Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  The detective sergeant was not really surprised to see his superior at the station, even after six o’clock. It was not rare for Wagner to stay at his desk late into the evening. Since his divorce the year before, he lost himself in his work.

  “It’s Hamel on the telephone!”

  Ten seconds later, Mercure was in the squad room, where four officers were waiting anxiously for him. The detective sergeant took the telephone Wagner handed him and noticed that the speaker was on. It irritated him a little that everyone would hear the conversation, but he knew Wagner didn’t want to miss anything. With his free hand, he took out his notebook and pen and wrote the time of the call while answering in a completely natural voice, “Good evening, Dr. Hamel. This is Detective Sergeant Mercure.”

  “Why was I transferred to you?”

  Always that cool control.

  “I’m in charge of your case.”

  “My case . . .”

  Wagner and the other police officers were listening attentively.

  “I just watched the news. They’re talking quite a bit about my case.”

  “That’s surely no surprise to you.”

  “No, of course not. But they give a lot of information about the monster.”

  “About who?”

  “The monster.”

  Silence. Hamel continued, “They gave his name on TV. I suppose they also talked about his past, gave his background and all that nonsense.”

  “What’s your point, Dr. Hamel?”

  “I don’t want any more information about him to be revealed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want to hear any personal information whatsoever about the monster on TV. Not his name, his age, or what he did for a living—nothing.”

  Mercure looked up at Wagner. The chief was rotating one finger close to his head, indicating that Hamel was crazy.

  “Come now, we have no control over that.”

  “Find a way.”

  “Listen, Dr. Hamel . . .”

  “No, you listen to me. If the TV news . . .”

  “I’m telling you we don’t have—”

  “Stop barking, you dirty dog, and listen to me!” Hamel suddenly exclaimed.

  Everyone was taken aback by the outburst. Stunned at first, Mercure quickly jotted a few words in his notebook, knitting his eyebrows. Calm again, as if he had never lost his temper, Hamel continued, “If I hear the least bit of information about my prisoner’s life, I will put him through the worst time of his life.”

  “May I remind you that he’s already going through the worst time of his life?”

  Hamel was silent, no doubt caught off guard. At last he said, “I could kill him before the seventh day.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Do you want to take that chance?”

  Mercure didn’t answer. Hamel added, “And torture covers a lot. You can always do something worse.”

  Mercure felt an icy shiver run up his back from the base of his spine to the back of his neck, giving him gooseflesh. My God, what had happened to the man he had just seen laughing so many times in the videos? An image of the tormented man came to the policeman’s mind. Hamel hadn’t just grown a new skin, he had put on a carapace, a suit of armor, dark and cold.

  “I’m a surgeon, Inspector; don’t forget that. I can do what I like with a human body and still keep it alive.”

  Wagner ran his fingers through his hair and pursed his lips as if to whistle.

  “Precisely. You’re a doctor,” Mercure replied. “What about the Hippocratic oath? You’re supposed to heal people, not take their lives.”

  “Doctors treat humans, not monsters.”

  The policeman licked his lips, trying to find another tack to take, but he wasn’t able to. The man’s hatred was as smooth and slippery as a wall of ice.

  “We can’t just impose your demand on all the media.”

  “Just TV. Just the French-language channels.”

  A pause, and then: “That’s it. I’ll call you on Monday.”

  “Do you realize you’re going to lose everything?”

  “I’ve already lost everything, Inspector, I already told you that. You’re repeating yourself.”

  “But you still have your partner. Unless you were already losing her too . . .”

  Wagner tilted his head to one side as if to ask where Mercure was going with this.

  “It’s true, when you kissed her at your birthday party, it looked more like a mechanical kiss than a demonstration of love.”

  Mercure was far from convinced that this would get him anywhere. He even felt vaguely ridiculous, and judging by the looks of his colleagues, the impression was shared. But he was putting out feelers at random. He had to try something.

  But all Hamel said, without a hint of emotion, was “Do something quickly. I’m planning on watching the news before I go to bed.”

  He hung up. Several sighs were heard in the room. Mercure hung up too, and said to an officer, “Pat, find out where he was calling from.”

  * * *

  In the apartment in Charette, Bruno turned off the computer. The phone call hadn’t been a bad thing: it would lead the police even further off the track. Still, he had to avoid coming here too often. It was not impossible that they would discover the false lead in Longueuil and would trace him back here. It was precisely because of that possibility that he had called from this apartment and not from Josh’s place.

  And what was that nonsense about him and Sylvie? Mercure must have watched their videos. Funny idea . . . In any case, it didn’t make any sense. It proved that Mercure really had nothing and was grasping at straws.

  He put on the wig and beard, and left. On the sidewalk, he met a man who was about to go up to the upstairs apartment. The man looked surprised to see a new tenant, and gave him a smile, mumbling a friendly good evening. He was about to add something, maybe even start up a conversation, but Bruno just said a quick hello and continued on his way.

  He got into his car and drove off.

  * * *

  A heated discussion had broken out in the Drummondville police station on how they should proceed. Mercure thought they should give in to Hamel’s demand. Wagner was less convinced.

  “And what then? If we don’t listen to him, he’ll cut off three of Lemaire’s fingers instead of two, is that it?”

  “If we get him mad, he could lose control and kill Lemaire earlier than planned!” replied Mercure. “And even if he doesn’t kill him, even if he only cuts off one extra finger—as you say!—the least we can do is try to avert any,” he searched for the word a moment, “any additional reprisals against Lemaire. We have a duty to do that.”

  Wagner was convinced. The word “duty” had had its effect.

  Boisvert, who was in the room, sighed with irritation. “I think we’re going to a lot of trouble to protect a child murderer!”

  The chief shot him a withering look, and Boisvert said nothing more. He just shrugged. Mercure read the words he had written in his notebook before: Told me to stop barking, called me a dog.

  He finally looked up at his superior.

  “So, Greg?”

  Wagner sighed, his hands on his hips.

  “Okay. We’re going to need the Montreal police for that.”

  Relieved, Mercure said he would take care of it. He started walking to his desk but stopped. “By the way, we have another clue . . .”

  “I know. He’s hiding in a place where he has a TV. Therefore, there’s electricity.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s a huge help,” Wagner said with dark irony.

  Pat hung up the phone and said Hamel had used his cell phone again.

  “And the cell that retransmitted the message is the same one as yesterday, in Longueuil.”

  Wagner and Mercure looked at each other with surprise.

  “So he really is hiding there!” exclaimed the chief. “I’ll call the Longueuil station right a
way so that they can get to work on it. They’ll comb the area served by that cell, you can be sure of that.”

  And he disappeared into his office. Mercure looked dubious. He didn’t understand how a man who had planned everything down to the tiniest detail could make the blunder of hiding in the middle of a city . . . and then could carelessly use his cell phone twice. He would be found quite quickly—in twenty-four hours at most. But that didn’t fit at all with Mercure’s profile of Hamel.

  He shrugged and walked to his office. Even if Hamel was sure to be found soon, there was no reason to take chances. So he called the Montreal police and told them about Hamel’s demands.

  * * *

  Bruno had been sitting in front of the TV for at least two hours, watching programs that, until now, had never interested him. He tried to forget the monster’s name, but in vain. Anthony Lemaire. He couldn’t get it out of his head. But he had to forget it, to put it as far as possible out of his mind and erase every trace of humanity associated with the monster.

  He was finishing his third beer. He was not drunk, not even tipsy. It took him quite a bit more to get drunk. He just felt more relaxed. Usually, he also felt a kind of lightness, but not now. Not even alcohol could overcome the heaviness he felt. All the same, he felt okay.

  He brought the beer to his lips and surprised himself by finishing it in two gulps. He hesitated before going to get another, a fourth. What reason would he give Sylvie if she were here and had asked him why he was drinking so much?

  Shit! Four beers, that was nothing! Sometimes he drank more! What had gotten into him to make him think like that?

  He stood up and walked to the monster’s room. Before, when Bruno had come back from Charette, his prisoner had called to him loudly. Had he been shouting all the time Bruno had been gone? Bruno hadn’t even bothered to go see him. But he had been quiet now for a couple of hours.

  As soon as Bruno came into the room, the monster, who was leaning against the table, sat up, excited, clanking the chains on his hands.

  “Is this it now? Have you come to free me?”

  Bruno took a few steps forward, struck by a nauseating smell. The plate of pasta on the floor was not only empty, but spotless—the monster had licked it clean. A little farther away, about two meters from the table, the presence of a small dark pile explained the stench. Humiliated, the monster mumbled that he had not been able to hold it any longer. He went back on the offensive.

  “I tell you it wasn’t me! What do I have to say to make you believe me?”

  Bruno looked at him solemnly, and the monster hesitated between hope and fear. His words came so quickly that they were barely understandable:

  “I was set up by the cops! I didn’t want to plead guilty, but they forced me! And the DNA tests were rigged! They’re a bunch of bastards. Damn dirty dogs! I’m innocent! Come on! Do you really think I could rape and kill a little girl?”

  His lips quivering, he tried a pathetic smile, which sent an electric shock through Bruno’s soul. He went very close to the monster. The injured knee was stable. Perfect.

  The monster held out his chained wrists.

  “Come on . . . let me go . . .”

  Without a word, Bruno opened his fly and pulled out his penis. The monster was taken aback at first, and then he suddenly thought he understood.

  “Oh, you want me to . . . to . . .”

  Bruno didn’t answer. Impassive, he held his member in his right hand, a half a meter from the monster’s face. There was revulsion on the monster’s face, but he didn’t dare to defy him openly.

  “I . . . I can’t do that, man!”

  However, he reached toward the organ, his face more and more tense. And when he closed his eyes and started to painfully open his mouth, the urine splashed his face. His head jerked back so suddenly that it hit the tabletop. He tried to protect his face with his hands, shouting incoherently, but the stream of urine continued to spray him. Blinded, he managed to grab Bruno by the hips, but Bruno kicked him in the belly and he let go. Bruno continued to relieve himself on his prisoner, his eyes sparkling. Is this how he humiliated my daughter, the son of a bitch? Well, now it’s my turn to spray him, to cover him with filth, to defile him! And Bruno, his mouth twisted in an evil grin, kept pissing on the monster’s belly, his legs, and especially, his face. The monster doubled over, his hands on his belly, gasping for breath and spitting out the urine that had gone in his mouth.

  When the stream finally subsided, Bruno looked at his prisoner lying on the floor in a puddle, coughing and cursing, his wet hair sticking to his face. Then he turned and walked to the door.

  “Fuck you!” shouted the monster behind him. “Fuck you, you sick bastard! When the police get you, I’m going to find you and rip off your head, do you hear me? You’re dead, asshole!”

  In spite of the closed door, the shouting continued for a few moments.

  In the living room, Bruno sat down on the couch and started watching TV again. It had done him enormous good. In every sense of the word. He had the feeling he had just climbed another rung on the ladder leading toward the satisfaction he was seeking. Yes, one rung higher, certainly.

  He suddenly tried to remember the monster’s name. He thought as hard as he could, but could not come up with it.

  He had managed to forget it.

  He stretched his legs with pleasure. He did not feel like beer at all anymore. He started taking an interest in the show on TV.

  * * *

  Mercure hung up, relieved. The boys from the Montreal police had just called. They had confirmed that the three French-language networks, SRC, TVA, and Quatre-Saisons, would follow instructions regarding Lemaire. They had grumbled a bit, of course, but had finally agreed, especially when the Montreal chief had mentioned the possibility of an injunction . . . if he were given no choice, of course.

  Mercure stood up and looked out at Lindsay Street, which was lighted by street lamps and store windows but was as deserted as a country lane. Now all he had to do was go home to his too big house, have a bite, watch a little TV . . . and think about Madelaine, of course.

  Again he thought about the visit he had to make to Demers this week.

  He grabbed his coat. In the hallway, he heard from the squad room that a fight had been reported in a motel room. He saw the light coming from under Wagner’s door. He thought for a moment of going in to see him, but then walked to the exit.

  * * *

  At ten o’clock, Bruno watched the Radio-Canada news. The images were the same and so was the journalist’s voice, but there were a few differences in the text:

  “. . . held prisoner for two days now. The kidnapped man raped and killed the young daughter of the same Bruno Hamel on . . .”

  Bruno nodded. He listened to part of the story: there was no specific information on the monster, his life or his personality. Bruno changed the channel to Télé-Métropole, where the report was just ending. This time, they just called the monster “the prisoner,” and once again said nothing about him.

  He turned off the TV, satisfied and even a little surprised. He had more power than he’d thought.

  * * *

  He stretched. Although he’d gotten up very late, he was dead tired. And tonight he would sleep in Josh’s bed.

  But first he felt like climbing another rung on the ladder of satisfaction.

  When he entered the room, the smell of excrement and urine made him grimace. The monster was lying on his back, asleep. His knee was still swollen, still purplish, but it hadn’t really gotten worse. The monster had moved away from the table a little, trying no doubt to avoid the puddle of urine.

  Without hesitation, Bruno grabbed the sledgehammer and whistled loudly as he approached the sleeping man. The monster started, opened his eyes, and saw Bruno brandishing the weapon. His face had barely started to twist in fear when the sledgehammer crushed his left knee.

  Another dull crack, another horrible scream. Bruno stepped back a few paces and his feature
s relaxed. He contemplated the monster, who was screaming on the floor and writhing in pain, moving only the upper part of his body now that both his knees were broken. For a few minutes, Bruno watched the grotesque spectacle, which he did not find unpleasant.

  So, asshole, did Jasmine twist like that under your body while you were breaking her, destroying her? Did you look at her with the same pleasure I find in watching you suffer now?

  Bruno felt his soul climb one more rung. But as he reached that higher level, he thought he heard a weaker, more muted sound mingled with the monster’s shouts. He tilted his head slightly, listening carefully. The sound was too weak for him to identify. Perhaps it was a distortion produced by the larynx as a result of so much screaming.

  He tried to ignore that dissonant sound and continue enjoying the spectacle. But that secondary sound, that distortion, really bothered him, though he couldn’t say why.

  When he was completely sated by the scene, he left, closing the door behind him, and went into Josh’s bedroom across the hall. The room was much smaller than the other one and held only a double bed and a dresser. Bruno got undressed and lay down. In the dark, he could still hear the monster moaning. No calls, no words, only constant whimpering. Bruno listened carefully. The strange, diffuse sound had disappeared. It must be something that was audible only from close up.

  He fell asleep to the sound of the same concert as the night before.

  DAY 3

  SITTING NEAR THE BIG WINDOW of the St. George Pub, Mercure was concentrating so hard on rereading his notes, looking for patterns in Hamel’s two calls, that he had hardly touched his coffee.

  One constant was Hamel’s calm, cold detachment. He was nothing like the father in the happy, sociable family in the video from the day before. Nothing like the man who put up Amnesty International posters . . . and a Picasso painting depicting the excesses of human violence and horror.

  Another constant was Hamel’s lucidity. He was aware of what he was doing, aware that he was committing a crime, aware of the consequences. So aware that he even intended, at the end, to turn himself in to the authorities. Because, as he had said twice, he had lost everything. Except the possibility of revenge.