The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  Before leaving the box, John checked for a pulse, and then placed the bottle into Drouin’s hand, the same hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the handrail inside the confessional. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his pocket and left the box, closing the door behind him. Leaving the Cathedral, he dipped his hand into the holy water in the font by the front door and blessed himself.

  NOON

  Vanier was sitting across the table from Mme. Paradis and the sketch artist. Mme. Paradis’s eyes were sparkling incongruously from within a tired face and a slouching body. She was enjoying her big day, but her body would have preferred to be lying down somewhere quiet.

  “Now, Mme. Paradis, take a good look at the sketch and take your time. Tell me if you think that it’s a good image of the man you say placed the ads in the Journal de Montreal. The man who signed himself Pious John.”

  She studied the sketch for a few moments, squinting her eyes.

  “That’s him. That’s him perfectly,” she said. “You’re very good, M. Beaucage,” she said, giving him a practiced smile.

  “Thank you Madame, but I am only as good as the witness’s memory.”

  “Are you sure, Madame? Are you confident that this is a good likeness?” asked Vanier.

  “Positive,” she said, turning back to Beaucage with another smile.

  Vanier hated eyewitness identification, and he hated sketched likenesses even more. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. When six people inside a bank couldn’t come up with the same number of men carrying guns, how could you expect them to get the eye colour or even the height correct? But it was easy, and too many cops went along with it. He knew it had put thousands of innocents in jails and helped as many guilty go free. And if eyewitness identification wasn’t bad enough, an artist’s rendition of what the witness thought they remembered was even worse. A bad sketch, and they were all bad sketches, was a-get-out-of-jail-free card when it didn’t look anything like the accused.

  Vanier turned to the artist, “M. Beaucage, could you get some 8? by 11 copies, maybe twenty, made up as quickly as possible?”

  “Yes, Inspector. There’s a machine on the fifth floor that I’ve used before. I can do it immediately.”

  Beaucage took his sketch and left Vanier and Mme. Paradis together.

  “So, Mme. Paradis, tell me about Pious John.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whatever comes to mind.”

  Mme. Paradis played with her empty coffee cup, but Vanier didn’t take the hint. “Well, as I said to the other officers, he was a special sort. He would come in, take a number, and wait for his turn, sitting in that long black cassock like he was just like everyone else. Yet he stood out, like a film star. And when he sat in front of you, I’ve never seen eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour, lots of people have brown eyes, but they looked into you like they knew your soul. I see all kinds of people every day, but he was different. There was deepness about him, a sad look in his eyes, like he knew so much more than the rest of us. And when he talked to you, it was like you were the only person in the world. Like that song from the seventies, “and read each thought aloud.”

  “Killing me softly.”

  “What?”

  “The song, Roberta Flack, Killing Me Softly With His Love.”

  “Oh, yes. You’re right.”

  “How long had he been placing ads?”

  “I think he started a few months ago. It would be easy to tell because all the forms were signed by Pious John. He always paid cash and never wanted a receipt. And, you know, I never saw him smile. And not that he looked sad, just peaceful. Like he knew there was nothing to be happy about and was OK with that. It’s often like that with the St. Judes. But he was different somehow.”

  “The St. Judes?”

  “The people who place ads thanking St. Jude. Usually they’re embarrassed, and they want you to understand that they’re only doing their duty. With him it was serious. It was like he was proud. As though he was making a statement. I always try to have a laugh, you know, to make the clients feel at ease. But him, he never laughed, but he was always at ease. Like he was keeping score and winning. Confident, he was, that’s the word, confident.”

  “You told the officers that the last time you saw him was December 28, right?”

  “Yes. It didn’t take long. There was hardly anyone waiting. He placed the ad for the next day.”

  “And before that?”

  “There were only two times. Always the day before the ad appeared.”

  Vanier looked at the two ads that had been circled on the photocopies. “So that would be December 16 and November 12?”

  “Yes. The day before the ads appeared.”

  Vanier had already sent someone to collect the original requests. Pious John would have signed each one.

  “Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

  “Never. He was all business. Polite, patient, but he never told me anything about the story behind the ads. He just wanted the ads placed and to pay.”

  “You’ve been a great help to us. After M. Beaucage returns, we’ll have you sign off on the likeness, and then have someone drive you home.”

  “This has been a long day.”

  “I’m sure it has, Mme. Paradis, thank you. So take the rest of the day off.” Vanier got to his feet and left to find Beaucage.

  2 PM

  The chatter in the war room died down as Vanier walked in and moved to the front of the room. The Chief had come through and found warm bodies to run down all possibilities, but it hadn’t done any good. Officers had visited 26 businesses that handled potassium cyanide and had come up with nothing. Still, Vanier was happy to have the bodies.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re six days out, and we need to make some progress. We have a lunatic out there who thinks he has a direct line to God, and now we have a sketch of the bastard.” Vanier held up the image, as Janvier started passing out copies.

  “We have a face and a name: Pious John. Likely not his real name.” There was a round of subdued laughter. “No last name and no address. Today, we’re going to every shelter and drop-in centre in town and every street person we can find. I want others to go back to the companies that store potassium cyanide. Show the sketch around and see if anyone recognizes him. Maybe he worked at one of the companies, maybe he’s a customer. I want to find John the Bastard and quickly. He killed five people on Christmas Eve, and he probably started earlier than that. We have a maximum of 24 hours to find him before the sketch goes to the media, and I want him in custody first. We know he’s close to the homeless, maybe close to the church as well. Details, that’s what’s important. Remember, nothing is insignificant. When you’re talking to people, listen and think. So let’s go find this shit. Laurent and Roberge will coordinate. Any questions?”

  There were no questions.

  4 PM

  The squelch of Vanier’s wet boots on the stone floor echoed off the walls of the Cathedral as he made his way up a side aisle towards a clot of people milling around the confessional box. He had stayed out of churches for over two decades and was amazed at how deeply familiar it all still seemed. Janvier advanced to meet him.

  “It’s Father Drouin, Chief. They found him an hour ago. He’s dead. Sitting in the confessional booth. Dr. Segal is looking at the body. There was an envelope, we bagged it but it looks like a suicide note, and a confession.”

  Segal emerged from the confessional box and caught Vanier’s eye. “He’s been dead for a few hours. No obvious signs of violence, but I want to do a full autopsy. We’ll get the body out of here in a few minutes, and your people can take over. They’ve already taken photos. And there’s this,” she said, holding up an empty plastic bottle with a small amount of liquid at the bottom. Looks and smells like orange juice. We’ll test it.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Any ideas?”

  “As I said, no ob
vious signs of violence, and an envelope that I am told contains a suicide note. Maybe he drank his own Kool-Aid.”

  “Maybe. When can you do an autopsy?”

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ll call with the results.”

  Vanier sat down on a bench, running his hand through his hair and staring into the open booth where Drouin was slouched. Maybe Drouin was the killer. And maybe it was a suicide. But if it wasn’t, it would be a convenient way for the killer to get away, providing he stopped killing. If he were smart, he’d stop and walk away, or wait a year or two before starting again.

  Vanier walked over to one of the CS Officers.

  “Who has the envelope?”

  “It’s in the bag, sir.”

  “Well, get it, and let me see.”

  The officer came back with the envelope in a zip-lock bag and reached for it with his gloved hand. It was in a Cathedral envelope, complete with the coat of arms of Mother Church over the address. The officer pulled the letter from the envelope and held it up for Vanier to read:

  December 30

  What I did, I did in the name on Our Lord and Saviour. What I did, I did to bring peace to poor souls that have known no peace for too long. I crossed the boundary of man’s law to do God’s work, and I do not regret that. But I realize the consequences. You do not understand, you cannot fathom the joy that comes from being an instrument of His divine mercy.

  Perhaps if I had been more thoughtful, I could have released more unfortunates from this hell, but I made mistakes. It will not serve the Lord for me to be condemned as a common criminal, for His work to be sullied by my mistakes. So I am ending it here and going to my eternal rest in joy.

  Henri Drouin

  “Jesus,” Vanier mumbled to himself.

  Janvier had been reading over Vanier’s shoulder. “It sounds convincing.”

  “It gives us a motive. And it ties in with St. Jude. But it’s typed, and where’s Pious John?” Drouin doesn’t look anything like the sketch.”

  “So what do you think, sir?”

  “I don’t know. This is too easy. Let’s nail it down. Check the times again. Get the last appearance of Santa on the closed circuit cameras in the Metro and get the time of Drouin’s appearance back in the Cathedral. I want to know for certain if he had time to get back here. And if he didn’t have time, then he’s not our guy, he’s another victim and John is covering his tracks. This isn’t some end-of-the-road homeless destitute who was on his way out anyway. This wasn’t about putting anyone out of their misery.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Janvier opened his cell phone and began making calls.

  7 PM

  Twenty officers, armed with the sketch of Pious John, were trolling homeless shelters, drop-in centres, and hiding places under highways and in back alleys. Others were accosting the faithful outside the Cathedral, mixed in with the panhandlers hoping to turn Catholic guilt into coins. The rest were calling on the owners of companies that stored potassium cyanide. Vanier was in the war room pretending to be busy and waiting. He wanted desperately to find Pious John, and all he could do was wait and hope that the sketch wasn’t picked up by the media. If it was, they would be inundated with useless calls, and John would disappear.

  The phone rang. He recognized Bedard’s number and thought of ignoring it again, but answering one in five calls from the boss was a good ratio.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Inspector Vanier, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the Squad Room, first floor.”

  “My office. Now.”

  The phone clicked off, and Vanier took the stairs up.

  The Chief was sitting watching the door, probably counting how many seconds it took Vanier to mount the stairs. Vanier took a seat.

  “So explain to me, we have a written confession from a suspect, but you still have close to 30 officers scouring the city looking for some guy who placed ads thanking St. Jude? Does that make sense, Luc?”

  Vanier tried not to stare at the sweat that had accumulated in the fat jiggling over the Chief Inspector’s collar.

  “I don’t think the priest killed himself, sir. I think he was murdered, like the others. It’s premature to name Drouin as the culprit. We don’t know that, we’d be guessing. I think we should wait.”

  “Do you have any idea the pressure that I’m under? And the journalists are ahead of us at every step. What if the suicide note leaks out? What do we do then?”

  “We tell the truth.” As he said it, he realized how stupid it must sound to Bedard, who dealt in messaging, not truth. If the message happened to be true, that was a bonus.

  “The truth?”

  “We tell them that we are not certain that the note is genuine.”

  “Well if it wasn’t suicide, it was murder, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. But we can’t announce it as murder if we don’t know. We do what we always do; we tell the press that we are investigating the circumstances.”

  “Jesus, if the homeless didn’t set the city in a panic, a dead priest in a confessional box will. And in the Cathedral, of all places.”

  “All I’m saying, sir, is that we still don’t know what’s going on, and we don’t want to put ourselves into a position where we have to backtrack. Can’t you just stall the press for a few days? At least till we get the results of the autopsy. We don’t have to mention the note.”

  “All right, Sergeant Laflamme is doing a press conference. She’s good. I’ll tell her not to go any further than confirming the death of a priest. Because of the other deaths, and his work with the homeless, we are investigating it. She may be able to get away with that for a while.”

  “I think that’s best, sir. We’ll have something concrete soon.”

  “All right, get to it, Luc.”

  Vanier rose to leave.

  “And, Luc, and I’m telling you this as a friend, we go back a long time.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to make an effort. That suit, it looks like you slept in it, and it looks like you’ve been wearing that shirt for days. Luc, don’t let yourself go, you’ll lose the respect of your team.”

  “Yes, sir.” Vanier felt like lashing out. His defenses were strong but sometimes, the occasional grenade managed to make it over the wall and cause damage inside. Fuck you, you fat bastard was all he could think of, but he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Luc, that’s from a friend, not your boss.”

  Vanier was out the door before he finished. He had forgotten to tell Bedard that he had a sketch of John. If Bedard didn’t know there was a sketch, there wouldn’t be pressure to release it to the media.

  He was watching the clock and waiting for a lead, any lead. Someone must recognize the sketch. The minutes dragged into hours, and he had a pizza delivered. He was on the second slice when Bedard burst into the room.

  “Luc, what the fuck are you trying to do? I’ve just been told that we have a sketch of a suspect. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Chief Inspector, it’s one sketch from one witness, and I’m not sure it’s reliable — I’m not even sure the witness is reliable. We have officers showing it around at all the likely spots, and if it’s good, we should have a name to go with the sketch any moment.”

  “That’s not the point. You didn’t tell me you even had a sketch.”

  “Like I said, sir, I’m not convinced it’s reliable. I’m waiting for identification, and we’ll have it soon and will pick him up. If he’s gone missing we can release the sketch along with a name. You know what a defence lawyer can do with a sketch that‘s not a good likeness of the suspect. I don’t want to make a mistake. This way, if the sketch is any good, we get a name and we can nab him. If the sketch gets out, he disappears.”

  “Well, it’s too late to worry about that. I just got a call from the Mayor’s office about the sketch. It’s on the Jo
urnal de Montreal’s website. The fucking Journal de Montreal publishes the sketch before I even know it exists. Luc, why are you doing this to me? Holding out is bad enough, but someone in your unit has a direct line to that piece of shit newspaper.”

  “I’ve checked that, sir, and nobody from this squad is feeding the media,” said Vanier, trying to eliminate doubt from his voice. “The witness for the sketch works for the Journal de Montreal, and our people have been out all day with the sketch. There must have been hundreds of people who have seen it, and more than a few with copies. He’s not even a suspect right now; he’s just a loose end. Our suspect is dead.”

  “Well, your plan to keep this quiet is flushed down the toilet.”

  “We just have to deal with that. I hope to have something serious any moment now. If the sketch is a dead end, then we’ll know quickly enough. We’re hitting everyone who might have seen our guy. If nobody recognizes him, then the sketch is probably useless.”

  “So I tell the Mayor’s office that a member of the public leaked it, and we didn’t release it because he’s only a person of interest, not a suspect.”

  “That’s right. Go on the attack, Chief Inspector: irresponsible action by the Journal de Montreal endangering a material witness and jeopardizing a murder investigation. Tell them you can’t conduct a rigorous investigation if the media acts irresponsibly, putting the public in danger at the same time. You have enough experience, Chief Inspector, to know that publishing sketches is a last resort. And that’s how we were operating, until our investigation was sabotaged by irresponsible journalists.” Vanier was beginning to believe himself, and the Chief Inspector was beginning to see an alternative to admitting he wasn’t in control.

  “I’m sure that you can put it much more convincingly than I could, Chief. It’s not a police failure, it’s irresponsible journalism aimed at undermining a serious inquiry.”

  Bedard didn’t have an alternative, and there was a grain of truth in what Vanier was saying. There was enough to craft a message around; righteous indignation coupled with a chance to put the boot to the media at the same time. The Mayor might even like it.