The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  “Danielle Champagne, not only are you a lifestyle guru, a fashionista, and an entrepreneur who empowers women to be fearless and pursue their dreams, but you are also embarking on yet another project.” The interviewer’s tone changed completely. Now it was somber and sincere. She leaned in. “Tell us about this new, very important organization you have created,” she checked her notes, “called Ça Suffit?”

  Danielle offered her a tight smile, uncrossed her legs and leaned closer. “As you know, Ça Suffit means That’s Enough.” And that is what our organization is saying—we have seen too many women fall victim to domestic, to conjugal violence, and it has to stop. The statistics are horrifying. Did you know that a woman or girl was killed every two-and-a-half days in Canada last year?” Danielle’s voice softened. “I have an eighteen-year-old daughter—my only child. Did you know that for women between eighteen and twenty-five, the leading cause of death is conjugal violence? Did you know that conjugal femicide is not treated as seriously by the authorities, because women killed by male partners are still seen as property? They call it the ‘intimacy discount.’ Can you imagine?” Danielle noticed the producer tapping his watch at the interviewer. Time was up. “Women are still most at risk with men they are intimate with or who they should be able to trust.”

  The interviewer had to shift emotional gears quickly. “One last question, Danielle Champagne. How on earth do you do it all?” Danielle had answered this question so many times she was on verbal automatic pilot. “Good sex, good sleep, good coffee,” she paused for effect, “and although I am a woman, great big gonads.” The interviewer laughed a little too long and enthusiastically, and then kissed Danielle on both cheeks to thank her. Within seconds, she was on to her next guest.

  Danielle decided to take a few minutes to check her emails in the lounge they provided for visitors, and sat down on a bright orange plastic chair. A young man already in the room—a later guest she presumed—was thumbing so madly on his phone he didn’t even look up when she came in.

  Maybe someone else had hit the woman. Hers wasn’t the only car in the tunnel that night. There must have been dozens. Hundreds. But Danielle thought about the damage to her Lexus that she’d had fixed. Like a criminal, she went to a shop in St. Eustache far from her home, and the guy fixed it right then and there on the spot. She had paid him in cash. He folded the bills into his pocket without saying anything. But what was she expecting him to say? Did you just hit someone with this car and leave her there to die? Danielle wondered if he could identify her later. A ping from her phone pulled her out of her speculation, and she quickly tapped out a response to her assistant, Chloé. She had to focus on her work now.

  At first she thought she’d turn herself in. Go to the police and tell them exactly what happened. There was a blizzard. She didn’t see her. She came out of nowhere. She thought it was a dog. Too scared to stop. It was wrong not to stop, she knew that, but she just couldn’t. It was an honest, a human mistake. But if she turned herself in, the press would go wild. Her reputation would be destroyed. So would her business and everything else she had. Because in the end, the product Danielle Champagne was selling so successfully in Canada and all over the world, was herself. What possible good would her confession do? It would not change anything. Except Julie’s life would be destroyed, her dream of the Sorbonne or Oxford shattered. Not to mention the hundreds—and soon, thousands—of people working for Danielle whose jobs would be on the line. Her confession would only destroy. It would not bring anyone back. It would not be just. It would not be right.

  Danielle returned her phone to her purse and gathered her coat and gloves. As she headed for the door towards the elevators, she glanced up at one of the several large screens which were mounted on one wall of the lounge. At the bottom of the screen the caption read: Victim of Hit-and-Run Identified. On the screen was an out of focus picture of a young woman in a white parka, standing on a huge rock by a lake, smiling broadly at the photographer. She looked to be Indian. Or maybe Inuit. Twenty-six-year-old Rosie Nukilik. Danielle felt like someone had sucker punched her hard in the stomach. Now she had a name.

  Twenty-Five

  ROMÉO WAS GRATEFUL TO BE ALONE in his car and heading to Station 12 downtown. He was listening to the fantastically eclectic classical music station la première chaîne, which was always restorative. Sometimes Roméo felt that if he had another few lives to live, he would certainly have been a concert violinist in one of them. Of course, he’d never taken music lessons. His father forced him into playing hockey, like all Quebecois boys did. When it was clear that Roméo had a special talent for it in spite of himself, his father made sure that dream wouldn’t come true. After Roméo’s coach explained he had won a life-changing hockey scholarship, Roméo’s father turned it down. Roméo supposed that was his way of reminding him of the total control he had over his life—the perverse, arbitrary power. He had dangled that treat in front of Roméo then snatched it away, like a naughty child with a hungry dog. Imagine if he’d asked his parents for violin lessons. His father would have laughed in his face and then smacked him right across the room.

  Roméo turned up the volume on the sublime Brahms concerto. How was it possible that these extraordinary sounds could just materialize in someone’s head? How did a person express that kind of heartache and yearning by vibrating strings on a box of wood? They say that the violin is the instrument that sounds most like the human voice, but Roméo needed to hear no human voice for at least a few more minutes before his work day really began. He had driven Ti-Coune Cousineau into Montreal from Val David yesterday afternoon, and Ti-Coune had not stopped talking the entire way in. He had been clean and sober for eighteen months now, and he was like a convert to a new religion. He kept talking about the evils of his old life and his devotion to no more soul-sickening booze and dope in his new life. Roméo wondered if he himself had been this insufferable when he quit smoking two years ago. The difference was that Roméo didn’t want to proselytize against smoking—he still craved a cigarette at least once a week, and still woke up inhaling the phantom aroma of cigarettes on his pillow. He did notice though that Ti-Coune’s resistance to bodily desecration stopped at cigarettes. He must have rolled and consumed half a dozen on the way in to Montreal, blowing the clouds of smoke out of his window, opened just a crack against the cold air.

  Still, Roméo was impressed that he had kicked a few habits that pursue and eventually kill so many people, and given Ti-Coune’s abusive background, it was a minor miracle. Roméo had also heard through the village grapevine that Ti-Coune was becoming a highly sought-after landscaper, which could be a lucrative business with the rich Anglos who had either no time or inclination to do the yard work around their “country” houses. Roméo, who had a deep and abiding appreciation of irony, marveled at how a man who had been so unnurtured, a man who had been refused almost every opportunity to grow his entire life, had a real gift for growing things. The one thing they did not discuss much, was the one thing—or person—who had brought this unlikely pair together in the first place. The search for Hélène Cousineau.

  Roméo had dropped Ti-Coune off outside a three-story

  brownstone that was clearly down on its luck. A crooked Chambres à Louer sign hung from its second floor window. It was two blocks away from Cabot Square where many of the Inuit homeless population of Montreal hung out, so Ti-Coune would be right in the thick of things, Roméo thought. If Roméo’s spotty memory of grade 8 history served him well, explorer John Cabot, a.k.a. Giovanni Caboto, made a claim to the land in Canada for English King Henry VII, mistaking it for Asia, during his 1497 voyage. He was the first of many who thought he’d found China. There was even a bedroom community a few short miles from downtown Montreal named Lachine.

  Roméo had dropped off Ti-Coune after they had agreed to check in with each other over the next few days and share whatever they had learned about Hélène’s whereabouts, and anything they might find out
about the hit-and-run case. Then he went to pick up a few necessary supplies and groceries, and headed to the two-bedroom flat he had rented for a few weeks for himself and Sophie. He was hoping that if he could get her away from the situation she would realize she had to be rid of that idiot boyfriend forever. But when he got to the flat she was on the phone with said idiot and ended the call with a furtive kiss when Roméo arrived. He felt such sadness and frustration with his daughter that he felt like throttling her. He had tried to talk to her about it, tried to use all the skills he had learned in domestic violence sensitivity training—but Roméo knew it was more nuanced and complex than he could understand. What was it about Sophie? He had tried to be a good father. He had been as present in her life as he could. He knew she always came to him if she was in real distress. She had been given everything she wanted—her wealthy stepfather had made certain of that. But still, her sense of self-worth was diminished enough that she didn’t feel she deserved to be loved by someone who didn’t scare her. Who didn’t hurt her.

  Roméo suddenly needed to talk to Marie. Why hadn’t he told her about Sophie? Was he trying to protect her from Marie’s—what? Disapproval? Judgment? Or from Marie jumping right into the fray with both feet and alienating Sophie further? He hated that he and Marie had argued on Saturday night—he always felt unbalanced after an argument with her. He had to put it right or he would feel incomplete until he saw her again. He knew he had to make a decision about their life together, but just now he felt he could not—he had too many plates spinning in the air and he didn’t want any one of them to break. The call to Marie went right to her voice mail. Roméo checked the time—she must be in class. Did she occupy too large a place in his life? Roméo was not the hopeless romantic like his namesake. He had always been guarded with his feelings, always protected his heart, even with his wife, Elyse. Maybe that’s why he found her in his bed with her high-school sweetheart.

  With Marie, he had let himself go so much further than he ever had—but it seemed like it was never enough for her. Did she want all of him? That’s what it sometimes felt like. But Roméo knew that wasn’t a fair depiction of Marie, either. Now who was being the drama queen? Roméo quickly compartmentalized his personal life and packed it away as he pulled up to Station 12 on Stanton Street. He squeezed into a spot alongside a couple of squad cars and put his Sûreté du Québec sticker on the windshield. Hopefully that wouldn’t inspire any of the cops inside to smash it.

  Roméo made his way directly to Detective Cauchon’s office. He appeared to be wearing the same suit and the same smug expression as the first time Roméo saw him. He sank his bulk into his chair, which sighed under the weight of him. He dropped a blue folder on his desk and opened it up.

  “Her name is Rosie Nuk…Nuk-ilik. She is twenty-six years old and from,” he hesitated over the word, “Salluit. Actually, that’s an easy one to pronounce compared to the other names up there.”

  Roméo looked at the photograph of the young woman. “And who finally identified her?”

  Cauchon leaned back in his chair and swallowed the last of his Tim Hortons coffee.

  “A case worker—Annie Qin. Qinn. Uak—from the Le Foyer shelter. She’s known her for about a year now.” Roméo jotted down the information.

  “I don’t think there’s a whole lot more you’re gonna find on this one. We checked the CCTV cameras in the area—”

  “And?” Roméo tried to move him along a bit faster.

  “And…a hundred and sixteen cars went through that tunnel in a twelve-hour period coinciding with estimated time of death. That’s nothing, of course compared to the traffic there would normally be in that area. When the biggest storm in the last five years isn’t happening. However. We couldn’t get any plates because the snow on the cameras either obliterated a clear view, and/or snow covered the plates.”

  Roméo said a quiet “Merde.”

  “That’s right, mon ami. Now, if you want to look up the…” Cauchon brought up a file on his laptop. “Fourteen Hondas, thirty-seven Toyotas, twelve Volvos, three Lexuses, one Tesla, etcetera…, etcetera…who went through that tunnel in those twelve hours—be my guest. We do have one officer on that right now.” He nodded in the direction of someone across the room.

  “I had a chance to read the medical examiner’s report very carefully. It was clear to me that this could very well be a homicide. She was asphyxiated. Probably after the collision—”

  Cauchon cut him off. “The report was inconclusive. There was no recommendation for the coroner to proceed further. We would like to know who hit her, though, and we are pursuing it.”

  Roméo leaned onto the desk. “So you are telling me, that despite significant evidence suggesting homicide, you will not investigate it further?”

  Detective Cauchon looked at Roméo evenly. “No. I am telling you we are pursuing a hit-and-run.”

  “If this young woman was white and not marginal, you’d be on this like a bloodhound.”

  Cauchon smiled. “I find that a very offensive statement, Chief Inspector Leduc. We have all had our aboriginal sensitivity training.”

  “Looks like it didn’t take.”

  “And despite your having no jurisdiction here, and your marginal connection to the case, I will show you the courtesy of introducing you to Officer Pouliot. He is investigating the hit-and-run.” Cauchon stood up and buttoned his jacket over his substantial bédaine.

  “Thank you for coming in. We’re always happy to help the Sûreté.”

  Roméo couldn’t very well stay behind in Cauchon’s office so he had no choice but to follow him to the tiny and very tidy desk of a young uniformed officer. Roméo pulled up a chair. He could feel the eyes of every cop in that room watching. And every ear listening. Roméo explained who he was and his interest in the case. In a lowered voice he also added that he was almost certain this was a homicide. Officer Pouliot looked up from his computer sharply. He said nothing, but his eyes were clear. Roméo got the message. “Let’s step out to the canteen, shall we? I need some more bad coffee.”

  Officer Pouliot, who insisted Roméo call him Steve, was very slight and very short—almost the size of a jockey. That cannot have been easy for him in police academy, or on the job either, Roméo thought. Neither one of them got a coffee.

  “I know that you are on the Rosie Nukilik hit-and-run case. I think there is substantial evidence of deliberate traumatic asphyxiation. I think someone sat on her and choked the life out of her.”

  Steve Pouliot raised both eyebrows but said nothing.

  “There doesn’t seem to be much interest in this possibility, but I intend to look into it further, so anything you can share with me would be very appreciated.” Roméo removed his card and placed it on the canteen table. Pouliot played with it in his hand as though he was not sure he’d pocket it. He leaned towards Roméo and spoke quietly.

  “Two other women—both twenty-six years old and both Inuit have died under suspicious circumstances in the last four months. Vickee Quissak and Shannon Amittuk. Vickee was deemed accidental, and Shannon a suicide.” His voice lowered even more. “You did not hear this from me. Shannon was found in circumstances that would suggest foul play, but there was no further investigation.”

  Roméo looked him straight in the eye. “And why didn’t you insist there be an investigation?” Pouliot smiled tightly and shook his head.

  “Let’s just say there’s not much motivation around here to look into these deaths.”

  “Was the suspicious death—Shannon…Amittuk possibly committed by the same person? Was she asphyxiated?”

  “I would have to say no. The MO is different. I have their files. I can get them to you. But if anyone ever asks, I know nothing about this. It’s been hard enough.”

  Officer Pouliot got up from the table, all five feet of him, and headed towards the door without looking back. Roméo felt outraged, especially
after what the Viens Commission exposed about treatment of First Nations and Inuit women at the hands of the police in Quebec. It seemed like nothing at all had changed. But he was out of his jurisdiction, and Rosie Nukilik was not a cold case, so Roméo’s hands were officially tied. He could only ask himself what the hell was going on here. He promised himself he’d find out.

  Twenty-Six

  LUCKILY, MARIE HAD her go-to fun fact lecture ready to rock today, because everything else she had carefully planned for her class that morning had gone awry. So, she got to share some of the many stories about humpback whales that had led her to devote much of her life to their study. “Humpbacks are known for singing loud, complex ‘songs’ and the sounds they make are the most varied in the animal kingdom, ranging from high-pitched squeals and whistles to deep, rumbling gurgles.” Marie played a few minutes of song for the class. “Someone once described it as the sound of a violin crossed with a Wookiee.” There was a burst of laughter across the room. “Only the males actually sing. We’re not certain why yet, but we think they do it to attract females or to challenge other males—to let them know it’s their territory. Amazingly, each population of humpbacks communicates in its own dialect, and sings its own whale song. A humpback’s song can be heard as far as thirty kilometers away.” Marie paused for effect. “But a Blue whale, the largest mammal that ever lived—and the length of three school buses end to end—can be heard across the Atlantic ocean—by other Blue whales, of course. Humpbacks are known to repeat the same song over and over again for hours. One was recorded singing for

  twenty-two hours straight. Imagine trying that yourselves.” Marie’s class chuckled again.