The Dead of Winter

EIGHT

DECEMBER 30

11 AM

Vladimir Markov was sitting alone in a booth in a nondescript cafe on Notre Dame staring at the door and talking on his cell phone. Romanenko was sitting at the counter behind him nursing a coffee. The waitress and cook, the only staff in the place, were taking advantage of the holiday quiet and the absence of the owner by drinking surreptitious shots of cognac in the kitchen.

“Yeah, OK. You did great to get the shit out on bail. What do you want me to say? I’m paying you enough that I don’t have to say thanks. And, frankly, Audet can rot in prison for all I care. But I want this whole thing closed down, you hear me?” said Markov. Then he listened, keeping his eye on the door.

“Whatever. I don’t give a shit about excuses. I just want this problem to go away as fast as possible. Do whatever you have to do. If Audet has to plead guilty, that’s his problem. If that’s what it takes, he’ll plead guilty. Gotta go. Just get it done.” Markov clicked the phone off and watched the door as Marcel Audet walked in, all attitude, like he owned the place. He walked over to Markov’s booth and eased himself in.

Audet was smiling. “Hey, thanks for the lawyer, Mr. M. He got me out this morning on a promise to keep the peace.”

Markov didn’t respond. The waitress walked over and opened a notepad, pen in hand.

“Get you something?”

“You have a menu?” asked Audet

“He’ll have a coffee. He’s not staying,” said Markov.

The waitress left and came back with a pot of coffee, a cup and a saucer. She poured the coffee, pulled two creamers out of the pocket of her nylon one-piece, and dropped them on the table.

Markov waited for her to leave and said, “I told you. I wanted things kept quiet.”

“Listen, Mr. M. I haven’t done anything to mess things up.”

“Loan sharking? Money laundering? The way I hear it, you’ve been running a fucking bank down there.”

“So, I helped some people out, that’s all. Nothing criminal. I didn’t even make much money out of it.”

“People connected to me gave you the job. And that means I’m connected to you and your fucking schemes. I got a visit from some fucking cop yesterday afternoon who already made the connection.”

“Look, like I said, it’s not a big deal. I helped people out, that’s all.”

“You’re in trouble, asshole. And that means I have to waste my time thinking about problems you’ve created.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll all blow over. It’s just that the police are all over the place with these murders. They’re jumping on everyone.”

“That’s what I mean. You think our deal can go through when everyone and their mother are worrying about the fucking homeless? And now the police connect you and me.”

“Well, I can see that it creates problems. But what can I do? I’m here to help you, Mr. Markov. You know that.”

“First, your private banking scheme is over. Whatever money you took, you give back. And get receipts. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Markov.” Audet was beginning to sweat.

“Second, who the fuck is the sick bastard killing these people? I want you to find out, and get to him before the police do. If the police find him, this story stays in the papers for the next two years while he goes to trial, and every bloody politician and friend of the poor will be wringing their hands over the plight of the homeless. I don’t want the homeless in the newspapers for the next two years. We need to shut him down.”

“Well, I suppose I can ask around.”

“Listen asshole. You’re the one slumming around with these scumbags. Someone must know him. Get rid of this guy, and the press will move on in two weeks. Soon as you deal with him, things will settle down. Not before. You need to do your civic duty with this maniac. Do you understand?”

Audet looked into Markov’s eyes and understood perfectly.

“Yes.”

Markov looked over his shoulder. Romanenko appeared at the table and dropped his hand heavily on Audet’s shoulders.

“So, the chat’s over, Mr. Markov?” said Romanenko.

“Yeah, it’s over,” said Markov.

“And Mr. Audet is leaving?” he said, pulling Audet to a standing position in the booth.

“Yeah, he’s leaving.”

Audet struggled out of the booth with Romanenko’s hand still gripping his shoulder.

“I understand, Mr. Markov. I understand.”

“Good, now, get the fuck out of here. And listen. I can’t take any more fuck-ups. You’re on very thin ice, my friend.”

11.30 AM

In the still of the empty Cathedral, Fr. Henri Drouin sat on a straight-backed chair in St. Jude’s Crypt, his rosary beads swinging almost imperceptibly as he fingered each prayer marker. It was one of his favourite times: after morning services but before the lunchtime show. In the old days people would always be dropping in for quiet prayers, but it hardly ever happened these days. Drouin sensed a presence in the stillness before he heard the shuffling feet. He turned to see a man approaching in a long black winter coat. Snow was still visible on his shoulders and hair, and Drouin smiled gently.

“John, thank you for coming.”

The man approached the chair and stood over Drouin.

“I was worried, Father Henri. You sounded concerned.”

John was so close that Drouin had to lean back in the chair and tilt his head back to look up at the looming figure.

“I am concerned. Did you hear about the deaths on Christmas Eve?”

“I did, Father. It’s shocking. But they have gone to their Lord. Isn’t that a good thing? Perhaps this answers our prayers. Didn’t we pray for their deliverance from pain and suffering?”

“We prayed for these people, John. But not for their death. Murder cannot be God’s answer to our prayers. Do you know anything about this?”

“Who are we to question how the Lord answers our prayers? Who are we to question His works?”

“I’m not questioning His works. The Lord didn’t kill these people, John. Tell me the truth, do you know anything about this?” His eyes pleaded.

The man smiled.

“No, Henri. I know nothing. I am as shocked as you are. But why do you think it was anything but God’s work, calling his servants home after desperate suffering? That’s how I would like to remember them. That in their last hours, the Lord took an interest in them and called them to his arms.”

“I don’t know, John. I just have a bad feeling.”

“Father Henri, the police will do what they have to do, and we will see that our friends simply passed on peacefully to a better place. To their reward.”

“Perhaps you’re right, John.”

“I am right, Father. It was inevitable they would die soon. It saddens me that they left, but it’s my loss that I mourn, not theirs. They are all much happier now. Remember the struggles of Joe Yeoman. Isn’t he better off? And Mary Gallagher, how much more was she going to be forced to endure?”

“Mary Gallagher?” Drouin, blurted, immediately wishing he could take the words back. John said nothing, but both men knew. Drouin tried to rise but John didn’t budge, he was still standing over him, and Drouin was forced to remain seated.

The tension was broken when John smiled. “Father, while I am here, could you hear my confession?” He stepped back and allowed Drouin to rise from the chair, the rosary beads still hanging from his hands.

“Of course, John.”

They walked together to a confessional box that looked like three wooden phone booths against the wall. The central one was for the priest with a small grille on each side linking into the other two. One penitent would kneel and whisper his confession through the grille, while the other penitent waited for the wooden slat to open the grille when the priest was ready. Drouin hesitated, he didn’t want to hear a confession because he knew too much already. He entered the centre box and sat down heavily, taking comfort in the familiar, polished wood smell, leaning forward to pull the door closed. The door stuck, then swung back open, and John entered the priest’s box. He had put on latex gloves. He grabbed Drouin by the neck and pushed his knee into the priest’s chest to hold him in place.

“John, what…?”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“John….”

John tightened his grip on Drouin’s throat and cut off the words. Using his free hand, he pulled a plastic bottle from the inside pocket of his winter coat and inserted the pointed end between the priest’s lips, forcing liquid into his mouth. He let go of the priest’s neck and clapped his hand over his mouth and nose. Drouin stared up in terror, his mouth full of liquid and his lungs pleading for air. John withdrew the bottle and put it in his pocket. He reached behind the priest’s neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, forcing Drouin to look up at the wooden ceiling of the box. Drouin’s mouth opened slightly, and the liquid flowed down his throat. He gasped like someone drowning, but the hand on his mouth stifled even a cough. Again the bottle, and again his mouth filled with liquid. The knee on his chest was pushing forcefully. In seconds, the liquid had flowed down his throat, and he was drowning again. He couldn’t get enough air. Another mouthful, and he looked into John’s eyes, pleading. John stared back, and Drouin realized it was hopeless and began to pray in his mind, giving himself up to his creator.

“Father Henri. It’s God’s work. Even this. You should not have interfered.”

Before leaving the box, John checked for a pulse, and then placed the bottle into Drouin’s hand, the same hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the handrail inside the confessional. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his pocket and left the box, closing the door behind him. Leaving the Cathedral, he dipped his hand into the holy water in the font by the front door and blessed himself.

NOON

Vanier was sitting across the table from Mme. Paradis and the sketch artist. Mme. Paradis’s eyes were sparkling incongruously from within a tired face and a slouching body. She was enjoying her big day, but her body would have preferred to be lying down somewhere quiet.

“Now, Mme. Paradis, take a good look at the sketch and take your time. Tell me if you think that it’s a good image of the man you say placed the ads in the Journal de Montreal. The man who signed himself Pious John.”

She studied the sketch for a few moments, squinting her eyes.

“That’s him. That’s him perfectly,” she said. “You’re very good, M. Beaucage,” she said, giving him a practiced smile.

“Thank you Madame, but I am only as good as the witness’s memory.”

“Are you sure, Madame? Are you confident that this is a good likeness?” asked Vanier.

“Positive,” she said, turning back to Beaucage with another smile.

Vanier hated eyewitness identification, and he hated sketched likenesses even more. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. When six people inside a bank couldn’t come up with the same number of men carrying guns, how could you expect them to get the eye colour or even the height correct? But it was easy, and too many cops went along with it. He knew it had put thousands of innocents in jails and helped as many guilty go free. And if eyewitness identification wasn’t bad enough, an artist’s rendition of what the witness thought they remembered was even worse. A bad sketch, and they were all bad sketches, was a-get-out-of-jail-free card when it didn’t look anything like the accused.

Vanier turned to the artist, “M. Beaucage, could you get some 8? by 11 copies, maybe twenty, made up as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, Inspector. There’s a machine on the fifth floor that I’ve used before. I can do it immediately.”

Beaucage took his sketch and left Vanier and Mme. Paradis together.

“So, Mme. Paradis, tell me about Pious John.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

Mme. Paradis played with her empty coffee cup, but Vanier didn’t take the hint. “Well, as I said to the other officers, he was a special sort. He would come in, take a number, and wait for his turn, sitting in that long black cassock like he was just like everyone else. Yet he stood out, like a film star. And when he sat in front of you, I’ve never seen eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour, lots of people have brown eyes, but they looked into you like they knew your soul. I see all kinds of people every day, but he was different. There was deepness about him, a sad look in his eyes, like he knew so much more than the rest of us. And when he talked to you, it was like you were the only person in the world. Like that song from the seventies, “and read each thought aloud.”

“Killing me softly.”

“What?”

“The song, Roberta Flack, Killing Me Softly With His Love.”

“Oh, yes. You’re right.”

“How long had he been placing ads?”

“I think he started a few months ago. It would be easy to tell because all the forms were signed by Pious John. He always paid cash and never wanted a receipt. And, you know, I never saw him smile. And not that he looked sad, just peaceful. Like he knew there was nothing to be happy about and was OK with that. It’s often like that with the St. Judes. But he was different somehow.”

“The St. Judes?”

“The people who place ads thanking St. Jude. Usually they’re embarrassed, and they want you to understand that they’re only doing their duty. With him it was serious. It was like he was proud. As though he was making a statement. I always try to have a laugh, you know, to make the clients feel at ease. But him, he never laughed, but he was always at ease. Like he was keeping score and winning. Confident, he was, that’s the word, confident.”

“You told the officers that the last time you saw him was December 28, right?”

“Yes. It didn’t take long. There was hardly anyone waiting. He placed the ad for the next day.”

“And before that?”

“There were only two times. Always the day before the ad appeared.”

Vanier looked at the two ads that had been circled on the photocopies. “So that would be December 16 and November 12?”

“Yes. The day before the ads appeared.”

Vanier had already sent someone to collect the original requests. Pious John would have signed each one.

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“Never. He was all business. Polite, patient, but he never told me anything about the story behind the ads. He just wanted the ads placed and to pay.”

“You’ve been a great help to us. After M. Beaucage returns, we’ll have you sign off on the likeness, and then have someone drive you home.”

“This has been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has, Mme. Paradis, thank you. So take the rest of the day off.” Vanier got to his feet and left to find Beaucage.

2 PM

The chatter in the war room died down as Vanier walked in and moved to the front of the room. The Chief had come through and found warm bodies to run down all possibilities, but it hadn’t done any good. Officers had visited 26 businesses that handled potassium cyanide and had come up with nothing. Still, Vanier was happy to have the bodies.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re six days out, and we need to make some progress. We have a lunatic out there who thinks he has a direct line to God, and now we have a sketch of the bastard.” Vanier held up the image, as Janvier started passing out copies.

“We have a face and a name: Pious John. Likely not his real name.” There was a round of subdued laughter. “No last name and no address. Today, we’re going to every shelter and drop-in centre in town and every street person we can find. I want others to go back to the companies that store potassium cyanide. Show the sketch around and see if anyone recognizes him. Maybe he worked at one of the companies, maybe he’s a customer. I want to find John the Bastard and quickly. He killed five people on Christmas Eve, and he probably started earlier than that. We have a maximum of 24 hours to find him before the sketch goes to the media, and I want him in custody first. We know he’s close to the homeless, maybe close to the church as well. Details, that’s what’s important. Remember, nothing is insignificant. When you’re talking to people, listen and think. So let’s go find this shit. Laurent and Roberge will coordinate. Any questions?”

There were no questions.

4 PM

The squelch of Vanier’s wet boots on the stone floor echoed off the walls of the Cathedral as he made his way up a side aisle towards a clot of people milling around the confessional box. He had stayed out of churches for over two decades and was amazed at how deeply familiar it all still seemed. Janvier advanced to meet him.

“It’s Father Drouin, Chief. They found him an hour ago. He’s dead. Sitting in the confessional booth. Dr. Segal is looking at the body. There was an envelope, we bagged it but it looks like a suicide note, and a confession.”

Segal emerged from the confessional box and caught Vanier’s eye. “He’s been dead for a few hours. No obvious signs of violence, but I want to do a full autopsy. We’ll get the body out of here in a few minutes, and your people can take over. They’ve already taken photos. And there’s this,” she said, holding up an empty plastic bottle with a small amount of liquid at the bottom. Looks and smells like orange juice. We’ll test it.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Any ideas?”

“As I said, no obvious signs of violence, and an envelope that I am told contains a suicide note. Maybe he drank his own Kool-Aid.”

“Maybe. When can you do an autopsy?”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ll call with the results.”

Vanier sat down on a bench, running his hand through his hair and staring into the open booth where Drouin was slouched. Maybe Drouin was the killer. And maybe it was a suicide. But if it wasn’t, it would be a convenient way for the killer to get away, providing he stopped killing. If he were smart, he’d stop and walk away, or wait a year or two before starting again.

Vanier walked over to one of the CS Officers.

“Who has the envelope?”

“It’s in the bag, sir.”

“Well, get it, and let me see.”

The officer came back with the envelope in a zip-lock bag and reached for it with his gloved hand. It was in a Cathedral envelope, complete with the coat of arms of Mother Church over the address. The officer pulled the letter from the envelope and held it up for Vanier to read:

December 30

What I did, I did in the name on Our Lord and Saviour. What I did, I did to bring peace to poor souls that have known no peace for too long. I crossed the boundary of man’s law to do God’s work, and I do not regret that. But I realize the consequences. You do not understand, you cannot fathom the joy that comes from being an instrument of His divine mercy.

Perhaps if I had been more thoughtful, I could have released more unfortunates from this hell, but I made mistakes. It will not serve the Lord for me to be condemned as a common criminal, for His work to be sullied by my mistakes. So I am ending it here and going to my eternal rest in joy.

Henri Drouin

“Jesus,” Vanier mumbled to himself.

Janvier had been reading over Vanier’s shoulder. “It sounds convincing.”

“It gives us a motive. And it ties in with St. Jude. But it’s typed, and where’s Pious John?” Drouin doesn’t look anything like the sketch.”

“So what do you think, sir?”

“I don’t know. This is too easy. Let’s nail it down. Check the times again. Get the last appearance of Santa on the closed circuit cameras in the Metro and get the time of Drouin’s appearance back in the Cathedral. I want to know for certain if he had time to get back here. And if he didn’t have time, then he’s not our guy, he’s another victim and John is covering his tracks. This isn’t some end-of-the-road homeless destitute who was on his way out anyway. This wasn’t about putting anyone out of their misery.”

“Yes, sir.”

Janvier opened his cell phone and began making calls.

7 PM

Twenty officers, armed with the sketch of Pious John, were trolling homeless shelters, drop-in centres, and hiding places under highways and in back alleys. Others were accosting the faithful outside the Cathedral, mixed in with the panhandlers hoping to turn Catholic guilt into coins. The rest were calling on the owners of companies that stored potassium cyanide. Vanier was in the war room pretending to be busy and waiting. He wanted desperately to find Pious John, and all he could do was wait and hope that the sketch wasn’t picked up by the media. If it was, they would be inundated with useless calls, and John would disappear.

The phone rang. He recognized Bedard’s number and thought of ignoring it again, but answering one in five calls from the boss was a good ratio.

“Yes, sir.”

“Inspector Vanier, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you?”

“In the Squad Room, first floor.”

“My office. Now.”

The phone clicked off, and Vanier took the stairs up.

The Chief was sitting watching the door, probably counting how many seconds it took Vanier to mount the stairs. Vanier took a seat.

“So explain to me, we have a written confession from a suspect, but you still have close to 30 officers scouring the city looking for some guy who placed ads thanking St. Jude? Does that make sense, Luc?”

Vanier tried not to stare at the sweat that had accumulated in the fat jiggling over the Chief Inspector’s collar.

“I don’t think the priest killed himself, sir. I think he was murdered, like the others. It’s premature to name Drouin as the culprit. We don’t know that, we’d be guessing. I think we should wait.”

“Do you have any idea the pressure that I’m under? And the journalists are ahead of us at every step. What if the suicide note leaks out? What do we do then?”

“We tell the truth.” As he said it, he realized how stupid it must sound to Bedard, who dealt in messaging, not truth. If the message happened to be true, that was a bonus.

“The truth?”

“We tell them that we are not certain that the note is genuine.”

“Well if it wasn’t suicide, it was murder, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. But we can’t announce it as murder if we don’t know. We do what we always do; we tell the press that we are investigating the circumstances.”

“Jesus, if the homeless didn’t set the city in a panic, a dead priest in a confessional box will. And in the Cathedral, of all places.”

“All I’m saying, sir, is that we still don’t know what’s going on, and we don’t want to put ourselves into a position where we have to backtrack. Can’t you just stall the press for a few days? At least till we get the results of the autopsy. We don’t have to mention the note.”

“All right, Sergeant Laflamme is doing a press conference. She’s good. I’ll tell her not to go any further than confirming the death of a priest. Because of the other deaths, and his work with the homeless, we are investigating it. She may be able to get away with that for a while.”

“I think that’s best, sir. We’ll have something concrete soon.”

“All right, get to it, Luc.”

Vanier rose to leave.

“And, Luc, and I’m telling you this as a friend, we go back a long time.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to make an effort. That suit, it looks like you slept in it, and it looks like you’ve been wearing that shirt for days. Luc, don’t let yourself go, you’ll lose the respect of your team.”

“Yes, sir.” Vanier felt like lashing out. His defenses were strong but sometimes, the occasional grenade managed to make it over the wall and cause damage inside. Fuck you, you fat bastard was all he could think of, but he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Luc, that’s from a friend, not your boss.”

Vanier was out the door before he finished. He had forgotten to tell Bedard that he had a sketch of John. If Bedard didn’t know there was a sketch, there wouldn’t be pressure to release it to the media.

He was watching the clock and waiting for a lead, any lead. Someone must recognize the sketch. The minutes dragged into hours, and he had a pizza delivered. He was on the second slice when Bedard burst into the room.

“Luc, what the fuck are you trying to do? I’ve just been told that we have a sketch of a suspect. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Chief Inspector, it’s one sketch from one witness, and I’m not sure it’s reliable — I’m not even sure the witness is reliable. We have officers showing it around at all the likely spots, and if it’s good, we should have a name to go with the sketch any moment.”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t tell me you even had a sketch.”

“Like I said, sir, I’m not convinced it’s reliable. I’m waiting for identification, and we’ll have it soon and will pick him up. If he’s gone missing we can release the sketch along with a name. You know what a defence lawyer can do with a sketch that‘s not a good likeness of the suspect. I don’t want to make a mistake. This way, if the sketch is any good, we get a name and we can nab him. If the sketch gets out, he disappears.”

“Well, it’s too late to worry about that. I just got a call from the Mayor’s office about the sketch. It’s on the Journal de Montreal’s website. The fucking Journal de Montreal publishes the sketch before I even know it exists. Luc, why are you doing this to me? Holding out is bad enough, but someone in your unit has a direct line to that piece of shit newspaper.”

“I’ve checked that, sir, and nobody from this squad is feeding the media,” said Vanier, trying to eliminate doubt from his voice. “The witness for the sketch works for the Journal de Montreal, and our people have been out all day with the sketch. There must have been hundreds of people who have seen it, and more than a few with copies. He’s not even a suspect right now; he’s just a loose end. Our suspect is dead.”

“Well, your plan to keep this quiet is flushed down the toilet.”

“We just have to deal with that. I hope to have something serious any moment now. If the sketch is a dead end, then we’ll know quickly enough. We’re hitting everyone who might have seen our guy. If nobody recognizes him, then the sketch is probably useless.”

“So I tell the Mayor’s office that a member of the public leaked it, and we didn’t release it because he’s only a person of interest, not a suspect.”

“That’s right. Go on the attack, Chief Inspector: irresponsible action by the Journal de Montreal endangering a material witness and jeopardizing a murder investigation. Tell them you can’t conduct a rigorous investigation if the media acts irresponsibly, putting the public in danger at the same time. You have enough experience, Chief Inspector, to know that publishing sketches is a last resort. And that’s how we were operating, until our investigation was sabotaged by irresponsible journalists.” Vanier was beginning to believe himself, and the Chief Inspector was beginning to see an alternative to admitting he wasn’t in control.

“I’m sure that you can put it much more convincingly than I could, Chief. It’s not a police failure, it’s irresponsible journalism aimed at undermining a serious inquiry.”

Bedard didn’t have an alternative, and there was a grain of truth in what Vanier was saying. There was enough to craft a message around; righteous indignation coupled with a chance to put the boot to the media at the same time. The Mayor might even like it.

“I’ll talk to Sergeant Laflamme about this — she’s the expert on communications — then we’ll pass it by the Mayor. Let’s hope that we get some leads from this. Otherwise, it could get very ugly.”

“Chief, I am certain we will have a target by tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“Thank you, Luc. Thank you.” As the Chief rose to leave, he reached over for a slice of pizza. “Don’t mind?”

“Go ahead, take two.”

“One’s enough,” he said, before changing his mind, reaching for a second. “Thanks, Luc.”

Vanier watched him leave and went back to his pizza.

And the calls began to arrive. St. Jacques called from the Cathedral to say she had a name, John Collins, confirmed by two witnesses, but no address. But he fit the description, even down to dressing like a priest. Officers began running John Collins through databases, criminal records, people who had been arrested, suspects. Two officers were working on access to wider databases: passport, army, city and provincial employment, social security, and a host of other sources that collect information on citizens. In the electronic world, everyone is in a database. Just by living you leave traces everywhere. Nobody’s anonymous.

The last line of defence for the average citizen was the volume of information being collected and stored. The databases were like haystacks piled up in fields defying anyone to find the needle. But the tools to dig through millions of files in seconds were already in use. In the same way that Google finishes your sentences and has lined up hundreds of thousands of hits before you’ve pushed enter, software spiders are crawling through stagnant data 24 hours a day, remembering everything and putting it in order, just waiting for the right question.

Vanier used the tools but worried about them. If someone decided to link all the data — and it wouldn’t be difficult — lives would unfold without secrets under watchful eyes. Laboratory rats get used to it and copulate under bright lights in front of cameras.

9 PM

Vanier flipped open his phone. “Yeah?”

It was Janvier. “We got an ID, sir, and it sounds like it’s good. I’m with Serge Jauron, the owner of the Xeon pesticide plant in St. Lambert; they make private label pesticides for the industry. He says he recognizes the person in the sketch.”

“John Collins?”

“That’s it. Someone else called it in?”

“St. Jacques got the name about an hour ago. We’re trying to get an address.”

“Jauron says he’s been working at Xeon for years. He drives a forklift.”

“He’s sure about the identification?”

“Positive. Says it could be a photograph.”

“Does he have an address?”

“He said human resources would have an address, but he has twenty people in the house for dinner and doesn’t want to go down to the plant tonight.”

“Put him on.”

Vanier waited for a few seconds.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Jauron. I’m Detective Inspector Vanier. I understand that the person in the sketch may be one of your employees.”

“Not maybe, Inspector. He is. He’s John Collins. He’s been with us for six years at least.”

“Well, we need to speak to him as soon as possible, and I would be grateful if you would accompany Sergeant Janvier to the plant right now and get a home address for us.”

“Inspector, I’ve got twenty people eating dinner here, I can’t just up and leave them. I told your men that I can go down first thing in the morning.”

“I understand your problem. But you have to understand mine. We believe that Mr. Collins may be able to cast some light on the deaths of several people over the last few days. Tell me, do you keep potassium cyanide at your plant?”

“Yes, of course we do. That’s why Sergeant, whatever his name is, and his buddy are here, isn’t it?”

“Sergeant Janvier, sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant Janvier.”

“Potassium cyanide has been used to kill at least five people. It could well be your potassium cyanide, and you need to accompany Sergeant Janvier and his partner to the plant and get an address for Mr. Collins before anyone else is killed. Oh, and by the way, while you’re there, it might be useful to check again to see if any potassium cyanide is missing from your facilities. Now, pass me back to the Sergeant while you put on your coat.”

Jauron passed the phone to Janvier and went to make his excuses to his guests.

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me when you get to the plant, Janvier. Oh, and ask Jauron about any Santa suit. Maybe they had a Christmas party.”

“Yes, sir.”

9.45 PM

It didn’t take long for Janvier to call in an address for John Collins. Minutes later, Laurent and Vanier were speeding along St. Antoine, parallel to the Ville-Marie expressway. The address was on rue St. Philippe in St. Henri They turned south off St. Antoine onto du Couvent, then right onto Notre Dame. Two-storey tenements crowded the narrow streets with cars parked haphazardly, fighting for space in piles of snow. They reached the corner of St-Philippe, but couldn’t turn into the street; it was blocked by a squad car with its blue and red lights flashing.

“What the fuck?” said Vanier. Then he saw flashing lights from fire trucks, more squad cars, and an ambulance. Firemen were pouring water onto a building that was almost obscured with thick black smoke. Flames were visible through the window and were curling out through the top of the brick walls to lick over the edge of the roof.

They showed badges to the officer standing beside the squad car and began running slowly towards the burning building. Vanier was counting in his head, trying to estimate the street number, but he was sure it would be Collins place that was going up in flames. The fire was at number 149, the last known address of John Collins. It was a converted stableman’s house, probably dating from the 18th century. The ground floor stable had become a garage with a “Pas de Stationnement” sign in front of it. The upper floor would be the living quarters. The sidewalk was packed with people watching firemen with hoses making steam and icicles on the building without having any apparent effect on the flames. A city bus sponsored by Sun Youth was running its motor to keep evacuated neighbours warm, as they watched and wondered if their own homes were going to go up in flames. Through the windows they all looked dazed.

Vanier sent Laurent to the bus, “Make sure nobody gets off, and let me know if Collins is there.”

Laurent turned and hurried to the bus. Vanier pushed through the crowd and showed his badge to the officers trying to get the sightseers out of the way. A hose led into the front door of number 149, testimony to what it means to fight fires, and Vanier thought about the tough bastards at the end of it. Vanier felt the same fascination as everyone else watching flames pouring out of the upper windows, and it didn’t take an expert to see that the building was gone. Even standing across the street, Vanier could feel the heat of the inferno as two men exited in a hurry from the front door, pulling the hose out with them.

There was a flash of light through the small windows in the garage door an instant before the explosion, and Vanier saw the door splintering outwards as a fireball escaped and turned into black smoke. Pieces of the burning door fell into the street, the small flames dying quickly in the snow. What was left of the garage door hung on one hinge, revealing a burning van that quickly disappeared under a wave of water, as firemen trained hoses inside the garage.

The firemen were working in punishing conditions, weighed down by equipment and ice that formed like a protective layer over them, giving them ice-laden eyebrows and silvery, frozen mustaches. The water from the hoses flowed only at the centre of the fire, everywhere else it froze into sheets and thick icicles, adding dangerous weight to the building. If it had been the summer, the whole block would have been destroyed. Now the weather was a friend, of sorts. Vanier could feel the cold taking over his body. The air was heavy with a mix of smoke and moisture, and his coat was soaking it all up. He looked back at the busload of evacuees, and saw Laurent in the aisle bending down to talk with one of them. He started towards the bus, but his path was blocked by an ice-covered giant.

“Police?”

“Yes. I’m Vanier, Major Crime.”

“You’re early. Your arson guys won’t be here till morning.”

“I was hoping to interview the occupant,” said Vanier.

“It’s a bit late now. I’m Captain Leboeuf, and this was deliberate,” he said, nodding at the still burning building. “The place stinks of gasoline. And see the van?”

Vanier looked at the garage again, and the van was still burning, still white in parts but mostly black.

“Yes?”

“One of my guys says there’s someone in it.”

Vanier looked across the street, trying to see into the driver’s seat through the smoke filling the inside of the van.

“Who called it in?”

“One of the neighbours, I expect. The call came in close to nine. The caller didn’t leave a name, but we’ll have his number. It was already too late when we got here. Only thing we can do is try to contain it.”

“I’m going to talk to the people on the bus, see if they know anything else. I’ll let you know.” Instinctively, Vanier reached out to shake Leboeuf’s hand, but saw the massive gloves. Leboeuf pulled off his right hand glove and grasped Vanier’s hand; like two sides of beef meeting, one hard and frozen, the other hard and warm. Vanier felt as though his hand had been plunged into icy water. Leboeuf smiled but said nothing and moved off towards the house. Vanier walked to the bus.

The driver pushed a button to open the door, and Vanier climbed in and immediately opened his coat hoping to let some of the warmth get to his body. A few people were in dressing gowns over pajamas and wrapped in donated blankets. Two girls were dressed up for an evening out and wearing overcoats; they were getting over the shock by discussing how they might get to meet some of the firemen. An older woman in a fur coat tried to reassure a cat through the wire mesh of a cat carrier. Laurent had already shown the sketch to everyone on the bus.

“Collins isn’t here, Chief.”

“Seems he’s in the van in the garage,” said Vanier. “The fire was deliberate, and there’s a corpse sitting in the driver’s seat. It’s probably Collins. What did you get from these people?”

“Almost everyone recognized him, but nobody was able to put a name to the face. They all agree that it’s the guy who lived in the upstairs apartment. You know the sort of thing: Very quiet, kept himself to himself. Nod to him in the street but that’s all. The usual stuff, sir. I’ll write it up.”

Vanier wasn’t surprised. It was easy to live alone in a tight neighbourhood. If you hadn’t grown up in St-Henri; if people didn’t know your parents, and their parents; if you hadn’t gone to school with them, they didn’t know you, and you were welcome to your isolation. They could live next door to someone for years and know no more about them than they did about life on Mars.

As they were leaving the bus, two Sun Youth volunteers in parkas climbed in to arrange overnight accommodation for the temporarily homeless and give them a change of clothing and maybe some hope. The fire already seemed less fierce. Leboeuf was talking to two firemen.

“How soon to get the body out?” said Vanier.

“We’ll let things die down till the morning. Nothing we can do for him anyway. The Coroner said they’ll send someone over first thing.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. We’ll leave a truck and crew here for the night, but it will be morning before anyone can go in.”

Vanier turned to walk back to his car. The air was filled with damp smoke that settled on everything, and he was shivering with the cold, feeling like he was walking through a giant wet ashtray. Laurent was standing beside the car looking tired.

“Where to, Chief?”

“Bed. Unless you have a better idea.” And then, as an afterthought. “I suppose I should call the Boss. He’ll be happy.”