The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  “I was wondering. I know it’s the holidays, but how soon can we get autopsy results?”

  “Luc, you never change. Always work, isn’t it?”

  “Anjili, this is important. There are five people dead.”

  “I know, Luc.”

  “I’d like to see something as soon as possible, even something preliminary. We’re spinning our wheels here until we get a cause of death.”

  “We can probably start the autopsies tomorrow morning, I’m not certain but I’ll try. It’s going to take two days at least to do all five. Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know some specifics.”

  “Thanks, Anjili. And listen, Happy Christmas.”

  “Yes, Luc. You too.” Vanier knew that tone of voice, tired and unhappy. And he wished he could do something about it.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, but if we have a murderer out there, I want to get him.”

  “I know you do Luc. I know.” She disconnected before him. He dialed Grenier’s number, leaving a message with the operator of the answering service for him to call. Vanier clicked off his phone, turned the light off and made his way to the parking lot.

  7 PM

  Two hours later, Dr. Grenier faced Vanier from behind his desk in his office on St. Joseph Boulevard. He had been at home when he got Vanier’s message and called back to suggest they meet at his office where he kept his records. Grenier was tall and thin, with an angular face that struck Vanier as not much given to smiling. He was having trouble making eye-contact. The doctor was wearing a canary yellow cardigan that Vanier decided must have been a Christmas present; it was too bright for him to have chosen it himself.

  The office was spartan, a cheap desk with two chairs in front of it, and two grey filing cabinets against the wall. Files were stacked neatly on the right corner of his desk, and others, with notes attached by paperclip, on the left. There was an impressive collection of framed certificates on one wall and a large black crucifix with a suffering Christ on another. Unless you counted the bleeding Christ or the certificates, there was no artwork.

  “Thanks for seeing me at short notice, Doctor. The holidays are always hard and I appreciate your time,” said Vanier.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Grenier.

  Vanier opened the envelope and slipped five photographs onto the desk. Grenier spread them out and looked shaken. He didn’t look up. “These are the victims from Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes, Doctor. Four of them had prescription bottles with your name on them. We’re still looking for the possessions of the fifth. Do you recognize them?”

  “Of course I do. I was their prescribing physician.”

  “For all of them?”

  “Yes.”

  Grenier confirmed the names of the first four and identified the fifth, Celine Plante. Then he stood and pulled five files from one of the cabinets. He looked at each and rattled off the dates of birth. Mme. Plante would have been fifty-two on January 3. He looked at Vanier like he was finished.

  “I’m trying to piece together as much information about them as possible. Anything will help”

  “Well, I’m not sure that I can be of much help. I was only their doctor.”

  “Why were they seeing you?”

  “They were sick, Inspector.”

  “How sick were they?”

  Grenier hesitated. “Very sick. If you were to ask me to name ten of my patients who feature most in my prayers, these five would be on the list.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Different reasons. I can go through the files individually and give the Coroner the precise information. However, to put it bluntly, each of them was terminally ill.”

  “That’s why you prayed for them?”

  “What do my prayers have to do with anything?”

  “Well, if you prayed for them, you were worried about them. And now they’re dead.”

  “Yes, I prayed for them. I pray for many people. I see pain every day, and terrible suffering is the companion of many of my clients. I suppose that’s an inevitable part of human existence, but in the bosom of a close family it can, at least, be endured. For the homeless, there is no relief. Without family or friends there’s only the pain. That is why I devote so much of my time to my clinic at the Old Brewery Mission. I try, as best I can, to ease their burden, and when medicine isn’t enough, I pray for them.” His fingers were running slowly over the photographs, touching each one in turn.

  “So all five were terminal cases?”

  “For one reason or another, yes. But it’s more than that. It’s hard to understand the level of suffering they were enduring, Inspector. It’s not just physical. Street people, the homeless, the destitute, they were all children once, although for most, even their childhood was hell. But, they were all young once with ambitions higher than the streets. And things went wrong and kept going wrong. These five all had their own stories. Pathetic, tragic, inhuman, whatever. Their lives were hell and they knew it. Well, except for Madame Latendresse.”

  He picked up her photograph and stared at it.

  “Except for Madame Latendresse, they were all aware of how bad their situation was. You don’t lose your ability to feel just because you’re on the street. You can still hurt. And these people hurt terribly. Not just because of their diseases. That’s why I prayed for them. That their burdens be eased.”

  Vanier looked at him. The doctor’s eyes were fixed on the photos, and he was talking without giving any information, as if filling the room with sound was enough.

  “Was prayer that important to them? You ministered to their health.”

  “Prayer is important for all of us, even for you. When all else fails, there is always prayer. These people were hopeless cases. There was nothing left to do for them medically except ease their pain. They had entered the jurisdiction — as you policemen are fond of saying — the jurisdiction of St. Jude.”

  “The patron saint of hopeless causes?”

  “I see you remember something of your religious training.”

  “Were they aware of that?”

  “Of what?”

  “That there was no hope.”

  “As aware as they could be.”

  “So they could have decided to end it all? Suicide?”

  Dr. Grenier thought for a moment and looked up at Vanier.

  “No. Not suicide. It’s true that some street people kill themselves, but it’s the younger ones, the drug addicts, people who have fallen too fast. If you can survive two years on the streets, you can survive 30. The streets weed out the suicidal very quickly, and these five were veterans. None of them was suicidal. Madame Latendresse, for example, is, I’m sorry, was — Madame Latendresse was so disconnected from reality that she couldn’t contemplate non-existence. She would have carried on in her own world until that world stopped. The others? The others were like the Legionnaires of Cameron.”

  “What?”

  “Not what, Inspector. Who. The Legionnaires of Cameron. Sixty soldiers of the French Foreign Legion who held off two thousand Mexican infantrymen and cavalrymen for twelve hours. At the end, only six legionnaires remained, and when they ran out of ammunition, instead of surrendering, they fixed bayonets and charged the Mexican army. Surrender was simply not an option. It is the same with these people. Suicide was not an option in their universe. If it had been, they would have done it long ago. These people have been losing all their life but they just didn’t know how to give up. They had fallen as far as they did precisely because they couldn’t give up and end it all.”

  “So why would they all die on the same evening?”

  Grenier’s hands gave a slight tremble. He was making an effort to control himself. “I believe the Coroner will find it was natural causes. Quite a coincidence, I agree. And the scientist in me hesitates to believe in coincidences of that magnitude. But the believer in me knows that it is often difficult to understand God’s work.”

  “Is there anyone else
I can speak with to find out more about these people? Who else would have known them?”

  Dr. Grenier had a distant look on his face, as though he was operating on two levels, talking to Vanier and thinking; and thinking was taking up more of his mind.

  “Well, they were all known in the community, the shelters and the drop-in centres. You might try their social workers; there would be files on them. But social workers have case loads so unmanageable that they can never get to know their clients.”

  “Anyone else?”

  Grenier hesitated again. “If you’re looking for someone who might know these people as individuals rather than faces or numbers, you might try Father Drouin. My friend, Henri Drouin. He works out of the Cathedral. He’s a good man, a holy man. If he knows these people, he will be able to tell you much more than I.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Our paths crossed in our missions, and we became friends. He does wonderful work with this community. Sometimes I think that my drugs are a pale substitute for the spiritual comfort he gives to his flock. Because of him, I started attending mass in the Cathedral.”

  “Could he be involved with these deaths?”

  Grenier seemed shocked at the suggestion. “Father Henri? If you knew him, you would know how ridiculous a proposition that is. Take it from me, if that’s the direction of your investigation, you are on the wrong track. Father Henri is incapable of hurting anyone. All of these unfortunate people were going to die soon, and they all died on Christmas Eve. That’s it. There’s nothing more. It’s a tragedy, but I don’t think there was any human intervention. They were simply called home.”

  “One last thing, Doctor. Do you own or have access to a Santa Claus costume?”

  “What?”

  “A Santa Claus costume. Do you have one? Or if you had to, could you get one?”

  “Well, I suppose if I needed one, I could always rent one, but no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume. Why do you ask?”

  “Just one of the questions that we’re working on, that’s all. And where were you on Christmas Eve?”

  “Me? You think I could have killed these people? Really, Inspector, that’s going too far.”

  “I’m sorry if the question upsets you. But I would like an answer.”

  “I was at home until about 10 p.m., with my wife. I went to Midnight Mass at the Cathedral. My wife stayed home. She was tired. After Mass, I came home.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Vanier. “One last thing. Could I have a copy of your files on these people?”

  “I can’t turn them over just like that, it’s a question of patient confidentiality. But if the Coroner’s office calls, I can have the files copied and delivered tomorrow. I need an official request.”

  Vanier sat back in his chair, hoping that silence would prompt the doctor to say something, if only to fill the void. Grenier continued staring at the photos for a few moments and then looked up. “Is there anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. But don’t hold back on me, Doctor. If there’s anything you think might help me, you should tell me.” Vanier stood up and leaned forward with his hands on the desk leaving grease marks on the polished surface. “What are you thinking about that you can’t tell me?”

  Grenier tried to look Vanier in the eyes but could only manage it for a moment. “There is nothing. I’ve told you what I know.”

  “Maybe. But what about what you suspect? Do you have any hunches, Doctor?”

  More silence. Grenier was waging an inner battle. “There is nothing more, Inspector.”

  “If only life were so easy. If only we could choose to avoid the difficult by ignoring it. Doctor, I need help and I get the impression that you’re not being entirely candid with me. I think you’re holding back.”

  “That’s an outrageous suggestion. If I knew something that might help you I would tell you.”

  “Doctor, I love my job. And sometimes I get calls from lawyers, from the Chief, from the Mayor’s office, asking, Why are you persecuting this poor man? I love those calls. If I weren’t good at what I do, my ass would have been canned long ago. But I get results. And if I find out that you’re holding something back, I’ll be persecuting you.”

  “Are you suggesting…?” he asked, indignant.

  “No suggestions. I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you. These people were killed, and I’m going to find the killer. If you know anything and choose not to tell me, that’s your problem. But when I find out who did this, I’ll figure out if you haven’t been entirely cooperative, and I’ll come back for you. Accessory? Withholding evidence? Who knows? But I’ll be back to haunt you. As for the killer? Pray to St. Jude for him, because his really is a hopeless case. I’ll get him.”

  “You don’t even know that they were killed.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence, Doctor.”

  Vanier lifted his hands from the desk and stood up.

  “One last thing, Doctor. They don’t stop. You know that, don’t you? Once they start, they don’t stop. If you know anything and don’t tell me, the next victim is yours. So why don’t you go through your Top 10 list and try to predict who that will be. Here is my card, Dr. Grenier. Call me. I don’t sleep well, so anytime is good.”

  Vanier handed him the card. “I can see myself out.”

  He left Grenier motionless at his desk, looking at Vanier’s business card. Grenier hardly noticed him leaving.

  9.30 PM

  The Cathedral, Marie Reine du Monde, squats on a downtown block next to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, imposing the Catholic Church’s presence on Montreal. It’s a scale model of St. Peter’s in Rome, but along its mantle it’s not 13 statues of Jesus and his apostles but the patron saints of Montreal’s 13 parishes keeping a close watch on the faithful. Behind the Cathedral, two long three-story buildings house the offices and apartments of the soldiers of the Church.

  The snow banks had been cleared outside the Cathedral, and Vanier parked in front. He followed a pathway that had been shoveled from the street up to the main doors, and tried each without success. He followed the cleared snow-track back to the street and walked around the building until he found a shoveled path to a door with a light over it, like a stage door behind a theatre, the only way in after the show was over. He rang the bell. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and a frail old priest in a cassock looked at him, his bony, pink hand holding the door, ready to slam it shut it as soon as he could get rid of the visitor.

  “Good evening, Father. Merry Christmas.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. I’d like to see Father Henri Drouin.”

  “Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”

  “And when might that be?”

  “Please, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn’t have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”

  “Does he have a cell phone?”

  “I’m afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”

  Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it’s important that I speak to him.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”

  The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.

  Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the crim
inals.

  The inside of the Volvo was cold, and Vanier cursed as it took three turns of the ignition for the engine to turn over. His breath was visible and clouding the windscreen as he pulled out of the parking space. He was hungry, and there were only empty cupboards at home; a curry would be just the thing. Pakistanis don’t celebrate Christmas, do they?

  He turned left onto Sherbrooke and continued west to Notre Dame de Grace. Lights from the Ganges restaurant reflected on the snow outside. The street was deserted except for two cars parked in front of the restaurant, and he parked behind them. As he walked through the door, he was greeted by a small dark man in a white shirt, hand out and grinning at his arrival. He reached out for the soft hand, as the awesome, comforting smell of an Indian kitchen went to work on his stomach.

  “Luc. Wonderful to see you again. Can I wish you a Merry Christmas?” Midhat Mahmud welcomed his first non-Asian guest of the night.

  “Midhat, it’s great to see you.” The restaurant was empty except for members of an extended family from the sub-continent who were close to finishing their meal.

  “We are a little quiet tonight, so you can sit wherever you like. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “A pint of Bass, Midhat.”

  The Bass came with a plate of pappadum, and Vanier drank and began to relax. He munched on the pappadum and inhaled the aromas. Sitar music played in the background, and Christmas was a thousand miles away. The waiter came, and Vanier ordered batata wada to start, followed by lamb dopiaza, mixed vegetable bhaji, rice and nan.

  Midhat returned from the kitchen, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite his friend. They had met years ago when Vanier, still in uniform, had stopped in for a meal after a long shift. As Midhat was presenting the bill, Vanier asked him what he thought of the execution of Prime Minister Bhutto in Pakistan. It had happened years earlier, but Vanier had been fascinated by what amounted to a judicial murder. His question struck a chord, and Midhat, who had recently graduated from Concordia and had been thrown into running a family business serving strange food to an even stranger population, sat down and unloaded. Born in Pakistan and educated in the West, he had a lot to say and was happy to have a Quebecer to say it to. Vanier had tried to explain that he wasn’t a native Quebecer, but it didn’t matter, the restaurateur was happy to have any connection to the society he and his family were living in.