The Dead of Winter (20 page)

“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 Montréal
, 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 Montréal
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.”

Bédard 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.