinic, I’ll call you. Find them, Inspector. If they’re in danger, find them.”

“I intend to,” said Vanier. “But who else is looking for them? Any ideas?”

“You mean the prayer group?”

“That seems a reasonable conclusion. Maybe someone is doing some divine intervention of their own.”

“No, that couldn’t be. It’s impossible. The people in the group are all devout Catholics. They’re not murderers.”

“Why don’t we start with some names?”

“Names? It’s not a social club, Inspector. If I know anyone who attends, it’s because I know them from somewhere else.”

“We have to start somewhere. You give us some names, and we talk to them, and they give us some more. Eventually, we should have everyone in the group, and we’ll talk to them all.”

“Well, I can tell you the ones that I know.” He started with Father Drouin and excused himself. “Of course, you know Father Drouin already.” He continued with others; a few doctors, two lawyers, a businessman. The mayor of a small town on the West Island was an occasional participant. St. Jacques wrote them down, recognizing a few from occasional mentions on the news or in the newspapers.

“If you think of any others, you’ll call me or Sergeant St. Jacques.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement.

“Yes, of course, Inspector.”

1 PM

The dining hall of the Old Brewery Mission had been decorated for the holidays with grinning plastic Santas stuck to the walls, and ropes of red and gold tinsel that failed to hide the grim functionality of the room. The room was hot, the air thick with the smell of institutional food, and long mess-hall tables were lined with men and women waiting for a plate to be put in front of them, or slurping down food with the speed of the half-starved. Two cooks stood behind a counter filling plates with a thick stew and a roll of bread. Volunteers moved quickly between the serving counter and the tables.

Vanier and Laurent were sweating in their overcoats. Pools of melting snow were gathering around their boots. Robert Bertrand, the director of the mission, stood beside them surveying the room. “It won’t be long now. Serving is what takes the time. They don’t linger over the food. Probably ten minutes and you can talk to him.”

Every now and then, one of the patrons would look up furtively, trying to decide whether the obvious presence of cops involved them.

As the last plates of stew were placed on the tables, fruit salad was ladled from industrial-sized cans into small bowls, and the volunteers began the circuit again, removing the empty dinner plates and replacing them with the dessert.

“When you’ve been doing this as long as we have, you get efficient. Three hundred people a day on average, three hours of prep, and it’s all over in twenty minutes. Another hour to wash up and we begin the preparation for dinner. We never stop, Inspector!”

“I’m impressed, Mr. Bertrand. It’s quite the operation you have here,” said Vanier.

“Well, we couldn’t do it without help from an army of good people. We exist because of human kindness.”

Vanier watched the volunteers move with practiced efficiency. Every plate was served with a quick comment, a smile or a hand on a shoulder; food for the body and food for the soul. As they moved through the room, islands of laughter would erupt from the volunteers and the diners.

“Your people are having fun, Mr. Bertrand,” said Vanier.

“Compassion is good for the spirit, Inspector. Our volunteers enjoy themselves. If any of your men are feeling depressed, send them to us and we’ll have them fixed up in no time. Perhaps you’d like to try a shift yourself?”

Laurent smiled at the image of Vanier serving fruit salad to the homeless.

“Not me, Mr. Bertrand. But Laurent here might be just the man. He could do with a little exercise in the compassion department.”

“Well, gentlemen, anytime either of you want to try something new, you’re more than welcome. Just walk in off the street, and we will find something for you to do. I guarantee it will open your hearts. You won’t regret it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Vanier.

Lunch was ending. “Come along gentlemen. Let’s go meet Gaetan.”

Gaetan Paquin’s dinner companions had already left, and he was wiping greasy sauce from his lips with a serviette. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached,

“M. Paquin, do you mind if we sit down?” asked Vanier.

“I don’t own the table.”

Laurent and Vanier sat down opposite Paquin on the long bench.

“I’ll leave you to your business then,” said Bertrand and walked off towards the kitchen.

Paquin glared at the two men but couldn’t hold the eye contact. He looked down at the table, and then back to each of them. His hands were dark with dirt. On a farmer, it would have been testimony to honest work in the fields, but on Paquin it was just dirt. You could have grown vegetables in his fingernails.

“Police. Right?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want with me? I haven’t done nothing. Think I would be sitting here accepting charity if I had?” he said.

“We’re not here for anything that you’ve done,” said Vanier.

Paquin exploded in disconcerting laughter. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or relief. “Ha. What a joke? I haven’t done nothing. I’ve broken every single one of your fucking laws and I’m proud of it. So lock me up. Do me a favour, lock me up.”

“We’re here about those deaths on Christmas Eve,” said Vanier.

His demeanor changed. He was paying attention.

“That wasn’t right. I knew two of them. Good people. Just a little down on their luck, that’s all. They didn’t deserve to be killed.”

“You’re right. We are trying to find the person who did it,” said Vanier.

“So it’s true, they were killed? That’s the word on the street.”

“Yes, it’s true. And we have reason to believe that your life may also be in danger. Your name came up in the investigation and we think you may be in danger. We’re here to offer you protection for a while, until this gets resolved.”

“Me? Who the hell would want to kill me? I’m nobody.”

“Just like the others. There wasn’t much point in that, either. But they’re dead. We want to offer you protection. Just till we find out who did it.”

“The police offering me protection?” Again, the off-centre laugh that seemed like it could snap off into delirium at any moment. “You people have hounded me all my life. I’ve been fucked around by the police for as long as I can remember. It’s a joke, you offering me protection.” His voice was getting louder.

“I’m sorry for whatever other officers put you through,” said Vanier. “But believe me, we’re here to help you.”

Paquin’s mind was racing trying to process so much information. Life was usually simple, he took decisions on impulse with little thought for consequences. But this was different. “What kind of protection?” he whispered, looking first at Vanier and then to Laurent.

“We’ve arranged for you to stay in a small men’s shelter in the East End. You’ll be off the streets for a while. Warm bed at night, good food. Medical help. I understand that you have a condition.”

“I get help. I go to Dr. Grenier’s clinic when I’m sick. He knows me.”

“It’s temporary. We’re going to resolve this thing soon and then you can do whatever you want. We think you should be off the street for a few days. We can drive you there now if you want.”

Paquin wasn’t good at decisions. His mind was a jumble of fear and desperation. Shelters had rules and restrictions. The doors are locked at night. Get up now. Shower now. Eat this. Don’t drink… don’t drink. That was the clincher.

He looked at the officers. “I’m not afraid. I’ve survived 25 years on the streets.” His courage was returning as he talked. “I don’t need your fucking protection. I don’t need you. Go find your crazy and lock him up. But you’re not locking me up in no fucking shelter just because you can’t do your job.”

“Think about what you’re saying. We’re not locking you up. We’re offering you a chance. Take it, or at least give it a try,” said Vanier.

“No way. No fucking way. I can look after myself.” He was becoming agitated, looking beyond the officers to the door. “Am I under arrest? Because if not, I’m leaving,” he said, but not getting up from the table until they gave him a sign. He knew the rules.

“Here,’ said Vanier getting up. “Take my card. If you change your mind, call me. Call me. Anytime.”

Paquin took the card, stuffed it absent-mindedly into the pocket of his filthy coat, and stood up. Vanier reached into his pocket and took out two twenties. “If you won’t accept our help, take this. Maybe it will help.”

“Every little bit helps, Inspector,” said Paquin, already planning what to do with 40 dollars as he headed for the door.

2:00 PM

As they left the Old Brewery mission, St Jacques called with a possible location for Latulippe. In a few minutes they pulled into a diplomatic parking space outside the ICAO building on University Street. A panhandler was working the cars stopped at the lights, moving up and down the line of cars for as long as the red light lasted, then manoeuvering back to the sidewalk through slow traffic. He was showing a grimacing mouth full of filthy teeth to each driver while waving an extra-large McDonald’s paper cup and doing a weird, shuffling dance to music only he heard. His breath formed white clouds in the freezing air, but he seemed impervious to the cold. The light changed to green, and he snaked his way back to the sidewalk. He recognized them as cops immediately.

“Hey, I ain’t doing nothing wrong, just exchanging coins for songs.”

“Are you Denis Latulippe?” said Vanier.

“What of it?”

“Can we talk?”

He didn’t answer, just shook the cup under Vanier’s chin. There wasn’t much to shake. “Talk ain’t cheap,” he said.

Laurent got his attention by holding a five dollar bill over the cup.

“We’ve got a proposition for you,” said Vanier. Laurent dropped the bill into the cup.

“What might that be, officers?”

“We think you’re in danger. Your name came up in an investigation. Someone threatened to kill you. Do you have any idea who would want to kill you?”

“Kill me? They’d be doing me a favour, and no one done me a favour in a long time. Except for your friend here of course” he said, motioning to Laurent with a yellow-toothed grin, as he pulled the five dollars from the cup and pocketed it. “Who the hell would want to kill Denis? I’m everyone’s friend.”

He started his shuffling dance again.

“Think about it. You know anyone who would want to put you out of your misery? Maybe for your own good?” said Vanier.

Latulippe was taken aback, but seemed to be giving it serious thought. “Naw. Can’t think of anyone. You guys serious?”

“We are. And we think it’s serious enough to offer you some shelter. Think of it as a week’s holiday in the country. All expenses paid.”

Despite his bravado, Latulippe was taking it seriously. His thoughts telegraphed to his face like it was wired directly to the emotional centre of his brain; the worst poker face in the city.

“Wait a minute. Is this anything to do with those people who died on Christmas Eve? Is it about that?”

“Yes,” said Vanier. “Your name came up, and we thought it best to make sure that you were out of harm’s way. Look, I’m freezing out here, why don’t we talk in the car?”

“You’re not arresting me?”

“For what, selling songs? We’d have to go after Celine Dion too,” said Vanier. “Grab your bags, and we can talk in the car.”

Latulippe reached behind a column in the building entrance, grabbed a backpack and a large Holt Renfrew shopping bag, and followed them to the car. The engine started at the first turn of the key, and Vanier put the heat on full blast. He turned to look at Latulippe in the back seat, dwarfed next to Laurent and grinning like a circus clown. He quickly regretted pumping the heat. Sitting with Latulippe in any enclosed space would not have been pleasant, but with the heat going, the air quickly became as thick as the inside of a Port-A-Can on the last day of a NASCAR weekend in August. Laurent cracked his window down and pointed his nose into the cold breeze.

“Seriously,” said Vanier, trying to make sense of Latulippe’s insane smile. “What would you say to an all-expenses holiday in the Laurentians? A nice house just outside Morin Heights, or we can do a halfway house in the East End. Your choice. Three meals a day, TV, your own room. Just no booze or drugs. You can go outside to smoke. What do you think?”

Latulippe had lost his grin. “I can’t think! I need time. Look, I don’t understand. Who would want to kill me? Why me? You got a cigarette?”

Vanier raised his hand to indicate no. Latulippe looked at Laurent and got the same response.

“We could buy you a couple of packs on the way if you want,” said Laurent.

“Look, I don’t think I can dry out that quickly, you know. I need to work up to it. Not saying that I can’t go dry — I can. It’s just that I need some time, that’s all. You know, get into the right frame of mind. I can’t do it suddenly. These places of yours. Maybe one of them can change the rules for a few days, give me a chance to work up to it. Time to adjust, you know?”

“They’re firm on that one, Denis. No exceptions. No booze, no drugs — they have businesses to run, people who want to get dry. Their clients can smell an unopened bottle of wine at 50 yards, and they won’t bend the rules. I already asked.”

Vanier knew they were wasting their time. They weren’t offering protection, they were just telling him he was a marked man.

“Look, I have to think this over. Maybe I can just disappear for a few days. I know people. I have places to stay. I mean, who is this guy? Why me? Why the others?”

“We don’t know. But it won’t be long. Listen, give it a try for a day or two. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Latulippe didn’t answer that one. “No, I’m staying here. I can take care of myself. I can stay quiet.”

“Denis, we can’t force you to do anything, but this is serious.” Vanier saw that he had already lost him. “Tell you what, take a few days to get yourself organized. The offer is open whenever you’re ready. Take my card and Sergeant Laurent’s. Call either of us anytime and we’ll pick you up. And here, take this in the meantime.” Vanier handed him two twenties.

Latulippe looked at Laurent, as if willing him to chip in another twenty. Laurent kept his hands in his pockets. He looked at the two business cards in his hand as if reading them.

“What’s your name again?” he said, looking at Vanier.

“Detective Inspector Vanier. My number is on the card.”

“Well, thanks for the offer, but I gotta leave.”

With that, he was out of the car and walking up University Street with his bags. They watched him go.

“So what do we do? We can’t have someone follow him around,” said Laurent.

“No. And we can’t arrest him either. He has his own fucking problems, and they won’t let go of him. That’s why he’s on the street. You think we’re the first to offer him help?”

“I suppose not.” Laurent transferred into the front seat. “Christ, it’s cold out there. Where to now?”

“A surprise I’ve been planning.”

“Great. I love surprises.”

2.30 PM

Brossard is a small town on the south shore of the St. Lawrence where those who aren’t rich, poor or stubborn enough to live downtown can afford to raise a family and still be close enough to commute to the city. Because of the bridge, it’s an hour’s commute each way, built for the respectable people who work eight-to-four or nine-to-five, the people who keep the castle running but can’t sleep within its walls, the FedEx drivers, the sandwich shop owners, the elevator and escalator mechanics who keep everything greased and running, and the bank tellers who haven’t been swapped for more machines. In Brossard they raise families in desolate suburban plots where hundred-year-old trees were bulldozed out of the way to lower the cost of putting up the factory-built crap that passes for houses. In the oldest sections, the trees had grown back in orderly rows along the main streets, and with only slightly less order in backyards. In the newer developments, the only nature is trimmed grass and gardens bought from Home Depot. In winter, the landscape is bleak, and the wind blows the snow into great drifts against the only obstacles left: houses, pre-fabricated garden sheds, and above-ground swimming pools.

Detective Sergeants Roberge and Janvier were in a small house, sitting uncomfortably on a small sofa facing Mme. Adele Paradis, the Grande Dame of the classified advertisement department of the Journal de Montreal. She was sitting on a dark blue La-Z-Boy that clashed with everything else in the room, a fat grey cat was asleep in her lap. Two other cats were prowling around, unhappy with the visitors. Mme. Paradis was nursing a hangover and drinking coffee laced with gin in an attempt to pull herself together. She had been asleep when they arrived, and they had waited ten minutes on the doorstep, and another twenty while she made instant java in the kitchen.

“So, what can I do for you? Would you like biscuits? I don’t have visitors often.”

Sergeant Janvier reached into his bag and pulled out three photocopies. Each was a page from the St. Jude section of the classified ads in the Journal de Montreal. On each page, a specific ad had been circled.

“Mme. Paradis, we’re interested in the ads that have been circled. We went to the office, but they couldn’t tell us much. They confirmed that the ads were all paid for in cash at the counter and there was no address. The people at the office said that if anyone could give us more on who placed the ads, it was you. That’s why we’re here. Do you remember any of the people who placed the ads?”

Mme. Paradis took the papers with a shaking hand and began to look through them. She was suffering, but doing her best.

“It was the same person. He bought all of them, Pious John. Such a charming man. Always paid cash and didn’t want a receipt.”

“Pious John?”

“Well, that’s what he told me once. When I asked him he said: You can call me Pious John. So that’s what I called him.”

“You remember what he looks like?”

“Remember? Of course I do. He’s handsome, a little strange, but handsome. He has these piercing eyes and such a real smile. You know what I mean? Some people smile and you know they don’t mean it. When he smiles, you feel it. I like him. A real gentleman.”

“So why do you say strange? You said he was a little strange,” asked Janvier.

“I did, didn’t I? I suppose it was the way he dressed. He always wore this long black cassock. Like a priest, but not quite. At first I thought he was Orthodox. But then he wouldn’t be praying to St. Jude, would he?”

“I suppose not,” said Janvier.

“So I asked him straight out. I said, So, what order are you with?”

“And?”

“Not the Church of Rome. That’s what he said. It sounded so strange. Not the Church of Rome.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“I couldn’t forget his face. Those eyes, they were so expressive. I can picture them now.”

The officers watched as she seemed to lose track of the conversation. The little colour in her face drained, and she raised herself out of the La-Z-Boy with an effort, the cat waking up in mid-air and falling onto his paws as though he was used to it.

“Excuse me,” she said, rushing past the officers and disappearing again into the kitchen. They listened to her retching and the sound of vomit drop into the sink. By the rattling sound, there were dishes in the sink. She reappeared wiping her mouth with a dishcloth. Her face was as white as the landscape outside the window.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I’m going to have to lie down.”

“Could you come in to see us tomorrow, Mme. Paradis?” asked Roberge.

“I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow. But I haven’t been feeling well. So maybe I could call in sick. What time?”

“As early as you can make it.”

“So let’s say 10.30, shall we? No sense in fighting traffic, is there?”

“10.30 it is, Mme. Paradis. Are you sure you know where we are?”

She squinted at his card again. “Of course. I’ll be there at 10.30 and I will ask for either one of you. That’s right isn’t it?”

“Perfect.” The officers got up to leave, and she dropped back into the La-Z-Boy. The cat bounded back into her lap.

“And, Mme. Paradis, perhaps an early night tonight,” said Roberge. “We’ll need you in top form tomorrow. If you’re not feeling well, a good night’s sleep might be a good idea.”

She promised to be a good girl, and they found their own way out.

3.30 PM

Audet was agitated as he looked at the balding civil servant across from him. He was holding himself back with difficulty.

“Tell me again, M. Letarte, you’re from where?”

“The Ministere de l’emploi et de la solidarite sociale, you may know it better as the Welfare Services. And, as I said, we have the right to examine all of the books and records relating to the Shelter’s receipt of welfare cheques addressed to beneficiaries who have chosen the Shelter as their address to receive benefits. At last count, there were 437 people who received their welfare cheques through the Shelter. So it’s really quite simple. I would like to see the records that confirm receipt and distribution of the cheques.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“M. Audet, I don’t need a search warrant. It says right there in section 83 of the Act,” he said, pointing to the photocopy he had given Audet. Then he quoted from memory. “An Inspector — that’s me — can enter any place during office hours to examine and, if found, to remove to be examined at a later time, the books and records of any business or organization that has agreed to receive payments on behalf of beneficiaries under the Act.”

“Well, I don’t have access to these books and records. It’s Christmas. We’re on skeleton staff.”

“Then I would refer you to section 90 of the Act.”

Letarte pointed to section 90, which he had also photocopied. Audet stared at the sheet of paper and Letarte began to recite, “Anyone who fails to produce any books or records in accordance with a request pursuant to section 83 is guilty of an offence.”

“Wait a second,” said Audet. “You don’t have a search warrant, and I’m guilty of an offence if I don’t give stuff to you? What kind of a country is this?”

“It’s the law, Mr. Audet. Now, could you please show me the records relating to welfare cheques?”

“Go fuck yourself,” said Audet, rising from the chair. “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit. Listen, you want to look at papers, you do what everyone does, OK? You go see a fucking judge and get yourself a search warrant.”

Audet got to his feet, moved behind Letarte’s chair and pulled him up by the collar until the civil servant was standing on his toes.

“I should toss you out the fucking window, you asshole.”

“What are you doing? I protest. This is assault.”

“Fuck you.”

Holding his collar, Audet frog-marched Letarte out of the office and down the staircase to the front door. Letarte didn’t resist. It was all he could do to keep up with Audet and breathe at the same time. Audet pushed open the door with his left hand, and shoved Letarte violently out the door with his right hand, watching him hop, skip and jump down the three steps of the entrance trying to keep his balance before finally losing his footing on a sliver of ice and falling heavily into the snow piled up at the edge of the path.

“Fucking asshole,” Audet screamed after him before letting the door close.

Letarte got to his feet slowly and brushed snow off the front of his coat. He was still shaking when he got to the car parked at the corner.

“Why do you upset people like that?” Vanier asked as Letarte climbed into the back. Vanier could see the veins in Letarte’s neck pumping blood as he pulled the door closed, pushed the button to lock it, and put his hands between his knees to stop them shaking.

“You didn’t tell me he was a violent maniac,” he said finally, turning to Vanier. “I could have been killed. I am definitely putting in for overtime on this. Forget any more bloody favours, Inspector Vanier.”

Vanier was laughing. “Just imagine what it will be like when we come back, Claude.” He turned to the other passenger in the back seat. “So Maitre Giroux, can we get the affidavit finished before we get to Outremont?”

“It’s all done, Inspector, except for the play-by-play of what went on inside. M. Letarte, did you ask M. Audet for access to the books and records relating to social security cheques?”

“Damn right I did.”

Giroux began typing on his laptop.

Laurent had already pulled a U-turn and was heading to the home of Judge Antoinette Cardillo, duty Judge of the Superior Court of Montreal.

“And what was his response?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Now, Claude, that’s no way to talk to Maitre Giroux,” said Vanier.

“I was answering the question. Audet told me to go fuck myself. Oh yeah, he said that he should have thrown me out the window.”

“Great,” said Giroux, typing on his portable. “Then what?”

“He said that if I wanted to see the books I should go see a fucking judge and get a warrant.”

“His exact words?”

“Yes.”

“Marvelous.”

“Then he grabbed me and dragged me to the door and threw me out.”

“Wonderful. Here. Let me read this back to you.”

Giroux was drafting and correcting the affidavit while Laurent tried to break speed records. When they pulled up outside Judge Cardillo’s house in Outremont, Giroux was printing out the affidavit on a portable printer. Vanier took in the tasteful Christmas lights that festooned the house; tiny white lights strung around the trees nestled in fluffy snow. Giroux grabbed the papers and his shoulder bag and followed Vanier, Laurent and Letarte to the front door. The judge stood in the doorway in a white dressing gown, her blonde hair brushed back. They had called to say they were coming, and Vanier wondered why she wasn’t dressed. She waited while they took off their boots and then led them into an office on the ground floor.

“Gentlemen, this better be good, I have 12 people coming to dinner at 7 p.m., and I need to get ready. It’s the holiday season, you know.”

Vanier watched black-suited catering staff hustling around behind the judge carrying glasses, bowls and cutlery into the dining room. She wouldn’t be peeling potatoes tonight.

Giroux presented himself and introduced the two officers and Letarte. Vanier recognized her but didn’t say anything. He had appeared as a witness before her about two years before. She hadn’t believed him when he said the defendant’s statement had been voluntary, and she let the rapist go. Two months later he was picked up again, this time for rape and murder. After a longer trial before a different judge, he was put away for life, without parole eligibility for twenty years. In a fit of anger fuelled by too much whiskey, Vanier had sent Cardillo a copy of the judgment, in a plain envelope, and just in case she had forgotten, he included a copy of her own judgment. It made him feel better.

“We’re here to request a search warrant, Madame Justice. Here is the affidavit, and here is the warrant we are asking you to authorize.”

She took the papers and began reading the affidavit and the terms of the warrant. She looked up at M. Letarte. “You’re the affiant?”

“What?”

“Are you the person who swore the affidavit?”

“Yes, in the car, before Maitre Giroux, on the way over here.”

“And it’s all true?”

“Yes, Madame. It’s the truth.”

“You’ve had an interesting afternoon.”

“I suppose that you might call it that, yes.”

“Why are you conducting these inquiries over the holidays. Why are things so urgent?”

Letarte was lost. He knew that he couldn’t say that he was doing it because Vanier asked him, and that he owed Vanier a favour. “I had a call, Madame, suggesting that certain officials at the Holy Land Shelter were defrauding welfare beneficiaries of their allowances. It’s my duty to investigate.”

“If I could interrupt, Madame,” said Vanier.

“I wondered when you might speak up, Inspector,” she said, looking at him coldly.

“We consider that the allegations are very important, and if we don’t act immediately, important evidence will be lost.”

“Inspector Vanier. Didn’t I see you on the television yesterday, hiding behind a Press Officer?”

“Well, if you saw me, I couldn’t have been hiding very well.”

She glared.

“Is this request related in any way to your investigation of the homeless deaths on Christmas Eve? You know that we frown on using pretexts to collect evidence.”

“Madame, we have no reason at this time to make any connection between any fraud at the Shelter and the deaths on Christmas Eve. Except, of course, that in both cases, homeless people are being treated very badly.”

She got his point. She had more to lose by refusing to authorize the warrant than by granting it. The homeless had become a news item, and she didn’t want to be seen assisting in their exploitation.

“Very well, Inspector. Here is your warrant,” she said, signing three copies and pushing them across the table. “Go make your search.”

The men stood, wanting to be gone.

“Don’t stand on formalities. Why don’t you just turn and run. You have work to do, I suppose.”

“Thank you, Madame Justice,” said Giroux.

Vanier was on the phone to his good friend Leroux, a Detective Inspector in the Fraud Squad, before they were in the car. “We’re ready to roll. Get the gang down there, and we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

They made it in fifteen. Vanier recognized the two unmarked cars and a black van by their occupants, ten officers in all, all of them itching to get out. He got out of the car and gestured to the others to follow. It was fifty minutes since Letarte had been thrown out into the snow, close to a world record for a search warrant. Vanier entered the building and waved the search warrant at the camera with a broad grin before leading six officers and Letarte down the hallway. Giroux tagged along just for the fun of it. Four officers stayed outside to watch the exits. Audet was sitting at his computer and looked up, open-mouthed, as they burst into the room. He started to type quickly, Vanier was already behind him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him over the chair and away from the keyboard. The chair fell, and Audet hung in mid-air until Vanier released his grip, letting him fall to the floor on his back. Audet knew better than to fight back, storing the anger.

“Fuck,” was all he could say.

“I did as you said, M. Audet. I went and got a warrant,” said Letarte with newfound courage. Vanier handed a copy of the warrant to Audet.

“Wait. Don’t touch anything. I want to call my lawyers. Don’t touch anything till I speak to the lawyers.” Audet was losing his authority, and he knew it, as he watched officers rooting through the filing cabinets.

“That’s not how it works,” said Vanier. “Call your lawyers, but we’re carrying on. Search warrant, remember? Now, where’s M. Nolet?”

“How the fuck do I know? Go find him yourself.”

“Why don’t we go find him together?” Vanier grabbed Audet and walked him to the door. “We won’t be long, gentlemen. Carry on.”

“Wait, before he goes,” asked Sergeant Filion, the computer geek. “Any passwords I should know about?”

“Fuck you,” said Audet. “Want me to spell that for you?”

“Oh, that’s OK. I love a challenge.”

Vanier pushed Audet out the door in front of him and walked him down the hallway and through the doors leading to the stairwell. It was deserted, and Audet went to climb the staircase. Vanier pulled him back and swung him against the wall, following with a punch to his gut. Audet doubled over, his knees buckling. Before he could think of reacting, Vanier pulled him up and landed another. Audet went down on his knees. Vanier pulled him up again and delivered a third punch to the gut. Audet fell back down on his knees, gasping for breath.

“OK, that should do it. Now, M. Audet, where is M. Nolet?”

“Dining room. Supervising the scumbags. It’s suppertime.”

“Right, let’s go back to the office and you can sit down.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“You can do that back in the office. Might be safer there.”

In the office, boxes were being packed with file folders, and the computer was being disconnected. Everything that was being removed was logged on to a sheet.

“Janvier, could you have someone get M. Nolet. He’s in the dining room.”

While he was waiting, Vanier began to go through Audet’s pockets. “Maitre Giroux, does the warrant cover things found on the premises?”

“Yes Inspector, it says, any other things found on the premises that might provide evidence relating to the receipt of funds from the Ministere de l’emploi et de la solidarite sociale.”

“And is a telephone a thing?” he said, holding up Audet’s phone.

“Yeah, that’s a thing.”

“And what are these?” asked Vanier, holding up two USB sticks that he found on Audet.

“Those things are data sticks. Used to store data,” said Filion. “Those are definitely things.”

Audet looked defeated. Nolet appeared, looking frightened.

“What’s all this about? We’re a homeless shelter. What in God’s name are you doing?”

“M. Nolet, good to see you again. Just routine work supporting the Ministere de l’emploi et de la solidarite sociale. I believe it’s a simple audit of the books. Things got a bit out of hand because of your M. Audet here, but they’re under control now. We’ll be taking M. Audet off your hands for a while. Seems he assaulted M. Letarte. But you can go on with your work. We should be finished in a few hours, and then we’ll be out of here. Oh, by the way, do you have a cell phone?”

“Yes,” said Nolet, fishing it out of his pocket. “Why?”

“Seized,” said Vanier, pocketing the phone.

Nolet looked from Vanier to Audet, who continued to look at his shoes.

Laurent called for a squad car to take Audet to the nearest station, with instructions to book him for assault. Given the holidays, Vanier hoped he wouldn’t get a bail hearing for a couple of days. The seized documents and computers were to be sent to the offices of M. Letarte, with a promise that they would be copied and sent to Leroux’s squad. Vanier had given the data sticks to Sergeant Filion and had pocketed Nolet’s and Audet’s cell phones. He looked at Laurent, “So I can leave you to close up once they’ve finished.”

“Of course, sir.”

With that, Vanier shook hands through the crowd of officers, thanked Leroux for the favour, and left.

9.30 PM

The office cleaners had finished for the night at Henderson and Associates, and Beaudoin had worked late often enough to know that Henderson never came back to the office after nine o’clock. Even so, he was nervous, and the sweat was staining his shirt. He could feel his heart beating as he sat in front of the computer on Henderson’s desk scrolling through files. He decided that the safest and quickest thing to do was to copy everything that was even slightly relevant to the Holy Land Shelter on to the data stick. He could go through it all later. He did a search for all the emails between Vladimir Markov and Henderson, and copied them. He was surprised there were so many. He then turned to Henderson’s files on the Shelter. Most of them he recognized as his own memos and draft documents, but he copied them anyway.

While he was scanning through the files, he came across one marked, “Overseas Billings” and copied everything in it. After an hour, he pulled the data stick out of the computer and began shutting down the computer. As he pressed the “Shut Down” command, he heard the electronic ping that announced the front door to the office opening. He pocketed the data stick and picked up the December issue of Canadian Bar Association Journal on Henderson’s desk. The cover article was on electronic discovery. He almost crashed into Henderson as he left his office, and Henderson’s face creased into its habitual broad smile, an unnatural curving of the lips without any sign of joy.

“Pascal. Working late I see. What were you looking for in my office?”

“Just this article on electronic discovery. I knew that we had received it, and it wasn’t in the library. I figured it might be sitting on your desk. Don’t mind if I borrow it for a while, do you?”

“Not at all, Pascal.”

Beaudoin walked quickly back to his office, cradling the data stick in his fist and hoping the computer had shut down.

Henderson scanned his desk for signs that things had been disturbed. Even though the desktop looked like a disorganized litter of files, loose paper and magazines, he knew its contours and could find anything in seconds. It didn’t seem to have been disturbed. But when he sat down, he reached under the desk and touched the computer. It was warm to the touch. He picked up the phone and dialed. He let it ring five times before it picked up.

“Vladimir, it’s Gordon. I’ve been thinking. We need to move forward with the transaction.”

10.30 PM

The small room was lit by two flickering candles that cast their light upwards to a crucifix holding the tortured body of Christ in eternal pain. A figure knelt before the crucifix at a wooden prayer desk, his head bowed into his hands, rosary beads entwined around his thick fingers.

“Dear Lord, I have sought to do only your bidding. With your grace and love, I have done what you have asked of me. I have helped your chosen ones join you in eternal life. I have joined with you in this sacred task. But it is difficult, Lord. I’m weak and need your help. My faith falters, and I need your hand to reach out and touch me. I’m afraid and I need your strength. Restore my soul. Strengthen my conviction. Help me overcome these human frailties and proceed with your work. Lord, I know you have called me. Please understand that I am not rejecting that calling. Just give me the strength that I need.

“You were right. They did not suffer. They left all suffering behind as they joined you in paradise. And they are blessed. How I long for my own time to be with you, to be united with you in your eternal love. As your chosen disciple here on earth, this should be a joyous time for me, but I’m filled with fear and doubt.

“Give me the gift of faith. Give me a sign. Even you, my Lord, even you in your darkest moments asked for help. Remember, in the Garden of Gethsemane, as you waited for the Romans to come to bring you to your death, you asked your Father: if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as Thou wilt. Dear Lord, it was God’s will that you drink deeply from that cup of human suffering, that you sacrifice yourself for us. But your Father did not desert you: and there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. Lord, you who were once a man. You who walked this earth as a man know how weak I am. I am only a man and I am nothing without you. So I beseech you, my Lord and Saviour, help me to be strong.

“There are more, Lord, and I am testing them to see if they are ready. But there are also obstacles to our mission. There are those who would stop me. If your mission is sacred, how far must I go to protect its fulfillment? I need your guidance.”