The Dead of Winter (11 page)

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

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

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

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

“I have a job that needs discretion.”

She looked at the list.

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

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

“Yes, sir. When do you need this?”

“Soon as you can, Sergeant.”

11 PM

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

“Luc?”

“Anjili. What's new?”

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

“Are you sure?”

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

“Flushed?”

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

“Shit. What exactly is potassium cyanide?”

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

“That was a cult, right?”

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

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

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

“So they all drank poison?”

“That's what it looks like.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn't that what you guys do best?”

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

“Chief Inspector? It's Vanier here.”

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

“Looks like that, sir.”

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

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

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

“I just had a call from Dr. Segal.”

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

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

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

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

PART TWO

SIX
DECEMBER 28

8 AM

Only five officers were at their desks
when Vanier arrived: Laurent, St. Jacques, Roberge, Fletcher, and Janvier. Vanier stood in the middle of the room and had their attention.

“Listen up. It's officially a murder investigation. All the victims were killed with potassium cyanide.” He spelled it out and they scribbled it down. “It's a common industrial chemical and a lethal poison. Santa mixed it in rum and eggnog and sent them on their way.”

Laurent raised his big head. “Isn't that what Goering used?”

“Goering?”

“In the Nuremberg trial. I saw the film. Somebody smuggled him a cyanide pill, and he killed himself.”

“Christ, you learn something every day. So we can take Goering off the list of suspects. We're making progress. And I don't think that we're looking for pills. Our guy is serving it up in liquid, so we can start by assuming that he has a stock of powder. So here's what I want. Start with the manufacturers and importers, anyone who makes the stuff, and anyone who has imported it in the last three years. Have them check to see if any is missing; any recent thefts; disgruntled employees; employees who've quit recently – you know the sort of thing, anything unusual. You find anything, let me know immediately. Once you've got the sources of this stuff, start working on the customers, all the way down to the last buyer. We have to check them all, and as quickly as possible. Any questions?”

“Any suggestions on customs, for the importers?” This from Fletcher.

“Good question.” In the last few years they'd had problems getting information quickly from customs. They weren't keen on sharing unless there was some joint task force, and even then, they liked to hold back. Something about the privacy rights of importers. Vanier flipped open his phone and scrolled through his address book. “Call Danielle Sabbatini, she's an investigator in Laval, and she owes me. 450-363-2082. If she gives you grief, tell her you're cashing in a marker from me. If she still won't help, call me.”

“Sir, what about the government agencies?” This from St. Jacques. “Maybe you need a licence to keep potassium cyanide. So maybe there's a list somewhere.”

“I was told that it's unlikely, but it's worth a try. See what you can get. Anything else?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. “We checked the parking tickets. They weren't giving tickets Christmas Eve, they were towing cars away to make way for the snow clearing. Anything that was parked illegally, or that was in the way of the clearing, was towed. Thirty-six cars in all, and I'm working through the list. Nothing so far, but it could take another two days, sir.”

“Well, keep it up.”

“Are we getting extra help, sir?” asked St. Jacques.

“The Chief is considering my request for additional resources and will get back to me when he has time to think. So don't hold your breath. In the meantime you'll be glad to hear that you can all work as much overtime as you like. The Chief has generously agreed to open the purse on that one.”

That news was greeted with groans.

“Right. If you've all got work to do, let's get to it. Laurent, you come with me, we're going to church again, separate cars.”

As they were pulling on their overcoats, St. Jacques passed an envelope to Vanier. Laurent was watching but said nothing.

“My lottery winnings,” said Vanier.

“So where's mine? I'm in the pool too,” said Laurent.

“You didn't win.”

“Fuck.”

9.30 AM

Laurent ignored the clutch of men waiting with outstretched paper cups, and pulled open the steel and glass doors to the Cathedral. Vanier followed, watching Laurent dip his fingers in the holy water font, then bless himself before opening the second set of doors. Old habits, thought Vanier.

It was dark and cold inside, a sacrifice to the cost of lighting and heating the empty granite space. An attendant told them that Father Henri was conducting a service in St. Jude's Crypt, and pointed the way. They approached to see the priest on his knees facing the altar and leading about twenty people in the Rosary. Vanier checked the beads being handled by the devout, and saw that they were almost halfway through the last decade. He knelt. Laurent blessed himself again and knelt beside him.

“
Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus,
” Drouin intoned.

“
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen
,” the devout replied.

Vanier joined in the response loudly enough to be heard, and Drouin, his back to the faithful, raised his head slightly as if trying to pick out the new voice.

When the Rosary ended, Drouin left a little time for silent prayer, then stood and turned to survey the group. His eyes fixed immediately on Vanier, who returned the look with the face of a cherub.

Drouin addressed the devout with difficulty. “That brings us to the end of our session. Let us give our problems and concerns to the Lord in prayer, and to the Blessed Virgin, and to our beloved St. Jude. Again, I invite any of you who need the Lord's intercession to write your needs on one of the cards provided and drop it in the box.”

The crowd began to shuffle out, some stopping to whisper to Drouin, a few stopping to drop prayer cards into the box. While waiting for the shepherd to finish ministering to his flock, Vanier moved over to the table and picked up a blank card. Laurent followed, and Drouin eyed the two men with concern. The cards were only scraps of recycled paper. Vanier took out a pen and was still writing when Drouin approached.

“It's curious, Inspector, but you didn't strike me as a religious man. Do you have a need that you wish us to pray for?”

“Religious, me? Not really. But it's like the lottery, isn't it? If you don't play you don't win.”

“Well, I never play the lottery, Inspector.”

“I suppose not. It wouldn't do for a priest to collect twenty million from the 6-49 jackpot. People would think he had some divine help. But maybe prayers are the Church's lottery. What do you think, Father Drouin?”

“Prayers are a much better investment than the lottery, Inspector. Prayers are answered every day.”

“So there's hope for me?”

“And what is your prayer, Inspector?”

Vanier held up the card for Drouin to read:
Help me catch the bastard who killed the innocents.
“Oh, excuse me, Father,” he said, taking the pen to cross out
bastard
and scribble something else. “This should do it,” he said, handing the card back to Drouin.

Help me find the people who killed the innocents.

“I can't help noticing you changed a singular for a plural.”

“Yes. Strange that, isn't it? And I think we're dealing with one killer. But in my job we're always fighting several people, people who know something but don't come forward. People protecting the killer or people who just can't be bothered.”

“You really believe those poor people were killed?”

“They were killed, Father. Murdered. What do you think of that?”

“It's beyond belief. Who would do such a thing? Who could possibly have a reason to kill them?

“That's my job. Nobody kills without a reason. When I find out why, I'll have the killer.”

“I can't think of anyone who would have a reason to kill these people.”

“Well somebody did. Just because you can't think of a reason doesn't mean that the killer didn't have one, does it? So, any ideas? Anyone come to mind?”

“It would have to be a maniac. It doesn't make sense.”

“Do you know any maniacs?”

“I know a lot of people. But nobody who is capable of killing.”

“Yesterday you said these people didn't have friends. Did they have enemies?”

“No, Inspector, just because you don't have any friends doesn't mean that you have enemies. The truth is, nobody cared about these people, and certainly nobody cared enough to kill them.”

“There was nothing that struck you as odd in the last few weeks?”

“No, nothing. The usual grumbling and complaining about their lot.” Drouin semed to have a flash of memory and Vanier waited.

“There is something. George Morissette was particularly troubled about money recently.”

“George?”

“Yes, George Morissette, he used to be a notary, very smart when he's sober. He kept saying that the shelter was cheating him. Every time we talked, he would bring it up. I thought nothing of it. I know M. Nolet, and he is a dedicated man. I just thought George was confused.”

“We're going to need a full statement from you, your dealings with the victims, the last time you saw each of them, who they knew, that sort of thing.”

“Of course, I am happy to tell you everything I know. I just don't know that it will be of any help.”

“You never know, Father. Laurent here will drive you to the station.”

“I just need a few minutes to close up.”

Drouin began to close down the shop, extinguishing candles and folding the linen that lay across the altar.

“So what was the service? Benediction?” Vanier asked, remembering childhood Sundays, mass in the morning, and benediction in the afternoon.

“No. A simple prayer service. People who come together in faith to seek the intercession of the Saints, in this case, St. Jude. As I said, Inspector, prayer is a wonderful thing. Prayer works miracles.” Drouin touched the box of cards. “After every service I put a date on the new cards, and we pray for the request for ten days. We meet three times a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. That comes to about two-and-a-half weeks of prayer.”

“So if I put my card in the box, you'll pray for me?”

“Yes, Inspector, but if you want the Circle to pray for you rather than your request, perhaps you should fill out another card.”

“The Circle?”

“The Circle of Christ. That's the name of the group. People like to belong, Inspector. It helps if the group has a name. If you put your card in the box, it will be read and the Circle of Christ will pray for your intention, or for you, at our next meeting.”

“I feel better already, Father. Could I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Could I borrow this box for a day? See what people are praying for? I'll have it back, with its contents, in time for the next meeting.” Vanier was already holding the box.

Drouin hesitated. “It's private. It's the prayers of sincere believers. I can't see what possible relevance it can have to your investigation.”

“Father, it's going to sit here untouched overnight. Indulge me.”

“Well, I suppose so,” said Drouin.

“Great,” said Vanier, putting the box under his arm.

As they took the step down out of the crypt, Vanier turned to Drouin.

“We'll find him, Father. And when we do, we'll find everyone who put obstacles in my path, or who failed to raise their hand and point him out. If there's anything on your mind, Father, call me,” he said, handing him a business card and turning to leave. “Laurent will wait for you and take you to the station.”

11 AM

Vanier was running the engine to keep the car warm. He pulled St. Jacques's note from the envelope and scanned the list of numbers, names and comments. One name stood out, René Gauthier, a journalist with the
Journal de Montréal
. Vanier recognized the name from the
Journal's
coverage of the Christmas Eve murders. He punched in the numbers and it picked up after two rings.

“Oui?”

“M. Gauthier?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“Detective Inspector Vanier.”

There was a brief pause, then, “Detective Inspector, I'm honoured. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your coverage of the homeless deaths. You must be working very hard on the story.”

“Very kind of you, Inspector. I do what I can.”

“You seem to be in front of the pack on this one. You always know more that your competitors.”

“I work harder than them. Simple as that.”

“Tell me, do you know my colleague, Detective Sergeant Fletcher?”

Another pause. “Of course I do. He's my brother-in-law.”

Vanier looked at St. Jacques' list again. Fletcher had been calling two Gauthiers, the list said: the other was Marie-Chantal Gauthier, Wife. “Marie-Chantal is your sister?”

“Correct.”

“And what are you going to tell Marie-Chantal when her husband gets his ass kicked off the force?”