The Dead of Winter (9 page)

“Tell you what, Laurent. When you get a chance, get me a list of everyone who's involved with Holy Land Shelter, employees, management. Don't forget the Board of Directors. These places usually have a Board stacked with upstanding members of the community. Nolet said that Audet was brought in by the new Board. What's going on? See who's involved. As much as you can find out.”

Laurent was lost. “You think there may be a connection to the homeless deaths?”

“No. But it's curious all the same. I'd love to know what Marcel Audet is doing serving the homeless. He's a parasite. When he thinks of other people, it's only to figure out how he can profit from them. He's a thug, with just enough brains to be dangerous.”

3 PM

The Press Room was steaming hot from television lights and loud with the chatter of journalists. Wires littered the floor, threatening to topple the distracted. Sergeant Julie Laflamme was at the podium trying to impose calm in a tailored uniform that emphasized authority and curves in that order. Vanier stood behind her with his hands in his pockets, scanning the room and nodding with a half smile to reporters he recognized.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we can get started,” said Laflamme for the third time.

The noise level diminished slightly, and cameramen began to focus.

“I am Detective Sergeant Laflamme of the Communications Division. I propose to read a prepared statement first, and then I will take some questions.” She waited for five beats to allow a gap in the recordings, a gift to the news editors, and then she started.

“Between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, the bodies of five people were discovered in various parts of downtown Montreal, three men and two women. The victims were found at various locations. One, a male, in Cabot Park; a female in the entrance to a parking garage on Atwater; two victims, one male and one female, were found at different spots in the Berri-UQÀM complex; and another male was found inside the McGill Métro station. Until we have notified their next of kin, we are not releasing the identity of any of the victims.

“We wish to stress at this point that we are treating these deaths as suspicious, but this is not officially a murder inquiry. We are keeping an open mind on every possibility. We are continuing to collect information and follow up on certain lines of inquiry. The investigation is being led by Detective Inspector Vanier of the Major Crimes Squad.” She waved her hand to indicate Vanier, who smiled for half a second.

“The Coroner is in the process of conducting autopsies on the victims to determine the causes of death. We expect to have one or two preliminary reports tomorrow.

“In the meantime, we ask that all requests for information be made through my office, and we promise to respond quickly. The Montreal Police Service is taking these incidents very seriously, and is sparing no resources in its efforts. Now, any questions?”

“Inspector Vanier. Were there any signs of violence on the bodies?”

“Let me answer that,” Laflamme responded, and Vanier looked bemused. “The investigation is still at a very preliminary stage, and we cannot discuss details concerning the deceased or of the various scenes at this point.”

“Inspector Vanier, were you at the crime scenes?”

If Laflamme was under pressure she didn't show it.

“It is premature to refer to the places where the individuals were discovered as crime scenes. As we said earlier, we have no evidence yet to confirm or to discount a crime. We are treating the deaths only as suspicious. But we can confirm that Inspector Vanier has been working on this investigation from the beginning.”

“There have been suggestions that someone dressed as Santa Claus was seen with some of the victims. Can you confirm?”

“We are reviewing hours of closed circuit television footage to identify who, if anyone, may have had contact with the victims during the hours prior to their death. It does appear that a person dressed in a Santa Claus costume may have had contact with at least one of the deceased, but it would be premature to confirm any more than that.”

“Wouldn't Santa have been very busy on Christmas Eve?”

The room erupted in laughter, and Laflamme put on her patient schoolmistress-dealing-with-hijinks face.

“Next.”

“Is there any connection between the victims? Did they know one another?”

“We believe that all of the victims were what you might call street people. They were homeless. While that might be a connection, we have not yet established if they knew each other.”

“Have there been any other suspicious deaths of homeless people in the last months?”

“We are looking into that. We have asked the Coroner's office to provide us with a report of all the homeless deaths in the last three years. We want to know if there is anything unusual in the past that might have been missed. Last question.”

“Has the squad cancelled leave to deal with the investigation?”

“As I said, Inspector Vanier and his team have been working on this throughout the holidays. We do not expect the holiday period to interfere with our work. Thank you.” Laflamme picked up her notes and began to walk away from the podium, followed by Vanier.

“Inspector Vanier.” Laflamme looked back to see Vanier level with the microphone at the podium as the question was shouted. “How do you like your new handler?” Laughter again.

Vanier leaned into the microphone. This time his smile lasted longer. “No comment.”

6.15 PM

Vanier gunned the Volvo through light snow onto Highway 40 heading west. Laurent had told him that a major storm was on its way, thirty centimetres before dawn. It was already dark. The highway was deserted, and he pushed the button to let Tom Waits sing of
Warm Beer and Cold Women,
the wipers keeping time, snow flakes hitting the windshield hypnotically, and a box wrapped in Christmas paper on the seat beside him.

He followed the highway to Hudson, the horse-rearing capital of Quebec, fishtailed through the slippery exit, and, after fifteen minutes of slow driving, pulled into the empty visitor parking lot of the Lafarge Retirement Home.

He rang the bell, and Sister Véronique appeared in the opened doorway with a smile on her old face as though she was relieved to see someone from the living, and not another delivery of someone who would not be leaving.

“M. Vanier, how good to see you again. Come in, come in. What a night it is.”

He walked past her as she poked her head out to look at the storm. Closing the door with an exaggerated shiver she turned, extending both hands to Vanier.

“And a holy and happy Christmas to you, M. Vanier.” She smelled of lemon, pine, and wax.

“The same to you, Sister. I hope you're keeping well.”

“I am, thank God. And who wouldn't at this time of the year? Isn't this a joyous time?”

“It is, Sister.”

“Every mother should have a son like you who would come out to see her on a night like this. She's in the lounge. Let me take your coat and we can go in.”

She hung his coat in a closet.

Vanier eyed the expanse of deep red carpet and the shining wood beyond and bent down to remove his wet boots, leaving them to drip into the carpet while he followed her silently in stockinged feet.

As they entered the lounge, a sea of heads rose expectantly.
No such luck, ladies, it's only Luc Vanier, visiting his mother on the day after Christmas.
Some looked away when they realized that it wasn't son Marc or daughter Mary, or one of the grandchildren. Others still tried for eye contact. She was sitting alone in a straight-backed chair at the far end of the lounge. She hadn't raised her head when he entered.

He pulled up an armchair and sat in front of her, staring into the blank eyes. Then he leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Mum.”

He dropped the Christmas package lightly into her lap. It could have been a grenade or a flower for all the reaction it got. He had had it wrapped in Place Ville Marie by volunteers collecting money for the Children's Hospital. Since Marianne had left, he had every important present, and there weren't many, wrapped by women who could wrap presents better than he could. It made no difference. The hands lay unmoving underneath the package. He reached over and turned each hand upwards so that they held the gift.

“So things are going great, Mum, really great. Élise is growing up so fast, it's incredible. She's becoming a real lady. She couldn't come today. She has a thing at the church but she told me to give you a big hug from her. And to wish you a Merry Christmas. That's what she said, merry, not just happy.”

Vanier stood up and leaned over to hug his mother. “That's from Élise, Mum,” he whispered into her ear. She stared, unblinking.

“Marianne couldn't come either. She sends her apologies. Had to be with Élise at the church too,” he lied, “and Alex sends his love.”

Vanier looked around. The room was quiet, as though the residents were waiting for the party to begin, like toys waiting for a child. Or maybe they were having the party when he arrived and stopped, unwilling to let him into their secret. Three women were looking at him, smiling.

“So we had a great Christmas, Mum. I wish you had been there. We had the whole thing. The turkey was the best in years, crisp golden brown skin and moist inside. The whole house smelled of roast turkey. Potatoes, mashed, sweet, and roast. You remember Mum, how much I love roast potatoes, don't you? Especially the way you used to make them. And the stuffing Mum, nobody makes stuffing like yours, with the sage and onions, but Marianne's came in a close second. She uses your recipe. We had Brussels sprouts, peas, green beans, and those carrots that you like in thin sticks. And then we had one of those old-fashioned Christmas puddings with holly on the top. I poured some brandy on it and set it on fire. What a feast. We had friends over to help us eat it all, and there's still enough left over for a week.”

He reached across and took her hand. “Mum, I wish you could have been there. You should have seen us. What a time.”

He took the package from her hand. “Aren't you going to open your present, Mum? Let me help.”

Vanier took the present and began to unwrap it. He opened the box and looked inside like it was a surprise. Reaching in, he took out a fur scarf and held it up. “What do you think, Mum? It's made of fox, I think. It's like one you used to have years ago, the one you were wearing in that photograph of you and Dad in Winnipeg. When was that? Could have been 1953, before my time. Let me help you put it on.”

He gently placed it around her neck, took her hand, and drew her fingers down its soft length a few times. He placed her hand back in her lap and sat down. He looked into her eyes and convinced himself that they had changed, softened a little.

“So, I'm still busy Mum. Always something new, always chasing after the bad guys. This time, we have a really bad sort. But we'll get him, Mum. We'll get him soon.”

Vanier sat there looking into her eyes. Eventually, he became aware of eyes on him and stood up to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“I have to go now Mum. I'll be back soon, don't worry.”

He bent again and kissed her on her head, holding the kiss. Standing up, he looked around at several faces that had been watching, and mustered a broad grin. “And a very Merry Christmas to all of you.”

Most smiled back.

Vanier left, turning once at the door to the lounge to look back at his mother sitting motionless in her chair.
Bye, Mum.

The drive back was difficult. The storm was in full force, and visibility was close to zero. He played Coleman Hawkins, and, as always with the Hawk, felt better, like a load was slowly lifting. Tom Waits to walk with you on the way down, the Hawk to bring you back up.

FIVE
DECEMBER 27

7 AM

The early morning sun reflected red and gold
off downtown buildings, promising a cold day under a cloudless sky. Sunlight was flooding into Vanier's apartment, and he was feeling good. After watching the sunrise over the river, he had taken a long shower and dressed in a clean suit and ironed shirt. He sat on the couch, his face bathed in the light of the rising sun, and closed his eyes. There was no alcohol fuzziness and no fatigue from sleeping on the couch. Christmas was over.

He focused on his breathing, belly out for the inward breath, in for the outward breath, and relaxed. Thoughts bubbled up from the depths, and he acknowledged them as he had been taught, and let them continue their upward journey out of consciousness. After five minutes, there were no more thoughts, just steady breathing, awareness and a sense of wellbeing. He let twenty minutes roll into thirty, like a child refusing to come out of the pool in summer, and finally surfaced with an unconscious smile on his face.

He got up, stretched, and went into the kitchen, cut chunks from a block of extra-old cheddar, and put an English muffin in the toaster. The kettle boiled, and he made a cup of instant coffee, then sat at the table eating and looking at downtown through the picture window. The phone rang.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Luc,” said Dr. Anjili Segal.

“Anjili. How are you?” said Vanier, happy that he didn't sound like he had been drinking all night.

“I'm well Luc. So, you survived Christmas?

“It was wonderful,” he lied. “And you?”

“The same, Luc. But I'll be glad to get back to work. I'm booked for the fourth and fifth autopsies of your Christmas Eve victims. If you want to be there, I am starting at 11.30 on the first. Probably three o'clock on the other one.”

“I'll be there, Anjili. I wouldn't miss it for anything.”

“You don't have to be facetious, Luc. I just thought you would be interested in attending.”

“Anjili, I didn't mean it like that. I'll be there. I may even bring a guest.”

“I'll see you then, Luc,” she said and hung up.

9 AM

St. Jacques put the phone down as Vanier walked into the Squad Room. She didn't look happy.

“The Santa suits are a dead end, sir. We checked the rental stores on the Island without any luck. There are only four stores that rent them out, but there's any number of other places that sell them. Even Wal-Mart sells them. Of the four rental places, only two rented suits with fur trim on the bottom of the pants. Apparently, it's a premium item, and our Santa had fur on the hem of his pants. Only eight of those suits were still out on Christmas Eve. It seems that the big trade in rentals is for parties before Christmas, not for the night itself. Anyway, all but eight of them were returned before Christmas Eve.”

“Have we tracked them down?” asked Vanier.

“Seven were accounted for, and both the owners and their suits were far away from downtown on Christmas Eve. The eighth was rented by a Tony Martino, who was at home Christmas Eve, but he left the suit in his office. He was supposed to have returned it on December 23 but didn't. He was nervous during the interview with the uniforms. He said he left the suit in the office after the Christmas party because there was a stain on it and he wanted to wash it out before giving it back.”

“He couldn't bring it home for the wife to wash, I suppose?” said Vanier.

“Exactly, sir. Human frailty,” said St. Jacques. “The stain seems to have been semen, his own, the result of an encounter with one his staff that got out of hand, so to speak. Kind of like the Lewinsky dress. He wanted to clean it up before he brought it back, but didn't have time, so he left it in the office. He told the officers where he left it, and that's where it was when Martino brought the officers to the office. Martino says that nobody could have got into the office after it closed, and he was with his family on Christmas Eve.”

Vanier sighed. “So no easy trail to Santa. The perfect disguise at Christmas. Everyone sees it but there's nothing special about it.”

St. Jacques continued her summary. “Two ticket sellers at the métro remember seeing Santa entering. He used tickets to clear the turnstiles, so we can't check monthly pass information. Only one of them remembers seeing him leave. He said he was moving quickly and not looking around him. But there was nothing to distinguish him from any other Santa. From the camera images, we know he didn't use the métro to go from one station to the next. He entered and left each station he visited. From the timing of his appearances, he didn't have time to walk or take a bus either. We checked the taxi companies, and none of the drivers remembers picking up any Santa. He wouldn't have been riding a bike in that weather. So that leaves a car. He must have driven from station to station. From the camera images, Santa was six foot two and, from the way he walked and filled out the suit, he was in good shape. Hard to tell an age, but probably under forty.”

“OK, St. Jacques. Keep looking at the films. What else do we have?”

D.S. Roberge spoke. “Dr. Grenier's alibi checks out. I spoke to his wife, and he was home Christmas Eve. As for Drouin's return to the Cathedral, I spoke to Monsignor Forlini, he was the senior priest at Midnight Mass. He wasn't sure of the exact time when he first saw Drouin, but said that it could have been between 10.45 and 11.15 p.m. He said that Drouin was rushing to get into his vestments, and Mass started at 11.35.”

“And what was the last sighting of Santa?”

“10.30, sir, at the Berri Métro. I had them go back and confirm,” said St. Jacques.

“That's tight, but possible. If he had a car he could get back to the Cathedral by eleven easy. But Drouin said he left his car at the Cathedral.”

“He could be lying,” said Laurent.

“Would be lying if it were him. Did we check out parking tickets in the area?”

“I'll do it,” said Roberge.

Vanier noticed Laurent shuffling papers, getting ready to speak. “Laurent, we can talk about the Holy Land Shelter in the car. We have an opening to go to.”

A tired joke. Laurent sighed. “You drive or me?”

“I'll drive,” said Vanier. “Give me a few minutes.” He turned to the group. “Everyone have something to do?”

Heads nodded, and Vanier picked up the phone.

11 AM

The drive to the Coroner's building was easy. Most people were still on vacation, and the only serious traffic was caused by giant trucks loaded with snow going to the dump or returning empty for their next load. Vanier drove fast, speeding up through yellow lights and anticipating the greens.

“So what's the story at the Holy Land Shelter?” asked Vanier.

“Well, up to last March, Father Drouin was on the Board.” Laurent was leafing through his notebook. “Then there was a huge turnover in March, seven new members on a ten-member Board. That means seven resigned or were kicked out. That has to be pretty disruptive for the organization. I've started to get the stories on the ones who resigned first. I figured, if there was a problem, the outgoing members would be more inclined to talk.”

“Who can we talk to besides Drouin?”

“I'm running through the names, trying to figure out how to get in touch with them. A likely one is Pascal Beaudoin. I found a listing for Pascal Beaudoin as the Secretary of the Board for the last four years. And I found a lawyer downtown called Pascal Beaudoin with Henderson & Associates.”

“How do you know it's the same Pascal Beaudoin?”

“The new Secretary is a certain Gordon Henderson, the same name as the main guy in Henderson & Associates. I figure it's not a coincidence.”

“So why don't you call this Beaudoin and see if we can go to see him after the autopsies.”

Laurent got on the phone and had an appointment confirmed with Beaudoin by the time they were pulling into the parking lot. The Coroner's building sat on rue Parthenais in the East End, in a poor residential neighbourhood. A typical 1960s government building, unimpressive in form, style, and functionality, someone's idea of building up the local economy by dumping a government building in the middle of a depressed area.

The autopsy viewing room was a small, utilitarian space designed to allow students to watch and learn; wooden benches and a large picture window overlooked the business area. On December 27, the students had found better things to do, and the detectives were alone.

Vanier and Laurent settled in and looked down on a theatre of three ribbed stainless steel tables. The naked body of an emaciated woman lay on one of the tables, dwarfed by its size. The table had been raised at one end to allow blood and other fluids to drain down into a collecting bottle. Vanier guessed it was Edith Latendresse from the Berri Métro, with her empty breasts nothing more than flaps of skin draped over a protruding ribcage. More bones than flesh, the skeleton wrapped in skin was a stark contrast to the plump cocoons of blankets he had seen on Christmas Eve. She had looked full then, bundled in layers against the cold.

Laurent perked up as Anjili Segal entered the room below them. Her dark hair was held tight by a headset that supported a microphone in front of her mouth, and her surgical uniform couldn't hide the curves of a woman in good shape. She looked up to the viewing gallery and caught Vanier's eye. They smiled at each other. Then, for Laurent and the transcript, she said, “Inspector Vanier, how good to see you, and you, too, Sergeant Laurent. A very Merry Christmas to you both. I was just getting ready to begin. So glad you could come.”

“Always a pleasure, Dr. Segal. Any word on the others? Anything unusual?”

Segal seemed to deflate as she thought about her response.

“Inspector, I did not perform the earlier autopsies, but I've looked at the initial reports. The first three victims were very sick, probably terminal. If it hadn't been Christmas Eve, it could have been tonight, or next week, who knows? My colleague guessed at three months, maximum, for each of them. But you never know. A guess is a guess. Maybe with care one or two of could have lasted longer. But out on the streets, nature takes over, and nature hates frailty. These were all the walking dead.”

“Is there a cause of death?” asked Vanier, forcing himself to look away from Segal and stare at the body on the table. Naked is how we arrive and leave, naked and alone. Protocol demanded nothing be done to the body before the autopsy, and the grime of the street was obvious, even from a distance.

Segal picked up a clipboard and began reading from the reports: “The first, a male of about 63, had a stomach tumour as big as a full term baby. The second male was about 60 years old. Both his lungs were locked solid with emphysema. It does not say why, but it's probably from smoking the discarded butts of more affluent smokers. The last, a female of about 50, had a liver that was close to non-functioning. Probably an alcoholic, drinking too much cheap wine from the dépanneur for too long. Her blood alcohol level was elevated. For some reason, I don't expect much different from Madame Sans-nom,” Segal said, gesturing to the naked cadaver on the table.

“She's no longer nameless, Dr. Segal” said Vanier. “Her name is Edith Latendresse.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” She wrote the name on her clipboard and returned to reviewing the notes from the earlier autopsies. “From what I can see, my colleagues will probably conclude that death was from natural causes, Inspector. As if all this is natural.” She looked up at her guests. “I'm sorry, gentlemen, I'm getting carried away. Perhaps it's the season.”

“No excuses. This isn't natural, Doctor,” said Vanier, meeting her eye. “It's an affront. Let's do them a service. If they did happen to die by the so-called grace of God on Christmas Eve, at least give them the best damn reports we can, write a few pages of details for them.”

“What are you asking for, Inspector?”

“The star treatment. Pretend it's the Mayor or one of his buddies who turned up stiff. All the tests your people can think of. Every detail. It's all we have. If we're all letting this happen every day, at least we can record the details,” said Vanier.

“We will do our best, Inspector.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am sure that Madame Latendresse would thank you too,” he said nodding in the direction of Edith Latendresse.

“That's something, isn't it?”

“What?” asked Vanier.

“It's something to have a name.”

“That's all she has now.”

Dr. Segal turned to the emaciated body and began talking into the headpiece, bending over to inspect the body. After a fifteen-minute tour of the outer shell, always talking into the microphone, she reached for a surgical knife. Soon she would need sturdier cutting tools. Her first slice was clean, from just below the throat all the way down to the pubis. Vanier was getting squeamish when she sliced and pulled at the skin to expose Mme. Latendresse's organs. He looked to the floor as she picked up the electrical tool and began to cut through bone. There was no reason for him to be here. Everyone knew it. But Vanier still kept coming. Three or four times a year he would sit through an autopsy and force himself to watch bodies being taken apart.