The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  On the screen, the unmistakable figure of Santa Claus appeared from the platform entrance, complete with a white beard and a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked up and down the platform and then walked directly up to the bag lady, put his bag down beside her, and leaned forward, seeming to whisper to her.

  They watched as she raised her head and then her arms as if to welcome Santa. He reached into his sack and pulled out something in the shape of a fire log and handed it to her. She took it and held it for a moment before smiling up at him again. Vanier wondered if she recognized him, or was simply happy to see Santa Claus.

  “Now watch this, sir.”

  In the grainy black and white image, Santa leaned in even closer to the woman, held her chin and kissed the top of her head.

  St. Jacques counted, “One, two, three, four, five. Five seconds, sir. He held the kiss for five seconds!”

  Breaking the kiss, Santa stroked the old lady’s hair and, again, seemed to whisper something to her. Then he picked up his sack and started back along the platform. Before he turned into the platform exit, he stopped and lifted his arm in a farewell wave to the bag lady. Then he was gone.

  “We have him going up the escalator and out the door onto St. Catherine Street. Then we have nothing more until 10 p.m.,” said St. Jacques.

  The operator skipped the tape forward to 22:00, and the image showed the bag lady slowly rise to her feet and put Santa’s gift in one of her bags. Then she pulled them all up and began shuffling along the platform, away from the entrance.

  “What did he give her?” asked Vanier, trying to understand what he had just seen.

  “They found a brand new woolen throw with her, the sort you can find anywhere. Probably useful to keep you warm if you’re sleeping rough. Rolled up tight, it could be the gift.”

  “Anything else from the CC cameras?”

  “That’s all we have for the moment, but we’ve lots to review. M. Savard here has been a lot of help.” She put her hand on the operator’s shoulder and he swiveled around in his chair to face the pair, a huge grin on his face. He was enjoying working with St. Jacques.

  “I’ll let you get on with it, then. I want every image of Santa that we can get. See if we can get a face shot. And get Santa’s timing down; time in, time out.”

  “What about the Santa suit, sir? Maybe it’s a rental.”

  “Right. Have someone contact the owners of every rental shop in town; there can’t be that many. Let’s get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a Santa suit. I don’t care if it is Christmas morning.”

  St. Jacques was writing things down. “I’ll get onto it but there aren’t many people about today. Everyone is off.”

  “See what you can do. And find out if anyone keeps records of homeless deaths. Take a look at the numbers over the last few months and see if there’s anything suspicious. OK?”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and this, sir.” She picked up a brown envelope from the table and handed it to Vanier. “These are the photos of the victims.”

  Vanier reached into the envelope and pulled out five colour photographs. Each was a front-on headshot, like mug shots except the eyes were all closed.

  Inspector Morneau had been watching from a discreet distance, listening to the exchange.

  “Inspector Morneau. If I go to the McGill Metro, could you have one of your people meet me and show me where the victim was found last night?”

  “Certainly, Inspector. I’ll send someone. When you arrive, he will be waiting at the ticket booth inside the University Street entrance. He’ll be in uniform. Just introduce yourself.”

  12.30 PM

  Montreal is rooted in hard, volcanic rock by a giant system of tunneled spaces, an underground city that grew like an ant colony. It started with the metro system, opened just before Expo 67, and hasn’t stopped spreading. Tunnels are main streets connecting underground neighbourhoods where food courts in shopping centres replace village greens. A 35 square kilometre, neon-lit, climate controlled, private metropolis, a Disney-like masquerade of public space controlled so tightly that real city mayors are jealous. Metro Security and private guards swarm through the spaces keeping order, while security cameras manned in real-time see everything so that reaction is always swift. Doors that open early in the morning to welcome consumers are locked at night like the gates of ancient walled cities. By unwritten and ever-changing rules, access is granted and denied at the whim of high school dropouts with uniforms and failed candidates for the police force. It’s a modern world where piped music replaces birdsong and artificial scents replace flowers.

  In this world, the homeless must adjust to a constantly changing level of scrutiny. They may be grudgingly tolerated in one area, providing they keep moving through, and forbidden in others. When they walk from a semi-public metro tunnel into a commercial space they are picked up on security cameras, and guards appear to make sure that they either don’t come in or that they leave quickly.

  The McGill Metro station is the heart of the underground city, occupying a four-acre rectangle at the basement level of surrounding buildings. There are only three street entrances to the station, but there are six others through the adjoining shopping centres. The middle of the station concourse is cut open like a trench, and you can watch the trains on the lower level. Two sets of turnstiles guard access to the platforms, one at each end of the concourse.

  Vanier tried an office building on University Street but the door was locked, with access only for those with electronic keys. He crossed the street to use one of the street entrances.

  It was warm inside, and he undid his coat as he walked towards the ticket booth. A metro security officer was waiting for him. A kid, Haitian by the look of him, with everything hanging from his belt but a gun.

  “Inspector Vanier, I presume,” he said, reaching out his hand with an ear-to-ear grin that lit up his face.

  Vanier took his hand and smiled broadly, reading the name badge, “Constable Duvalier.”

  “Yes, sir. And before you ask, no relation.”

  “Well I’m glad to hear that,” said Vanier, “Papa and Baby Doc were not the best of people. So, Constable Duvalier, can you show me where the body was found?”

  “Of course, Inspector. It was on the eastbound platform, last night. Follow me.”

  Constable Duvalier waved him through the turnstiles with a sign to the sullen ticket seller locked in his booth.

  “He’s not happy to be working on Christmas,” said Duvalier apologetically, leading Vanier down the stairs. “Time and a half, and an extra day’s vacation and he’s not happy. What does it take?”

  He led Vanier down one flight of stairs to the eastbound platform.

  “The body was found down there in the corner,” said Duvalier, pointing to the end of the platform. “He was asleep on the floor.”

  “And nobody told him to leave?”

  “That’s the thing, Inspector. The rules are clear, no sleeping in the metro. Believe me, it’s on the exams to become a metro officer. We all know it. But just because you put on a uniform doesn’t mean you hang up your humanity.”

  Vanier thought about that.

  “And all the others, they’re in the union. It’s not part of their job description.”

  “And we’re all human.”

  “Christmas Eve, it’s minus twenty degrees outside, all the shelters are full, or closed, or they won’t take them because they’ve been drinking. So what do you do? You throw someone out in the street? No. People look the other way. The cleaners push the machines up and down the platform and notice nothing. The train drivers come and go and see nothing. And my colleagues don’t happen to look in that direction. The guys on the screens, for some reason, they can’t pick it up. What’s that? A conspiracy? So he lay there. And he was dead. Who knows how long? Who’s to blame?”

  “Constable Duvalier, if I was blamed every time I looked the other way I’d be selling newspapers.”

  “It’s not easy. Do it
too much and the rules become arbitrary.”

  Vanier thought about that too.

  They walked down the platform to where the body was found. Duvalier stood in a corner at the end of a metro platform and pointed at the floor. The sleeper would have been clearly visible to a driver going in the opposite direction, and to the cameras trained on the platform.

  “That’s it?” said Vanier, almost to himself.

  “That’s it,” said Duvalier.

  They went back upstairs.

  “You’ll have to exit to the street. All the building entrances are closed.”

  “Thank you, Constable Duvalier,” said Vanier as he turned to climb a shut-down escalator to the street.

  1.35 PM

  On Christmas afternoon, the building housing the Montreal Police Headquarters was almost deserted. Interview Room 6 had been set aside for the personal possessions of the victims, and Vanier was in there because he had nothing better to do. Four separate piles of garbage bags were propped against the wall; the possessions of the fifth victim had still not been found. On a sheet of white paper, someone had given each pile a number. He grabbed two garbage bags that sat under the sheet marked Number 1 and brought them to the edge of the table, next to where he had dropped a yellow note-pad and a pen. He tipped the contents of the first bag onto the table and started taking inventory, listing each piece before putting it back into the bag. Before he had refilled the first bag, he changed his mind and decided to walk to the exhibit room to get cardboard boxes and labels. He grabbed as many of the flat, unfolded boxes as he could manage, putting sheets of sticky labels and a felt pen in his pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and returned to the room. He pulled on the gloves and got to work, ignoring the fetid smell filling the room.

  Sorting through the first pile again, he began listing bulkier items: a sleeping bag and two blankets; a couple of T-shirts, one from St. Petersburg, Florida, the other from the last world tour of the Police; three pairs of formerly white Y-front underwear, three pairs of socks, and three oversized acrylic sweaters. He wrote it all down. Next was a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the Journal de Montreal — the insulation of choice for the homeless. The second bag was less bulky. It held a hairbrush and a toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, an empty plastic drinking cup from Starbucks, a zip-lock bag full of cigarette butts, and a half-eaten hamburger from McDonald’s. He wondered what kind of homeless person would buy his coffee at Starbucks, and remembered the container found by Neilson last night. He pulled the top off and sniffed. It smelled of rancid milk and alcohol. He set it aside for testing and returned to his inventory. There was a thick plastic bag from the Societe des Alcools filled with coins. Vanier counted the coins and wrote down $37.88. There remained two bottles of pills, both Celebrex 200 mg, one empty, the other half-full. Prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier to George Morissette. The labels on the pill containers also said they were dispensed by the pharmacy at the Old Brewery Mission.

  Taking a felt pen from the desk, he wrote on a sticky label: George Morissette. Putting a name on the possessions was progress. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. He emptied the envelope, laid the papers on the table, and sat down.

  There was a disintegrating certificate issued by the Ordre de Notaires du Quebec certifying that Maitre George Edouard Morissette was admitted as a Notary of the Province of Quebec in 1970. Next, there was an old photograph of a pretty woman holding a child of about two on her lap, sitting in a garden, and smiling at the camera. There was a social insurance card, a driver’s license that expired in 1980 and gave Maitre Morissette’s date of birth as March 25, 1949 and a booklet entitled: Alcoholics Anonymous Montreal Meetings. Vanier flipped through it, surprised at how many meetings there were, you could go to a different one, three times a day every day and never go to the same place twice in a month. Each listing showed the language: French, English, Italian, Spanish, and there were even bilingual meetings. Finally, Vanier picked up a small book worn with use: Twenty Four Hours A Day. Flipping to December 25, he read:

  I pray that I may be truly thankful on this Christmas Day.

  I pray that I may bring my gifts and lay them on the altar.

  Morissette never got to see December 25. Maybe he would have been thankful if he did. Vanier wasn’t sure. He got up and started to assemble the first folded box. Even though the instructions were clear on the box, and he had seen it done countless times, it took effort and cursing until he had a functional Exhibit Box. He filled it, throwing the half-eaten hamburger in the garbage. Assembling another box, he filled it too, and then a third. When he finished, he reached for the sheet of labels. He looked at the name he had written on the first label, George Morissette, and added Notaire, 25/03/49, and Box 1 of 3, before peeling it off and attaching it to the first box. He prepared another label and attached it to the second box, Box 2 of 3, then Box 3 of 3. He placed the boxes one on top of the other against the wall and turned to the bags labelled Number 2.

  He continued methodically, stopping only after the third pile to go to the staff canteen for a coffee. When he started in the force, the only choice in coffee was milk and sugar. Now the machines interrogated you: Columbian, Costa Rican, Sumatran, or House Blend? And not just regular coffee, perhaps a latte or cappuccino, or even an espresso? Caffeinated or decaffeinated? Vanier pushed the buttons for his usual blend of Columbian regular, milk, no sugar. It tasted a little better than when he had started in the force.

  He took the coffee and walked back to the interview room. With only one more pile to go, his mood was lightening. He felt comfortable with this work in the quiet of the deserted building. He was fascinated by the lives of others and how much you could tell about someone by looking at what they hold precious. He was doing something, and time was passing.

  The smell from the possessions in the interview room had become stronger, filling the place with a human smell of sweat and dirt. After a struggle, he got one of the windows to open, and cold air entered with a cleansing presence. He kept his face in the rush of outside air flooding into the room while he sipped his coffee and surveyed the work. Eleven boxes were stacked against the wall; he had put a photograph of each victim on their boxes. George Morissette, the Notary from McGill; Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk from the cleaning room in the Berri Metro; and Edith Latendresse kissed by Santa. Mme. Latendresse had four boxes, more clothes but fewer papers, only a social insurance card and some prescription medicine to identify her.

  He began emptying the contents of the last two bags onto the table. Victim number 4’s bags contained the usual assortment of old clothes, rotting food and little else. There was $8 in change in a sock, a roll of toilet paper and drugs, again prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier, this time for Pierre Brun: Zeldox and an empty bottle of Oxycodone, a powerful painkiller with street value. Pierre Brun could have eased his pain by taking the pills or selling them. Vanier wondered which he did. And he wondered about Dr. Alain Grenier, who had prescribed drugs for all of the victims.

  It was 4.30 p.m. and already dark when he finished by placing the picture of Pierre Brun on top of two boxes piled against the wall. Feeling cold for the first time, he struggled again with the window and closed it.

  The temperature outside was still falling, but he had no idea what the weather was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t listened to a weather forecast in days. He had all but given up listening to the radio weeks ago, admitting defeat to the omnipresent Christmas spirit. The only exception was the hourly news. Several times a day he tuned to CBC to listen to the news. If there was a death or serious injury of a soldier in Afghanistan, it was always the first story. If nobody had been killed or injured, if there were no ambushes or roadside bombs, he turned it off, relieved until the next time.

  He wondered about the people sleeping outside, realizing how little he knew about them. The last few nights had been cold and damp, and he imagined the shelters were full. But there were still people who chose
to stay out in the cold. People who refused the warmth of a shelter to hide in a corner somewhere and take the ultimate risk. He grabbed a phone book, turned to the A’s and sat down. Minutes later he grabbed his cell phone and pushed number 6 on his speed dial.

  “Allo?”

  “Anjili, it’s me.”

  Dr. Anjili Segal was one of Montreal’s six coroners. She and Vanier had been friends for over ten years until a brief affair at the end of the summer ended quickly when they realized that they were better friends than lovers. As lovers, they brought out the worst in each other. Vanier hoped that they could salvage their friendship, but it was proving difficult; they had crossed so many lines.

  Silence, and then, “Calling to wish me Merry Christmas, Luc?”

  “Well, yes. Anjili, Merry Christmas. How was your Christmas?”

  “Just bloody marvelous, as you Anglos say.”

  “Anjili, how many times do I have to tell you I am not an Anglo. My name is Luc Vanier, you can’t get more Quebecois than that.”

  “Luc you’re an Anglo. You spent too much time in Ontario. OK, so we’ll settle for Franco-Ontarian. You prefer that?”

  “Call me whatever, Anjili. The bodies from the metro.”

  “Ah, business.”

  He ignored the rebuke. “I thought maybe you could help me. I’ve found prescription bottles in the belongings of the victims from Christmas Eve. They all have Dr. Alain Grenier as the prescribing doctor on them, but I’ve checked. There are 23 people listed as Alain or A. Grenier. I was wondering…

  “The code?”

  “Well, yes. The numbers on the label. They link to the doctor, right?”

  “That’s why you’re the detective. Give me the numbers Luc, I’ll look them up.

  He grabbed a bottle from Pierre Brun’s box and read off the numbers. “Wait,” she said, and he heard the clunk of the phone on a table. She was back in three minutes. “Dr. Alain Grenier. His office is at 5620 boulevard St. Joseph. That’s it, no suite number. The phone number is 514-450-1872. By the way, he was admitted in 1973, which would put him in his sixties. Anything else?”