by Peter Kirby
“Inspector, the homeless live in a small world. They know everyone in their brutal village. Their world is so small that what connects them is trivial compared to what keeps them separate. All paths cross. From what I read in the papers, these people were found where they were sleeping for the night. It may be hard for you to imagine, Inspector, but if you have a place to sleep for the night, you have a sanctuary. These people were found dead in their sanctuaries. For people like this, a place where you can be alone and safe is a prize, and there are only a limited number of such places in any city. What the human spirit needs, even the homeless, is privacy. When you go home at night and close your door, I assume you can be alone, even when you live with someone you love. Imagine never being able to do that. Imagine never having a private moment. That’s why for some lucky ones, there is a secret place where they can stay warm and unmolested for a whole night, perhaps longer. When a street person finds such a place, it must be protected. It must be approached with caution, for fear that others will discover it. Imagine, Inspector, if you haven’t slept warmly or with any privacy for months, what it would mean to find one space where you could lie down and sleep undisturbed for an entire night. It would be a dream. These people seemed to have found their private space. Where they were found may have been their sanctuary.
“If these people were murdered, it wasn’t random, it was by someone that knew where they slept, and I can’t think of anyone they would have trusted with that knowledge.”
“That’s an interesting point, Father. If I wanted to learn more about who these people were and who knew them, what should I do?”
“You could start with the shelters. They’re the great centres of traffic for the displaced. Some are exclusively for men and others take only women; some take both, but in different facilities. And it’s not just for the overnight stays, it’s for the lunches or dinners. These five would have used several different shelters. If you use one shelter too much, you get pressured to begin a program, and none of these would have started a program. After the shelters, there are the drop-in centres, usually in church basements. In the drop-in centres, street people can escape the cold by paying the modest price of exposing themselves to volunteers who want to save their souls. Then there are the meeting points, the low traffic corners of the city that street people have made their own. You would be amazed how many such spots there are, Inspector.”
“These people would have a fairly regular existence?
“Of course, they are human beings like you and me, Inspector. We all have routines and follow them. The homeless have routines, too. You just have to be able to see them. Haven’t you ever seen the same person every day at a particular spot? With each of these five, if I wanted to find them on a particular day, it wouldn’t be too hard. They all had more or less regular routines; areas of the city where they hung around, shelters they frequented, parks or lost corners of the city where they rested during the day.”
“And who are the people that connect these five?”
“Well, to start with, me, I suppose. I ministered to them all. But there are many others, Inspector. The people who work at the shelters and the drop-in centres, the social workers, the doctors, the nurses. That may seem like a lot, but think about all of the people you have contact with every day. With these people, it’s possible to name everyone who might have had some real contact with them. I doubt you could say that about you or even me.”
Vanier resisted the urge to tell him that he knew what it was like to go an entire weekend without talking to anyone other than clerks at the supermarket and the liquor store.
“How did you minister to them, Father Drouin?” asked Vanier.
“I talked to them. No, more importantly, I listened to them. I got to know them. And I’ll tell you something, Inspector, I loved each one of them. If these people were murdered, you must find the person who did that. These people were children of God, not garbage. Society would like to ignore them. But remember, Jesus said, Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, you do unto me.”
Vanier tried to look beyond all the priests he had known, and tried to understand the man in front of him.
“So what were you doing on Christmas Eve, Father?”
“I’ve told you. Christmas is a very difficult time for me. I battle resentment. I resent all those people who show up in church only at Christmas, all those seasonal Christians. God’s house is full one or two days a year and empty all of the others. I can’t understand that. I want to tell these people if you don’t believe, don’t come, don’t waste your time and mine. And yet I have to welcome them. And I have to work very hard at being welcoming.”
“So where were you on Christmas Eve?”
“I was free until Midnight Mass when I was needed for the big show with all the costumes. I skipped supper. I went for a walk at about 4.30 and didn’t come back to the Cathedral until about an hour before Mass. About 10.30, I suppose.”
“Where did you go?”
“I walked, Inspector. There was a snowstorm. It was like being in one of those glass souvenir balls that you shake to make the snowflakes float all around. It was beautiful. The city was silent and I felt God’s presence. Perhaps that’s an occupational hazard, but it was peaceful in the storm. I felt like I was walking with God. I walked for hours.”
“You walked for six hours?”
“I suppose so. Is that odd?”
“Did you meet anyone, talk to anyone?”
“No. I avoided contact. If I saw someone approaching, I crossed the street. Sometimes I would turn into a side street and walk the other way to avoid contact. I craved solitude. Well, not solitude exactly. I just didn’t want to share the experience. As I said, I felt like I was walking with God and I didn’t want to share that with anyone.”
“And what time did you get back?”
“I told you. I got back to the Cathedral at 10.30.
“Who was the first person you saw when you got back?”
“Monsignor Forlini, when I presented myself for duty. That would have been about 11.”
“So, just so that I can get this clear, between 4.30 p.m. and 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve, there is nobody who can confirm where you were?”
“That’s correct, Inspector. I suppose you could say I was missing in action during that period.”
“Father Drouin, do you own a Santa suit?”
Drouin looked at Vanier as though he had asked if he wore a yarmulke.
“That’s what’s wrong with Christmas. Christmas is about Jesus Christ, not Santa Claus. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of humanity’s Savior. And Santa Claus is the last thing that Christians should be thinking about. So, to answer your question, Inspector, no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume.”
“I need to ask these questions, Father,” said Vanier.
“I understand, Inspector. If someone killed these poor people, you must find him.”
“I intend to,” said Vanier. “I will probably have more questions for you. But that’s it for now.”
“Anything I can do to help, just ask me. You know where I am.”
“I do, Father.”
Through the two-way mirror, Laurent watched both men rise from the table. Vanier led Drouin out and walked him down to the main entrance, and waited in the cold while he went to his car. The priest didn’t look back.
Vanier returned and joined Laurent in the viewing room.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Laurent.
“I don’t know. I’m struggling to get over my prejudices against the Church, trying to see him simply as a man with a mission to love his fellow man. I have no problem understanding people who dedicate their lives to others. But I don’t get the inner joy from him. People who do this type of work, the ones I’ve seen exude goodwill, they’re happy. Drouin is angry, not joyful. Maybe he was shocked by the deaths. Who knows? But he was missing when Santa was giving out his gifts.”
“So he’s a suspect?”
“Damn right. So let’s see what we can find out about him. Get some history, but do it delicately. I don’t want the Archbishop calling the Chief. And nail down the time of the last image of Santa in the Metro. Would he have had time to get back to the Cathedral for 10.30? While you’re at it, check out the alibi. Can we get confirmation that he was seen at 11?”
“I’ll get onto it.”
12.45 PM
There was a line of people waiting in the numbing cold to be let into the Holy Land Shelter for lunch. A few were recognizable as down-and-out street people, but others would not have been out of place on the bus, or in the checkout line at the supermarket. Some were only boys trying their best to look like men; others looked old before their time. Most of those in line ignored Vanier and Laurent as they walked past, but some instinctively reached out a hand with an ingratiating smile, unable to miss an opportunity to ask for change.
Laurent held the door for Vanier and followed him into the warmth. Their path was blocked by an unsmiling man standing like a nightclub bouncer in a suit cut tight to emphasize muscle that you can only build with regular work with weights.
“Don’t I know you?” Vanier asked, searching his memory for a name.
“I’ve met a lot of cops. After a while they all look the same. Know what I mean?”
“We’re looking for M. Nolet.”
“Through those doors, to your right.”
The detectives started to move towards the door, and then Vanier stopped. “Audet. Marcel Audet, isn’t it? You were put away, what was it, seven years ago?”
“Yeah. And? I’ve done my time.”
“Got lucky, didn’t you? The poor bastard didn’t die from the beating, just became a vegetable. So it was assault, not murder. Now you’re back out on the street.”
“Like I said, I’ve done my time.”
“And the other guy’s probably still hooked up to some machine somewhere, wishing you’d come back and finish him off.”
“That’s all behind me. I’m clean. I’ve found a purpose in life.”
“I bet you have,” said Vanier.
“What do you know? When you deal with filth every day, you become filth,” he said, turning away from Vanier.
Audet walked to the front doors and opened them, letting the patrons stream in. He had them well trained. There was no pushing or shoving. They were on their best behaviour, like schoolchildren passing the headmaster. Vanier watched the parade of desperate men shuffling towards a meal. He didn’t believe in change. Once a villain, always a villain. He turned to follow the directions to Nolet’s office, and his path was blocked again, this time by a short balding man with a broad smile.
“I am Nolet. You were looking for me?”
Vanier was puzzled until he noticed the closed circuit cameras. Christ, they’ll have them in churches next.
“You have closed circuit TV in a homeless shelter?” asked Vanier.
“We have a difficult clientele. Certain security measures are in the best interests of everyone. How can I help you?”
“We’d like to talk to you about the five people found dead on Christmas Eve. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Yes, of course,” said Nolet, looking quickly to Audet as though he was asking permission. Audet turned away from them. “Let’s go to my office.”
The desk and chairs were the throwaway type. A threadbare orange carpet covered the floor, and papers covered the desk. In contrast to the cheapness of the rest of the office, a bank of six television monitors flickered with images from different parts of the shelter. Nolet seemed to feel the need to explain.
“Times have changed, gentlemen. We live in a tough world and we have to take steps to protect our guests. Fights and thefts are common. So we had a security system installed.”
Vanier stared at the screens. They covered the spot where people lined up to enter the shelter, the doorway, the dining room, what looked like a recreation room, and the two massive dormitories.
“Very impressive, M. Nolet. What are you scared of?”
“I am not scared, Inspector. I’ve worked here fifteen years, and I understand the clientele. They don’t scare me. To tell you the truth, I hardly use the cameras but M. Audet finds them useful. And I must admit that there are fewer incidents since he joined us. He seems to have a knack for keeping things under control.”
“And when was that, M. Nolet.”
“What?”
“When did M. Audet join you?”
“Maybe four months ago. The new Board decided that we needed a stronger hand to beef up security.”
“So it wasn’t your choice?”
“I didn’t disagree. I knew his background and I was happy to give him a chance to turn his life around.”
Laurent was distracted, looking at the television monitors.
“M. Audet has had quite an influence on this place since he’s been here. He manages the shelter on a day-to-day basis. He’s Operations Manager, that’s the title the Board gave him. That frees me up to do more important work, like raising funds, buying supplies and the like, making sure we don’t go bankrupt. He has a firm hand, but you need that around here.”
Nolet moved behind the desk and motioned them to sit in the two chairs in front. He gathered the papers on the desk and moved them to the side, folding his hands in the cleared space. Vanier pulled the photographs out of the envelope and placed them face up on the desk.
“We think we have their names but would like you to confirm any that you know.”
Nolet picked up each photograph and named each one.
“What do you know about them?”
“They were all hardcore street people, desperate cases — and we know desperate in this business. These are the kind of people who brought me into this work. Back in those days, I thought I could change things, you know, really help people. But, I’ve known Joe Yeoman for close to twenty years, and nothing’s changed. The others, ten, fifteen years each. It doesn’t matter. You know what I’ve learned over twenty years? We can’t change them. Sometimes we can make them comfortable, but their fate is what it is. Or was, I suppose. And worse than that, they kill the idealism that was in you. They don’t change, but you do. You get hard, immune. It’s a tough life, Inspector.”
“You don’t seem surprised that they’re dead.”
“Surprised? No. With these, and too many others, it’s just a matter of time. You get to recognize it, Inspector, when people are on their way out.”
“I can understand that, M. Nolet, but all five on Christmas Eve?”
“Coincidences don’t happen. Is that it? You sound like an educated man, Inspector, and I get educated people in here all the time, from the universities or the government. Like they just figured out the solution to the problem. They tell me about the importance of measurement, of empirical data: probabilities, cause and effect, action and consequence, and all that shit. Last week someone told me that if you can’t measure it, you can’t manage it, like that was supposed to help me. Well, I know a little bit about statistics. I understand the odds. And let me tell you, statistics don’t predict real life. Real life happens. Shit happens. So all five of them died on Christmas Eve. You know what’s surprising? That they weren’t all dead years ago. They defied the odds for years. And, you know what the tragedy is? It’s the lives that they led for the last twenty years. You didn’t come to me last month and ask why these people were on the streets. That’s the goddamn crime.”
“M. Nolet, if these people were killed on Christmas Eve, I want to find out who did it.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. If they were killed, that’s just one more affront they shouldn’t have had to endure. It’s just I don’t believe they were killed.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody cared enough about them to kill them.”
“Maybe somebody did.”
“It will be a first. What do you need to know?”
“Well, when was the last time you saw them?�
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“That’s difficult, Inspector. Of course, if they stayed the night, there would be a record. But we don’t keep records of people who simply come in for a meal. And these were not regular sleepers. We have rules here, and lots of people can’t deal with the rules. Doors close at eight o’clock, a shower and a shave and in bed by nine. No smoking, no booze, and no drugs. We’re not running a hotel here. That’s why so many still stay out, even in winter.”
“Could you check your records and let me know if any of them stayed overnight in the last month?”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“And the monitors,” Vanier pointed to the bank of screens. “Do you keep the tapes?”
“Well, I’m not an expert, but I’m told that everything is held on a disc for forty-eight hours, and then it disappears. So that won’t help you. Everything before Christmas will be gone.”
“Did they have any friends?”
“Friends? Inspector, these people don’t have friends. They might have a regular spot where they go and whoever is there is their friend for the moment. If they don’t show up, they’re not missed. This is a sad community of loners. Look,” he said, pointing at one of the monitors, “that’s the dining room. What do you see?”
They looked up to see men sitting around tables and servers passing out food.
“Who’s talking to who?”
When asked to look for one, the officers saw a pattern. The servers touched shoulders and elbows and whispered into ears while depositing plates. Some diners reacted with a smile, others didn’t. But between the diners, there was silence. It wasn’t so much a communal meal but a hundred men eating alone.
“Our people are trained to say a word or two to everyone. Food for the soul you might say. But look at how our clients act with each other.”
“It’s like there’s no one there,” said Laurent.
“Right. If you’re living on the street, you’re alone.”
Laurent was staring intently at one monitor. Then he got up and moved to the wall behind the door just as Audet came bursting in. Nolet rose sheepishly to his feet like a child caught sitting in his father’s chair.
