The Dead of Winter (14 page)

9.30 PM

Vanier poured the amber liquid over two ice cubes and swirled it around before sitting down in front of the pile of Prayer Cards that weren't even cards, but recycled scraps cut from sheets that had been used to print the Cathedral's newsletter, a sign of Mother Church's schizophrenia. The Church wallows in opulence one moment and is as parsimonious as a Scottish pauper the next. No expense is spared on costumes and props for the theatrics, and the trust funds are nurtured with a mother's concern, but messages to the saints must be scribbled on used scraps of paper, and the pious must pay for the candles burned in offerings.

Each rectangle of paper was dated in the top left-hand corner and had a hand-written note on one side. Printed scraps of unintelligible information from the newsletter filled the other. Most started with a variant of
Dear St. Jude,
and were signed, some with full names and others with abbreviated signatures: Mme. H, JP, or M. D. Each card was a postcard monument to the human spirit's inability to accept the brutal unfairness of life.

Vanier sipped on his Jameson and began to read:

Dear St. Jude,

Our daughter Caroline has disappeared. Please give us a sign that she is alive. Help her understand that we love her. Help her find her way and, the Lord permitting, to find her way back to us.

G.H.

He counted them. There were 131 in all. He arranged them in chronological order. The earliest prayer was nine months ago, looking for a miracle to conquer inoperable cancer. The most recent was signed December 23. It read:

To St. Jude,

My husband is the only man I have loved for 35 years, and he left me two weeks ago. Please restore him to me.

Mme. G.

He grouped them by subject: financial, matrimonial, medical, and a single rectangle praying for scholastic achievement. He tried to order them by the colour of the ink, and quickly realized that Drouin had probably supplied a cheap blue Biro along with the papers. Sometimes a prayer would set him back.

S.J.

Michael has started hitting me again. Please put love back in his heart. Help him to stop drinking. Let him know that I love him.

It was signed with two crosses, symbols of sacrifice. Vanier knew where that prayer had come from. He had often prayed something similar for his mother while pretending to be asleep when his father came home drunk and angry. He had prayed it in army bases across Canada, and his prayers were answered a couple of times when his father was shipped overseas. But no sooner were they answered than his mother would lead an assault on the saints pleading for his safe return.

He refilled his glass and started again. This time he laid them all out on the table and stood up for a bird's eye view. In a moment he saw it. He sat down and began selecting the squares that had names on them. Ten of them had first and second names, and each one was signed with an A. Each was a plea for a peaceful death, for an end to pain. They formed a single prayer mosaic. Five of the slips of paper had names he knew:

That the tormented suffering of Joe Yeoman be soon over and that he join his Holy Father in everlasting life.
A

For Edith Latendresse, that her inhuman suffering may end peacefully.
A

That the Lord welcome Céline Plante into His arms. A spirit too beautiful for this world.
A

Dear St. Jude.
Your servant George Morissette has suffered enough. Give him release. Allow him to escape his suffering and join you in everlasting life.
A

For Pierre Brun, during his last days on earth. May his pain be short and the joy of everlasting life be his.
A

That left five cards in the pile with names. Vanier read the remaining cards.

For Antonio Di Pasquale, ease his suffering and make his transition peaceful.
A

Mary Gallagher's time is coming soon. Accept her into your arms Lord, and test her no more.
A

Duane Thatcher, a young man who will never know middle age deserves your intervention to ease his pain. Let him not suffer any more. Settle his mind and give him peace.
A

For Denis Latulippe, may fate - and this world – be kind to him in his last days.
A

My fellow man, Gaëtan Paquin, deserves better. He has been sorely tried by life's hardships and continues to struggle to overcome them. May his final days be free of pain. And may he finally realize your love.
A

He stared at the five new names, wondering who they were, or even if they were still alive. He picked up the phone and punched the speed-dial. It picked up on the third ring.

“St. Jacques.”

“Sylvie, it's me.” He could hear ABBA playing in the background. “ABBA?”

“It's a documentary on TV, sir. I was surfing the channels.”

“I wouldn't have put you down as an ABBA fan.”

“I'm not. Like I said, I was surfing. But I'm sure you didn't call to discuss my musical tastes.”

“You're right. But we'll pick up on this later. You were looking into the typical number of homeless deaths in a year, right?”

“Right. But nobody keeps numbers. All we have are estimates and they vary like crazy.”

“And?”

“Well, the Coroner's office says there are about ten to fifteen a year. But GimmeShelter, a group that lobbies for the homeless, says the number's closer to 40. Seems to be a question of definition.”

“So that's not going anywhere. Could you check some specific names with your contacts? I need to know if they're alive or dead. They could be on Santa's list.” Vanier explained about the prayer cards and gave her the five names. “And I think we should go and see the priest first thing in the morning.”

“The priest? Drouin?”

“Yeah. I'll pick you up at eight.”

“Ok, sir. I'll see you then.”

“Oh, and by the way.”

“Sir?”

“I love ABBA. Enjoy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Vanier flipped through the channels looking for the ABBA documentary but there wasn't one. Maybe she has satellite, he thought, and pulled out their Greatest Hits CD and put it on. Then he started sorting through the piles of newspapers and magazines that lay in the hallway waiting for recycling. They had been waiting for months. He pulled an old copy of the
Journal de Montréal
from the pile and went to the table; he only bought the newspaper when there was something of interest in it – which was rarely. The front page carried a large photograph of Vanier walking into police headquarters, guiding a handcuffed piece of shit with his hooded jacket pulled over his head. There was also a small photograph of Carole Thibodeau that the piece of shit had raped and strangled two days before. Vanier turned to the classified ads in the back pages and found what he was looking for: two columns of small ads thanking St. Jude for his intervention, often with a small photo of the man himself. The deal was, if St. Jude answered your prayers, you had to publish your thanks, and the
Journal de Montréal
gave them a special place every day. St. Jude had been busy, Vanier counted fifteen separate ads. All were more or less the same, no details of the answered prayers, just a standard thanks for intervention.

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 Gaëtan 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 façade 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.”