by Peter Kirby
“The annual ball is a thing of the past, but if it is ever revived, I’ll put you down for a table, shall I?”
“Absolutely.”
“We were here to speak to Maitre Beaudoin about his work with the Holy Land Shelter.”
“Well, there are no secrets in this office. We supported Pascal’s efforts to help the needy. He has a big heart. But you know how it is Inspector, business comes first. After five years, it was time for him to direct his efforts elsewhere. We live in a very competitive world, and there are limits to how much time can be wasted. We are all slaves to the billable hour; the clients are more demanding by the day.”
Beaudoin looked down at the table, scratching notes on a yellow pad.
“And talking of the almighty billable hour, Inspector, it would be more efficient if you would write down your questions to Pascal and send them to us. We would be happy to provide you with answers to any questions you might have. But right now, I need Pascal on a call to Japan that I promised would begin in five minutes,” said Henderson, looking at his watch.
Vanier took the cue, hoping he could come back some day with a good reason to question Henderson. He’d been thrown out of bars with more subtlety. The two policemen stood up and exchanged handshakes with the lawyers. Beaudoin left them at reception, but Henderson waited to see them leave. Vanier cast a goodbye smile at the receptionist, who gave him one of her own and a small wave.
“Fucking bastard,” said Vanier as the elevator doors closed.
3.45 PM
When the door closed on the departing policemen, Gordon Henderson walked into Beaudoin’s office.
“Pascal, why didn’t you tell me that you were meeting with police inspectors? I don’t like having to find out things like that from Julie.”
“Well, Mr. Henderson, they just called this morning and asked if I would have time to give him some background on the Holy Land Shelter for their investigation. They’re the ones on the Christmas Eve deaths. I didn’t think anything of it, they just wanted background information.”
“Just background information? Pascal, you know that the Shelter is a very sensitive file. We can’t go around discussing it with just anyone, and particularly not with policemen. We have a duty to our client. I really am disappointed, Pascal.”
Beaudoin swallowed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have spoken to you first. It’s just … well, you’re right.”
“Just see that it doesn’t happen again. Now, where are you on the Blanchard letter? I need to send that out first thing tomorrow morning. Is it ready?”
“Almost, Mr. Henderson. Almost,” Beaudoin said. He hadn’t even started it. “It will be on your desk before you arrive in the morning,” he added, ruining not only his evening, but a good part of the night.
“Wonderful. I’ll leave you to it then,” Henderson said, and left.
Beaudoin pulled a file from the pile on his desk and began to focus on the problems of M. Blanchard, who wanted to double the size of his Westmount house over the objection of his neighbours and the city council. He began typing into the computer, drafting objections to the reasonable arguments of the city and the neighbours that the plans ignored the by-laws and the character of the neighborhood, and would be a palatial monument to bad taste. He would get to the threats against the individuals and the council later; it was always better to close with the threats. At 7.30 p.m., he stopped writing, picked up the phone and punched numbers.
“Hello?” a young voice, a girl.
“Hey, Chickadee!”
“Papa,” she squealed. “Where are you? Maman made shepherd’s pie, your favourite.”
“I’m still at the office, my love. I have to work late. Can you pass me Maman?”
“Maman,” she yelled into the phone. There was silence. Then she said, “Maman says if you’re going to be late, you can heat up your supper in the microwave. Are you going to be here before I go to bed? I can wait for you.”
“No, my love. It’s going to be late. Tell you what, though, I’ll see you in the morning. Tell Maman and David good night from me, and give them both a big kiss and a hug. I love you, Chickadee.”
“Me too, Papa. But I gotta go. Dinner’s on the table. Bye.”
He heard the click of disconnection and put the phone back in the receiver. He turned back to M. Blanchard’s problem, which was quickly becoming Westmount’s problem.
5 PM
From where he sat, Vanier could see the back of D.S. Fletcher’s head. Fletcher had just returned to work and was catching up. Vanier had spent the last hour reading interview reports and watching Fletcher. Eventually, Fletcher pushed his chair back and rose from his desk, stretching. “Anyone want coffee?”
“Sure,” said Vanier, fishing for change. “Regular Colombian, milk, no sugar.”
Fletcher took the coins and three other orders and left. His jacket was still on the chair, and Vanier was on his feet immediately, walking towards the wall that held the maps, photos and notes of the investigation. As he passed Fletcher’s desk, he bent slightly and pulled Fletcher’s cell phone from his jacket pocket. Back at his desk he quickly scribbled the numbers in the call log since Christmas Eve, along with the times and duration. He looked up from time to time and scanned the room, but if anyone had noticed, they were not saying anything. When the list was done, he wandered back towards the photo wall and slipped the phone back into Fletcher’s pocket. He was studying the wall when Fletcher returned with the coffee.
“So what do you think, sir?” said Fletcher, handing him the coffee.
“Thanks. Don’t know what to think. Maybe we’re wasting our time.”
“We won’t know till we get the cause of death, I suppose.”
Fletcher went back to his desk. An hour later, he went to the bathroom, and Vanier approached St. Jacques and handed her a paper.
“I have a job that needs discretion.”
She looked at the list.
“I want all these numbers identified, but don’t do the checking from here, and don’t tell anyone what you’re doing.”
She couldn’t help glancing at Fletcher’s desk.
“Yes, sir. When do you need this?”
“Soon as you can, Sergeant.”
11 PM
Vanier was wandering fitfully around his apartment, picking things up and putting them away, keeping busy. An unopened bottle of Jameson was calling to him, and he was doing his best to resist. It was late, and he wasn’t tired, but sleep would be the only way to quiet the bottle. The phone rang.
“Luc?”
“Anjili. What’s new?”
“Bad news. The five victims from Christmas Eve all died of poisoning. Potassium cyanide.”
“Are you sure?”
“Normally toxicology can take weeks of tests, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. There are just too many variables. But we decided to test directly for potassium cyanide. All the victims were flushed.”
“Flushed?”
“Pink looking. First, we put it down to alcohol, but one of the doctors reported smelling almonds, which is typical with potassium cyanide poisoning. So we got one of the bottles from your people and tested the residue. It showed positive for potassium cyanide, along with rum and eggnog. Then we did blood tests and found significant concentrations in each of them. Luc, each of them had ingested enough to kill a horse. These people were poisoned, Luc.”
“Shit. What exactly is potassium cyanide?”
“It’s the same poison that Jim Jones used for the mass suicide of his followers. Remember Georgetown?”
“That was a cult, right?”
“Yes, it was a cult. He killed himself and 600 of his followers with potassium cyanide dissolved in Kool-Aid. Apparently, Kool-Aid hides the taste. It’s a gruesome death. It kills by inhibiting aerobic respiration. The blood cells can’t absorb oxygen and all of the body’s organs become oxygen deprived — it’s like smothering someone, cutting off their air supply. The victim goes into a coma i
n minutes, and then suffers cardiac arrest. We’re writing up the reports now, Luc, but I thought you would want the news early. You have a murderer out there, and you need to find him.”
“How much of the stuff do you need to kill someone?”
“It doesn’t take much, less than a gram will do it for a normal adult, and it’s very soluble in water.”
“So they all drank poison?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“How do you get this stuff? Can you buy it in the pharmacy?”
“No. But it’s a common industrial chemical. It’s not rare, it has several industrial uses, and plating jewelry is a big one. There are probably dozens of businesses in Montreal that keep stocks of it.”
“That’s nice to know. Isn’t it controlled? Isn’t there a central list of everyone who keeps the stuff?”
“I had someone check. Seems that there are rules for how you have to deal with it in workplaces, health and safety rules, that sort of thing. But there’s no central registry.”
Vanier was thinking, first start with the Canadian manufacturers, then the importers, then onto the distributors and end-users. “It sounds like a big job, tracking it down.”
“Isn’t that what you guys do best?”
“Yeah, if I had unlimited resources. This could take days. Anjili, listen, I have to go. Thanks for this. I’ll be talking to you. Can you fax the preliminary findings over?”
“First thing in the morning. Luc, you have to find this person.”
“I know Anjili. I’m working on it. Thanks,” he said, as he hung up the phone.
He remembered Santa Claus handing Edith Latendresse a gift and then bending down to kiss the old woman on the head. Santa Claus as executioner. That was a new one, even for Vanier. He checked the time, it was probably well past Bedard’s bedtime. He smiled as he punched the Chief’s number on his cell phone.
“Huh?”
“Chief Inspector? It’s Vanier here.”
“Inspector Vanier, do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, sir. But you said that you wanted to be kept informed of developments. We have confirmation that it’s murder. All of the victims were poisoned. Potassium cyanide. Apparently, it’s the same stuff that Jim Jones used.”
“Who?”
“Jim Jones, sir. Remember the mass suicide in Guyana?”
The Chief Inspector was awake. “What? Jesus, he killed hundreds, didn’t he? You’re telling me that we have a lunatic loose poisoning people?”
“Looks like that, sir.”
“I have to talk to communications. We have to manage this properly. Christ, a mass murderer, that’s all I need.”
“Sir, you said that I could go off budget, get more people. Well, I think that we need to ramp this up. Apparently, there’s lots of potassium cyanide lying around. If we need to track it down, I’m going to need resources.”
“Luc, you need overtime and extra people. I’ll give you the overtime; I’ll see what I can do about the extra people. I have to make some calls. How do we know this?”
“I just had a call from Dr. Segal.”
“OK, so it’s reliable. Let’s keep this quiet until we can talk to communications. Jesus, this could set the city into a panic. Do you have any leads yet? Do we have a suspect?” He was pleading.
“Not yet, sir. No suspects. But we’re following up some ideas. Sir, I need more people.”
“Yes, Inspector, I’ll get back to you on that. Listen, thanks for calling. Keep me informed.”
The line cut before Vanier could answer. “Yes, sir,” he said to a dead line.
PART TWO
SIX
DECEMBER 28
8 AM
Only five officers were at their desks when Vanier arrived: Laurent, St. Jacques, Roberge, Fletcher, and Janvier. Vanier stood in the middle of the room and had their attention.
“Listen up. It’s officially a murder investigation. All the victims were killed with potassium cyanide.” He spelled it out and they scribbled it down. “It’s a common industrial chemical and a lethal poison. Santa mixed it in rum and eggnog and sent them on their way.”
Laurent raised his big head. “Isn’t that what Goering used?”
“Goering?”
“In the Nuremberg trial. I saw the film. Somebody smuggled him a cyanide pill, and he killed himself.”
“Christ, you learn something every day. So we can take Goering off the list of suspects. We’re making progress. And I don’t think that we’re looking for pills. Our guy is serving it up in liquid, so we can start by assuming that he has a stock of powder. So here’s what I want. Start with the manufacturers and importers, anyone who makes the stuff, and anyone who has imported it in the last three years. Have them check to see if any is missing; any recent thefts; disgruntled employees; employees who’ve quit recently — you know the sort of thing, anything unusual. You find anything, let me know immediately. Once you’ve got the sources of this stuff, start working on the customers, all the way down to the last buyer. We have to check them all, and as quickly as possible. Any questions?”
“Any suggestions on customs, for the importers?” This from Fletcher.
“Good question.” In the last few years they’d had problems getting information quickly from customs. They weren’t keen on sharing unless there was some joint task force, and even then, they liked to hold back. Something about the privacy rights of importers. Vanier flipped open his phone and scrolled through his address book. “Call Danielle Sabbatini, she’s an investigator in Laval, and she owes me. 450-363-2082. If she gives you grief, tell her you’re cashing in a marker from me. If she still won’t help, call me.”
“Sir, what about the government agencies?” This from St. Jacques. “Maybe you need a licence to keep potassium cyanide. So maybe there’s a list somewhere.”
“I was told that it’s unlikely, but it’s worth a try. See what you can get. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher. “We checked the parking tickets. They weren’t giving tickets Christmas Eve, they were towing cars away to make way for the snow clearing. Anything that was parked illegally, or that was in the way of the clearing, was towed. Thirty-six cars in all, and I’m working through the list. Nothing so far, but it could take another two days, sir.”
“Well, keep it up.”
“Are we getting extra help, sir?” asked St. Jacques.
“The Chief is considering my request for additional resources and will get back to me when he has time to think. So don’t hold your breath. In the meantime you’ll be glad to hear that you can all work as much overtime as you like. The Chief has generously agreed to open the purse on that one.”
That news was greeted with groans.
“Right. If you’ve all got work to do, let’s get to it. Laurent, you come with me, we’re going to church again, separate cars.”
As they were pulling on their overcoats, St. Jacques passed an envelope to Vanier. Laurent was watching but said nothing.
“My lottery winnings,” said Vanier.
“So where’s mine? I’m in the pool too,” said Laurent.
“You didn’t win.”
“Fuck.”
9.30 AM
Laurent ignored the clutch of men waiting with outstretched paper cups, and pulled open the steel and glass doors to the Cathedral. Vanier followed, watching Laurent dip his fingers in the holy water font, then bless himself before opening the second set of doors. Old habits, thought Vanier.
It was dark and cold inside, a sacrifice to the cost of lighting and heating the empty granite space. An attendant told them that Father Henri was conducting a service in St. Jude’s Crypt, and pointed the way. They approached to see the priest on his knees facing the altar and leading about twenty people in the Rosary. Vanier checked the beads being handled by the devout, and saw that they were almost halfway through the last decade. He knelt. Laurent blessed himself again and knelt beside him.
“Hail Mary, full of
Grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus,” Drouin intoned.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen,” the devout replied.
Vanier joined in the response loudly enough to be heard, and Drouin, his back to the faithful, raised his head slightly as if trying to pick out the new voice.
When the Rosary ended, Drouin left a little time for silent prayer, then stood and turned to survey the group. His eyes fixed immediately on Vanier, who returned the look with the face of a cherub.
Drouin addressed the devout with difficulty. “That brings us to the end of our session. Let us give our problems and concerns to the Lord in prayer, and to the Blessed Virgin, and to our beloved St. Jude. Again, I invite any of you who need the Lord’s intercession to write your needs on one of the cards provided and drop it in the box.”
The crowd began to shuffle out, some stopping to whisper to Drouin, a few stopping to drop prayer cards into the box. While waiting for the shepherd to finish ministering to his flock, Vanier moved over to the table and picked up a blank card. Laurent followed, and Drouin eyed the two men with concern. The cards were only scraps of recycled paper. Vanier took out a pen and was still writing when Drouin approached.
“It’s curious, Inspector, but you didn’t strike me as a religious man. Do you have a need that you wish us to pray for?”
“Religious, me? Not really. But it’s like the lottery, isn’t it? If you don’t play you don’t win.”
“Well, I never play the lottery, Inspector.”
“I suppose not. It wouldn’t do for a priest to collect twenty million from the 6-49 jackpot. People would think he had some divine help. But maybe prayers are the Church’s lottery. What do you think, Father Drouin?”
“Prayers are a much better investment than the lottery, Inspector. Prayers are answered every day.”
“So there’s hope for me?”
“And what is your prayer, Inspector?”
Vanier held up the card for Drouin to read: Help me catch the bastard who killed the innocents. “Oh, excuse me, Father,” he said, taking the pen to cross out bastard and scribble something else. “This should do it,” he said, handing the card back to Drouin.
