The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  “Have we tracked them down?” asked Vanier.

  “Seven were accounted for, and both the owners and their suits were far away from downtown on Christmas Eve. The eighth was rented by a Tony Martino, who was at home Christmas Eve, but he left the suit in his office. He was supposed to have returned it on December 23 but didn’t. He was nervous during the interview with the uniforms. He said he left the suit in the office after the Christmas party because there was a stain on it and he wanted to wash it out before giving it back.”

  “He couldn’t bring it home for the wife to wash, I suppose?” said Vanier.

  “Exactly, sir. Human frailty,” said St. Jacques. “The stain seems to have been semen, his own, the result of an encounter with one his staff that got out of hand, so to speak. Kind of like the Lewinsky dress. He wanted to clean it up before he brought it back, but didn’t have time, so he left it in the office. He told the officers where he left it, and that’s where it was when Martino brought the officers to the office. Martino says that nobody could have got into the office after it closed, and he was with his family on Christmas Eve.”

  Vanier sighed. “So no easy trail to Santa. The perfect disguise at Christmas. Everyone sees it but there’s nothing special about it.”

  St. Jacques continued her summary. “Two ticket sellers at the metro remember seeing Santa entering. He used tickets to clear the turnstiles, so we can’t check monthly pass information. Only one of them remembers seeing him leave. He said he was moving quickly and not looking around him. But there was nothing to distinguish him from any other Santa. From the camera images, we know he didn’t use the metro to go from one station to the next. He entered and left each station he visited. From the timing of his appearances, he didn’t have time to walk or take a bus either. We checked the taxi companies, and none of the drivers remembers picking up any Santa. He wouldn’t have been riding a bike in that weather. So that leaves a car. He must have driven from station to station. From the camera images, Santa was six foot two and, from the way he walked and filled out the suit, he was in good shape. Hard to tell an age, but probably under forty.”

  “OK, St. Jacques. Keep looking at the films. What else do we have?”

  D.S. Roberge spoke. “Dr. Grenier’s alibi checks out. I spoke to his wife, and he was home Christmas Eve. As for Drouin’s return to the Cathedral, I spoke to Monsignor Forlini, he was the senior priest at Midnight Mass. He wasn’t sure of the exact time when he first saw Drouin, but said that it could have been between 10.45 and 11.15 p.m. He said that Drouin was rushing to get into his vestments, and Mass started at 11.35.”

  “And what was the last sighting of Santa?”

  “10.30, sir, at the Berri Metro. I had them go back and confirm,” said St. Jacques.

  “That’s tight, but possible. If he had a car he could get back to the Cathedral by eleven easy. But Drouin said he left his car at the Cathedral.”

  “He could be lying,” said Laurent.

  “Would be lying if it were him. Did we check out parking tickets in the area?”

  “I’ll do it,” said Roberge.

  Vanier noticed Laurent shuffling papers, getting ready to speak. “Laurent, we can talk about the Holy Land Shelter in the car. We have an opening to go to.”

  A tired joke. Laurent sighed. “You drive or me?”

  “I’ll drive,” said Vanier. “Give me a few minutes.” He turned to the group. “Everyone have something to do?”

  Heads nodded, and Vanier picked up the phone.

  11 AM

  The drive to the Coroner’s building was easy. Most people were still on vacation, and the only serious traffic was caused by giant trucks loaded with snow going to the dump or returning empty for their next load. Vanier drove fast, speeding up through yellow lights and anticipating the greens.

  “So what’s the story at the Holy Land Shelter?” asked Vanier.

  “Well, up to last March, Father Drouin was on the Board.” Laurent was leafing through his notebook. “Then there was a huge turnover in March, seven new members on a ten-member Board. That means seven resigned or were kicked out. That has to be pretty disruptive for the organization. I’ve started to get the stories on the ones who resigned first. I figured, if there was a problem, the outgoing members would be more inclined to talk.”

  “Who can we talk to besides Drouin?”

  “I’m running through the names, trying to figure out how to get in touch with them. A likely one is Pascal Beaudoin. I found a listing for Pascal Beaudoin as the Secretary of the Board for the last four years. And I found a lawyer downtown called Pascal Beaudoin with Henderson amp; Associates.”

  “How do you know it’s the same Pascal Beaudoin?”

  “The new Secretary is a certain Gordon Henderson, the same name as the main guy in Henderson amp; Associates. I figure it’s not a coincidence.”

  “So why don’t you call this Beaudoin and see if we can go to see him after the autopsies.”

  Laurent got on the phone and had an appointment confirmed with Beaudoin by the time they were pulling into the parking lot. The Coroner’s building sat on rue Parthenais in the East End, in a poor residential neighbourhood. A typical 1960s government building, unimpressive in form, style, and functionality, someone’s idea of building up the local economy by dumping a government building in the middle of a depressed area.

  The autopsy viewing room was a small, utilitarian space designed to allow students to watch and learn; wooden benches and a large picture window overlooked the business area. On December 27, the students had found better things to do, and the detectives were alone.

  Vanier and Laurent settled in and looked down on a theatre of three ribbed stainless steel tables. The naked body of an emaciated woman lay on one of the tables, dwarfed by its size. The table had been raised at one end to allow blood and other fluids to drain down into a collecting bottle. Vanier guessed it was Edith Latendresse from the Berri Metro, with her empty breasts nothing more than flaps of skin draped over a protruding ribcage. More bones than flesh, the skeleton wrapped in skin was a stark contrast to the plump cocoons of blankets he had seen on Christmas Eve. She had looked full then, bundled in layers against the cold.

  Laurent perked up as Anjili Segal entered the room below them. Her dark hair was held tight by a headset that supported a microphone in front of her mouth, and her surgical uniform couldn’t hide the curves of a woman in good shape. She looked up to the viewing gallery and caught Vanier’s eye. They smiled at each other. Then, for Laurent and the transcript, she said, “Inspector Vanier, how good to see you, and you, too, Sergeant Laurent. A very Merry Christmas to you both. I was just getting ready to begin. So glad you could come.”

  “Always a pleasure, Dr. Segal. Any word on the others? Anything unusual?”

  Segal seemed to deflate as she thought about her response.

  “Inspector, I did not perform the earlier autopsies, but I’ve looked at the initial reports. The first three victims were very sick, probably terminal. If it hadn’t been Christmas Eve, it could have been tonight, or next week, who knows? My colleague guessed at three months, maximum, for each of them. But you never know. A guess is a guess. Maybe with care one or two of could have lasted longer. But out on the streets, nature takes over, and nature hates frailty. These were all the walking dead.”

  “Is there a cause of death?” asked Vanier, forcing himself to look away from Segal and stare at the body on the table. Naked is how we arrive and leave, naked and alone. Protocol demanded nothing be done to the body before the autopsy, and the grime of the street was obvious, even from a distance.

  Segal picked up a clipboard and began reading from the reports: “The first, a male of about 63, had a stomach tumour as big as a full term baby. The second male was about 60 years old. Both his lungs were locked solid with emphysema. It does not say why, but it’s probably from smoking the discarded butts of more affluent smokers. The last, a female of about 50, had a liver that was close to non-function
ing. Probably an alcoholic, drinking too much cheap wine from the depanneur for too long. Her blood alcohol level was elevated. For some reason, I don’t expect much different from Madame Sans-nom,” Segal said, gesturing to the naked cadaver on the table.

  “She’s no longer nameless, Dr. Segal” said Vanier. “Her name is Edith Latendresse.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.” She wrote the name on her clipboard and returned to reviewing the notes from the earlier autopsies. “From what I can see, my colleagues will probably conclude that death was from natural causes, Inspector. As if all this is natural.” She looked up at her guests. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m getting carried away. Perhaps it’s the season.”

  “No excuses. This isn’t natural, Doctor,” said Vanier, meeting her eye. “It’s an affront. Let’s do them a service. If they did happen to die by the so-called grace of God on Christmas Eve, at least give them the best damn reports we can, write a few pages of details for them.”

  “What are you asking for, Inspector?”

  “The star treatment. Pretend it’s the Mayor or one of his buddies who turned up stiff. All the tests your people can think of. Every detail. It’s all we have. If we’re all letting this happen every day, at least we can record the details,” said Vanier.

  “We will do our best, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I am sure that Madame Latendresse would thank you too,” he said nodding in the direction of Edith Latendresse.

  “That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “What?” asked Vanier.

  “It’s something to have a name.”

  “That’s all she has now.”

  Dr. Segal turned to the emaciated body and began talking into the headpiece, bending over to inspect the body. After a fifteen-minute tour of the outer shell, always talking into the microphone, she reached for a surgical knife. Soon she would need sturdier cutting tools. Her first slice was clean, from just below the throat all the way down to the pubis. Vanier was getting squeamish when she sliced and pulled at the skin to expose Mme. Latendresse’s organs. He looked to the floor as she picked up the electrical tool and began to cut through bone. There was no reason for him to be here. Everyone knew it. But Vanier still kept coming. Three or four times a year he would sit through an autopsy and force himself to watch bodies being taken apart.

  2.30 PM

  The offices of Henderson amp; Associates were located in a tired high rise on University Street, reasonably well situated downtown but well past anything resembling its prime. Vanier and Laurent went up to the fifteenth floor and followed the arrow to an incongruous set of mahogany doors with gold handles that contrasted with the industrial carpet and painted gyprock of the hallway. Inside the heavy doors their feet sank into thick carpet in front of a fortysomething receptionist who was winning the war against age. She was wearing a headset and working a console like a D.J.

  “Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” said Vanier, leaning towards her and getting lost in the faintest hint of perfume. “We’re here to see Maitre Beaudoin.”

  She held her finger up and smiled at Vanier, pointing to the phone.

  “Yes, and who can I say is calling?” She pushed some buttons and said, “Madame Delorme for you, sir.” She listened for a few seconds, pushed another button and said, “I’m sorry, Madame Delorme, Mr. Henderson is in a meeting at the moment, may I take a message?”

  Vanier stood at the desk, imposing his bulk. She was used to the difficulties of the double duty and she held up her finger again, giving him another heartbreaker of a smile.

  “Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

  Vanier took a step back and then walked around the receptionist’s desk to the hallway leading to the offices. The impact was immediate. She took off her headphones and dashed after him, taking his elbow delicately and walking him back to the reception area like they were both looking for the dance floor. Vanier was enjoying it.

  “I am so sorry, Mr…?”

  “Detective Inspector Vanier.”

  “I am so sorry, M. Vanier. Sometimes it gets so busy that I completely forget my manners. I’m Julie. Please excuse me.” She led him back to reception, holding his elbow.

  “Not at all,” said Vanier, thinking that he could forgive her a lot under the right circumstances. “This is Detective Sergeant Laurent. We’re here to see Maitre Beaudoin. He’s expecting us.”

  “Of course he is. He asked me to seat you in the main boardroom,” she said, still holding his elbow, like he might try to escape again. Laurent followed them through the glass doors of the boardroom, its tall windows providing a perfect view of the building next door. “Some coffee?”

  “Wonderful,” said Vanier.

  “Please take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the long, dappled green marble table. The room was decorated in an Oriental style with a large Chinese gong on one side table and several Chinese vases on another. The floor was polished hardwood, with a Persian carpet under the table. The walls were clear glass.

  Julie returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a full pot of coffee, cream, sugar, china coffee mugs, and a plate of biscuits.

  “Please, gentlemen, help yourselves, and call me if you need anything. Maitre Beaudoin should be here in a few moments.”

  Vanier watched her leave, as Laurent poured two cups of coffee, handing one to Vanier. Vanier sat with his back to the window, facing out of the boardroom through the glass wall. Laurent was at the end of the table, which would make it impossible for Beaudoin to find a spot where he could look at both of them at the same time. They saw him approach and break into a smile even before he was through the door.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, reaching out to shake Vanier’s hand and then Laurent’s. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. I’m always glad to help Montreal’s finest. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Beaudoin exuded the good humour of a welcoming host, and wariness only broke through in the shortest of flashes. His short frame was carrying too much weight, and he sat down. They exchanged cards.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Holy Land Shelter,” said Vanier.

  “The Holy Land Shelter? That’s police business?”

  “We’re investigating the deaths on Christmas Eve and trying to understand the lives of the homeless. We’re just looking for background. You were heavily involved in the Shelter’s Board, and we thought you could give us some insight.”

  “Well, yes, I was involved with the Shelter, but it was mostly legal and administrative work. I’m not really an expert on the homeless. All I know is that it’s a tough life.”

  “You’d be surprised what can help in an investigation like this.”

  “I suppose.”

  “For instance, so much of the work is done by volunteers. What brings people in? What makes people leave? We’ve heard that there were big changes last year at the Shelter. I understand that most of the Board resigned. Why was that?

  “Well, I can’t speak for the others but for myself, I was tired. Simple as that. Five years is a long time, and I needed a rest. And the Board needed fresh blood. There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “I didn’t say there was a problem. We’re just interested in understanding how these places work. Just a little curious, that’s all.”

  Beaudoin looked down at the business cards. “Chief Inspector, you must be a busy man, and these latest murders must be taking up a lot of your time. Are you working on those, Inspector, or are you just interested in the Shelter?”

  “Maitre Beaudoin, I have the best job in the world. When something interests me I can look into it. Luckily, not everything interests me, so I have time to do my job. Right now, I am simply trying to understand what it means to be homeless in Montreal. How they live, where they go, who they have dealings with. So the Shelter is a good place to start, isn’t it? After all, it takes in, what, 300 people a night?”

  “The Shelter does great work, Inspec
tor. It fills a desperate need. I enjoyed my time there. You have no idea what kind of a feeling that gives you. It’s rare, especially in this business. I didn’t do hands-on work with the homeless, but I think what I did was helpful. In a lot of ways I miss it.”

  “So why quit?”

  “Like I said, five years is a long time. I needed a rest. And they probably needed a rest from me.”

  “What about Father Drouin? Did he need a rest too?”

  “Ah, Father Drouin. A great guy, a great human being. He could be difficult, but it’s because he’s so shy. It took me over a year to get to know him properly, but when you do, you can’t help but love him.”

  “He got tired too?”

  “Perhaps. Yes. He was tired too.” Beaudoin’s answers were slowing down, like he was trying to guess where Vanier was going. “It’s not easy you know, it can take a lot out of you. And he had other things to do. He’s very busy for a priest. He’s involved in a lot of things.”

  “In all, seven of the ten members of the Board from last year are no longer there. That quite a turnover isn’t it? It must be difficult for the organization to survive that sort of …turmoil?”

  Beaudoin looked uncomfortable, but before he could answer, the conference room door opened, and a tall gaunt man walked in. He was dressed to announce his importance, peacock style. He looked straight at Beaudoin, ignoring the policemen.

  “Pascal, I heard that you were having a meeting with some policemen. I thought you might need some back-up,” he said with a humourless chuckle, then turned to the two officers, with a broad smile that stopped well below his eyes. “Gentlemen, I am so pleased to welcome you to my offices. I am Maitre Gordon Henderson,” he said, emphasizing the honorific title for Quebec lawyers.

  Vanier and Laurent introduced themselves, and they exchanged cards with Henderson.

  “What is it we can do for you? Are you selling tickets for the annual ball?”