by Peter Kirby
“I was just…” Nolet said to Audet.
Audet ignored him, turning to Vanier. “You still here?”
Vanier grinned at Audet.
“Very useful, these monitors, M. Audet,” said Laurent.
Audet spun around to face Laurent.
“So, why would you be assaulting one of your own clients?” asked Laurent.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“On screen three. About ten minutes ago. I saw you punch an old man in the stomach. He fell to his knees. What was that about, M. Audet?”
“Listen, my job is to keep order. It’s for everyone’s good. If someone gets out of hand, well, I have to calm them down. That’s all. I didn’t do any damage to him. I just calmed him down.”
“He didn’t look excited, M. Audet. He was eating his dinner. Looked like you called him over, said a few words in his ear, and then punched him in the stomach. It looked like an unprovoked assault to me, M. Audet.”
“Well, why don’t you go see him? See if he wants to press charges.” Audet pushed passed Nolet and sat down behind the desk. It might have been Nolet’s office, but Audet was in charge.
“Now, if you’re finished wasting my time, I’ve got work to do.”
Vanier rose, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
In the parking lot, Vanier turned to look back at the shelter before getting into his car and saw Audet staring at them from the office window.
“Curious,” said Vanier, as he turned the ignition.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Laurent, buckling himself into the passenger seat.
“Marcel Audet, working in a homeless shelter. A man more at home kicking the life out of a bum than helping him into his pajamas. What’s he up to? ”
“Conversion is out of the question?”
“Conversion? Doesn’t happen with people like that. When he punched that guy, he was showing his authority, you know, like a schoolyard bully, one punch just to show who’s boss. He’s not changed. Only question is, what’s he up to?”
Vanier was lost in thought as they drove west along St. Antoine, parallel with the Ville Marie expressway, the unofficial border between rich and poor. North of the expressway were the offices and high-rises of downtown; south were the working-class neighbourhoods of the Point and St-Henri, whose proximity to downtown was making them vulnerable.
In most cities, the poor clung as close to downtown as they could, while the middle classes and the jobs moved to satellite towns along circling freeways that sucked the heart out of a city. But Montreal is an island, and the drift out of downtown wasn’t an easy option. Everyone wanted to live on the island to avoid nightmare commutes across the bridges. So, instead of retreating to the leafy suburbs and leaving the poor to reign over a hollow shell of an empty city, the rich have been fighting the poor in a street-by-street campaign for territory. Gentrification almost always wins, pushing the working poor out, or limiting them to the least accessible enclaves. The Ville Marie expressway used to be a natural barrier, a concrete river that repelled the condominium developers, but now the concrete river had been forded. Condominium projects in abandoned factories next to the canal served as beachheads from which developers launched drawn-out campaigns to take block after block of the surrounding neighbourhood. Working class communities that had thrived for generations in the shadow of downtown were being destroyed as condo developments raised rents and made the poor unwelcome in their own streets. Families scattered to find affordable places to live, always further away, and, inevitably, with less of a community than they had known before.
“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-UQAM complex; and another male was found inside the McGill Metro 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 ca
ll 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 Veronique 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. Elise 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 Elise, Mum,” he whispered into her ear. She stared, unblinking.
“Marianne couldn’t come either. She sends her apologies. Had to be with Elise 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.”
