The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  “Oh, Julie. Je suis tellement fière de toi. I am so proud of you.”

  The rest came out in a torrent of words. She was accepted to Pembroke College. She could now apply for scholarships, but of course they would not cover even half the costs.

  “Maman, he asked me to confirm my acceptance soon. I want to say yes now! Can I say yes now?”

  Danielle nodded her head, but the words hadn’t come out yet.

  “Maman? Allo? Are you there?”

  Danielle said yes, she could tell them yes. She couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation, because Julie and her friends who she had just shared Danielle’s answer with, were all screaming and laughing.

  “Merci, Maman! Merci, merci MERCI!!!! Je t’aime!” she paused to catch her breath. “I’ll tell you all the details tomorrow. Oh, I don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight!”

  The call ended with a loud, smacking air kiss from Julie. Danielle put the phone down and fell back onto the sofa. Her daughter was on her way into a big life. And Danielle was not going to let anything stop her.

  Forty-One

  THE SNOW DANCED AND SWIRLED around them depending on the whims of the wind, which seemed to be undecided about which direction it was coming from. Roméo and Marie strolled through Notre Dame de Grace park, enjoying the soft drifts of powder under their boots, the snow falling like diamonds in the light of the streetlamps. They held hands, or at least mittens, and leaned against each other playfully as they meandered towards Marie’s house. They were both pretty tipsy—Marie from the bottle of wine she had mostly drunk by herself, Roméo from the two beers and two scotches he’d accompanied their supper with. Apparently, they had both needed to drink.

  Roméo had gone over the Rosie Nukilik case in detail with Marie—thinking out loud for the most part. Marie wanted to know everything, and he filled her in on the details Annie Qinnuayuak had provided. He asked her again what she could remember about Rosie.

  “I mostly remember her wandering around the mall, you know, looking in shop windows. Once or twice I noticed her in the lineup at the Tim Hortons, because her parka was so exceptional and beautiful, especially compared to most of the students, who all feel they have to wear those identical Canada Goose jackets.”

  Roméo smiled at the memory of seeing so many of them in “uniform” at the mall.

  “Was she with other people? Is there anyone you remember her hanging around with? Getting into an altercation with? An argument?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m sorry. Once, or maybe twice, I noticed she was with another young woman—Inuit, as well. They seemed to laugh with each other a lot. Just like two normal women enjoying being young and…just being with a good friend.”

  Marie closed her eyes and shook her head. “Every time I think of her just…left there like that, I feel sick to my stomach.” They both sat in silence for a few moments.

  “And what about this boy found near Dawson? What is going on?”

  “It would seem he was the victim of the same person, with the same MO. But there seem to be no other connections between them—other than they both spent time around Cabot Square and the mall. Bourque has been living on the streets for years, but to our knowledge, Rosie Nukilik had not.”

  “It’s so terribly sad about that boy, too.”

  Roméo drained the last of his scotch and gestured for the check.

  “He had a dog who apparently never left his side—it’s gone missing. The girlfriend is desperate to find it.”

  “Oh my God, I hope she does.”

  As they waited to pay Roméo got her up-to-date on the Hélène Cousineau situation—which was to say up to nowhere. They slipped into their coats and said good night to their waiter. Besides The Decision, each of them had something more they needed to talk about—but the walk home to Marie’s gave them a few more minutes of undiluted pleasure. Marie stopped to show Roméo a perfect snowflake that had landed on her black mitten. Every Canadian has done this a hundred times, but there was always a feeling of awe in the moment.

  “At the center of almost every snow crystal is a tiny mote of dust. Did you know that?”

  Roméo shook his head. “I did not.”

  “It can be a speck of volcanic ash, or even a particle from outer space. Imaginez vous.”

  Roméo took her hand back and continued their walk.

  “I know that every snowflake is unique—no two snowflakes are alike.”

  Marie smiled. “On a molecular level, yes they are. Each ice crystal has a unique path to the ground. Each floats through different clouds of different temperatures and varying levels of moisture, which means it will grow in a unique way. But it’s hard to believe that in the trillions of snowflakes that form, no two form in exactly the same way.”

  “Thank you, Professor Russell.”

  Marie gave Roméo a little push. “Well, you made an assertion that is not factual, Detective Inspector Leduc.”

  He gently shouldered her back, then caught Marie in his arms. Roméo leaned down to kiss her, but both of them had so much winter snot dripping from their noses that they each turned away at the critical moment. They both wiped it away with the palms of their mittens and laughed. Marie pulled Roméo down the park’s snowy walkway. “Let’s go home.”

  They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. As soon as they got in Marie’s front door they’d kicked off their snow boots, peeled away the layers of winter clothes, and fell into each other on Marie’s living room sofa. It was short, a bit feral and yet sweet. Now Marie lounged under a poofy duvet, regarding the trail of discarded clothes from the front door. That kind of urgency didn’t happen much anymore, but it certainly was delicious when it did. Roméo returned from the kitchen with two glasses of single malt whiskey. He had tied Marie’s scarf around his waist. Marie threw the duvet over her head in mock shame.

  “Oh my God. I didn’t even close the living room curtains.”

  Roméo went to the window and quickly drew them. “That must’ve given the neighbors a thrill.”

  Marie accepted the glass of scotch. “Two old farts doing it? I’m not sure thrill is the right word.”

  Roméo lowered his very long body back onto the sofa and took Marie in his arms under the duvet. They both sipped at their whiskey and stared at the perfectly symmetrical flame of Marie’s gas fireplace. The gravel-voiced Leonard Cohen sang through their speakers about dancing to the end of love. They were suddenly quiet, each separated by their respective preoccupations. In all the evidence Roméo had pored over he knew he’d missed some clue to the identity of the killer. He had messaged Steve Pouliot about interviewing Rosie Nukilik’s friend, Charlotte, and was waiting for an answer. But answering texts on Saturday date nights was forbidden. When Roméo was working a case, he hated getting distracted by anything. Or anyone. This laser-focus of his had destroyed his marriage. His wife’s sleeping with her high-school sweetheart hadn’t helped much either, but Roméo knew that his neglect and focus on his job to the exclusion of all else had propelled Elyse right into Guy’s arms. He would not let that happen again.

  “Roméo?”

  “Mmmnnn?”

  “Are you awake?”

  “Of course I am. I just closed my eyes for a minute—I’m a bit sleepy from the scotch. And. Well. Seeing as I’m an old fart now, according to my girlfriend. That’s what happens to us old farts after sex.”

  Marie pulled her arms out from under the duvet, sat up and rubbed her face. Then she took a breath and turned to face Roméo. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “It involves breaking someone’s confidence—”

  “Then you shouldn’t say anything.”

  “I promised to say nothing.” Marie chewed on her thumb cuticle. “But I think it’s too important a…situation to respect that. I think public safety trumps it.”

  Roméo was
sitting up now and looking intently at Marie. “Tell me.”

  Marie told Roméo everything she knew about Michaela and her assault. Roméo was silent for several moments. Although he had arrested the serial rapist and murderer William Fyfe years earlier, the horrors of his crimes were still fresh for Roméo. He took Marie’s hands. They were cold.

  “I am so sorry that happened to your student. It was brave of her to tell you. Am I to assume if she swore you to secrecy that she did not report the assault to the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she get treatment? Report it to a doctor? To a sexual assault prevention center? To anyone?”

  “No.” Marie hesitated. “Only me—that I know of.”

  Roméo exhaled and ran his hand through his unruly hair.

  “Do you know if she kept any of the…evidence?”

  Marie sighed. “She said she took pictures of her injuries. But she took a shower and I think tried to scrub all traces of him from her—including using mouthwash and brushing her teeth.”

  Roméo muttered something to himself.

  “What did you say?”

  “There might still be something to test. If she kept her underwear, for example. His DNA might be on it. But that doesn’t prove rape. It only proves that he touched her and then her underwear.”

  “There was blood. She is…was…a virgin.”

  “Jesus.” Roméo slowly rubbed his eyes for several seconds. “How many days ago did this happen?”

  “Last Friday night—so eight days ago.”

  Roméo shook his head. “That’s not so good.”

  “Can you do something? If we can persuade her to press charges? I think she will—she’s just too traumatized right now. And she hasn’t even told her parents.”

  “She has to come to us. But it won’t be a slam-dunk because she has little physical evidence, and she waited too long to come forward. It may be a case of he said–she said. I just don’t understand. She’s a smart woman, isn’t she? Why didn’t she go to the police? Why didn’t she report this?”

  Marie sat up and moved away from Roméo. “Smart? What’s smart got to do with it? Men rape smart women. Men rape stupid women. Old women, young women, ugly women, pretty women. You know that more than anyone!”

  “Maybe I didn’t express myself precisely.” Roméo switched to French. “I thought that girls—women—these days knew, or at least were told to never get rid of evidence. To always get a medical examination. So there’s a record. Somewhere.”

  “Believe me, you don’t always think so clearly and—and logically when someone has just forced his dick into your mouth. Or your vagina. Or your anus. Or all three. You just want to make it all go away.”

  Roméo tried to take Marie’s hand again, but she pulled it away.

  “I know, Marie. I know.”

  “No. You don’t. Michaela was angry at herself for getting raped. At herself—for putting herself in that situation—”

  “I understand that. She goes off alone with a powerful man. In retrospect, she must feel very naïve and stupid—”

  “WHAT?” Marie slipped off the sofa and stood up with the duvet gathered around her. She punched off the music. Roméo was left sitting there with just her scarf on.

  “So she was asking for it?”

  “I said,” Roméo grabbed a cushion and clutched it to his stomach. “That I can see why she feels that way—NOT that she should feel that way. At all.”

  “Well, thank you for that, Camille Paglia.”

  “Who?”

  “A so-called feminist who said that a girl who lets herself get dead drunk at a fraternity party is an idiot—she said feminists call this blaming the victim, but she called it plain common sense—putting all the responsibility on the woman not to provoke or arouse a man in any way, or to always be on high alert. I mean. No wonder with attitudes like that, more women don’t come forward—”

  Roméo answered very gently. “Marie. I am not the enemy.”

  “Sometimes it feels like all men are. Men like Jean Luc David are protected by the system, by their power—so they can assault women with impunity—”

  “Not impunity. They can be punished—but women must speak up. And we have to make it safer and easier so they can come forward with no shame and no fear, of course—”

  “Yeah, well it’s hard in this rape culture—the whole system creates and supports these guys.”

  “Not all men are rapists, Marie. And this idea is so…alienating to normal men. Men who aren’t rapists. Men who are trying to understand—”

  “I’m not talking about all men. I’m talking about a culture that normalizes and trivializes sexual violence. It’s all rigged in favor of the rapists—”

  “Marie, there has to be high evidentiary standard in rape cases, because we still believe people are innocent until proven guilty. In rape cases, beyond a reasonable doubt is sometimes hard to prove—so often a prosecutor will not bring the case to trial—hence the need to preserve the evidence—”

  “Why don’t we believe women when they say they were raped? If you had spoken to Michaela, you’d know every word of it was true.”

  “Not all women always tell the truth. There has to be a trial. It is fundamental to our system—”

  “I know. I heard you the first time.”

  Roméo’s phone suddenly buzzed and vibrated, almost moving itself across the coffee table. He glanced at it, but of course didn’t answer. Marie snatched the phone and looked at the caller ID.

  “It’s Nicole. Your ex.”

  “She’s not my ex.”

  “You slept with her—had sex with her. There was a clear abuse of power there.”

  “We had consensual sex. Once.”

  “But you were—are—her boss. Maybe she felt she had to have sex with you—to stay in your good graces—and make detective sergeant.”

  “Fuck off, Marie.”

  Roméo never swore. At least never at her. Marie was shocked. And a bit ashamed that she had provoked him to it. Roméo did not like to gossip and never kissed and told. But he felt a powerful urge to now.

  “Let’s just say that she was a very willing participant. If anyone was coerced. Or pressured? It was me. Not her.”

  Roméo’s phone beeped that a message had been left. It was Nicole LaFramboise. Her ears must have been burning red hot. He wondered what would trigger a call from Nicole at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to answer it. Marie sat down next to Roméo and took one of his hands in hers. She rubbed his long fingers, the carefully trimmed nails, the bump where he’d broken two knuckles that had never properly healed.

  “We’ve been putting up with this shit for way too long. My generation just shut up and took it, you know. But this generation? I want it to be way better for them. I never want to hear a woman like Michaela ever again say she was stupid for letting it happen. I never want to hear ever again that she’s ashamed to tell her father. Do you understand?”

  Roméo shook his head. “I can’t change the world. I can’t fix the system overnight. It’s imperfect, I know. But I don’t agree that this situation is impossible, or that the system is so misogynistic that it doesn’t want men like this to be punished. If you can manage to get Michaela to go to the police, then I will do everything in my power to get her case into the hands of the best team I know. That’s what I can do.”

  Marie kissed the top of Roméo’s broken hand. “Then for now, that will have to be enough.”

  But as Marie leaned back into Roméo’s arms, she was not at all certain she could persuade Michaela to break her silence. She had also not told Roméo what Michaela’s girlfriend had done to extort some money from that man. What effect would that have on the case if it ever even went forward? Marie needed to think. Alone.

  “I’m going to take a
bath. Will you be coming up soon?”

  Roméo eased Marie out of his embrace. “I’m going to just sit by the fire here for a few minutes.”

  She kissed his forehead and with the duvet pulled around her shoulders, headed a bit woozily upstairs. The two dogs stirred from their sleep and got unsteadily to their feet. Barney opted to stay with Roméo, but Dog yawned, stretched and padded after Marie. Roméo drained the dregs of his scotch and picked up his phone to check the message from Nicole LaFramboise. She had just asked him to call her back. Marie stopped, her hand on the banister of the staircase, and turned back to Roméo.

  “Why would the killer go after someone who has a big dog? I mean…wouldn’t the dog be protective? Why would he take such a risk? What if he’s after the dogs?”

  Forty-Two

  Sunday morning

  February 10, 2019

  The uneven snowbanks along the side of the condo construction site looked like someone had spilled buckets of blood on them. But it was just the squalid reflection of the red police car lights staining the blanket of whiteness. A feeble February morning sun was just coming up, casting a surreal yellow shadow over the entire chaotic scene. Detective Steve Pouliot hastened to keep up with Detective Cauchon, who was crossing the street to the crime scene at a surprisingly fast pace. He had finally decided to get fully involved in these so-called Homeless Murders/Assassins Sans Abri! as Le Journal de Montréal was ghoulishly calling them. There was much more attention being given them by the press and media now, so Cauchon was suddenly all over it. The story of Christian Bourque’s missing dog, and the loving girlfriend who was determined to find it had been picked up by one of the city reporters, and now they were all in a feeding frenzy on that meal. A missing dog was so much more appealing than a couple of dead homeless people. Steve Pouliot noted that the scene had been securely cordoned off and was being overseen by at least a dozen uniformed officers. He headed towards the ambulance on Cauchon’s heels.