The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  A pair of paramedics were leaning over a stretcher, one adjusting an oxygen mask, the other pulling a reflective emergency blanket over the man and belting him onto the gurney. Cauchon didn’t even need to show his badge, but Pouliot did. The big man leaned against the ambulance bumper and got the lowdown on what had happened. Steve Pouliot discreetly bent over the man. The victim looked to be about sixty years old, but it was hard to tell. They had found no ID on him. His face was quite deeply browned and lined by the winter sun and exposure. There was embedded dirt in the crow’s feet at his eyes, and in the scruffy gray beard that grew in patches on his jaw and cheeks. It looked like some frostbite had gotten the tip of his nose and ear lobes. The paramedic explained that although he was slightly hypothermic and in shock, his vital signs were good. His eyes were closed, but he was conscious. Steve Pouliot felt his heart beat a little faster. They finally had someone who could perhaps identify his assailant. He couldn’t wait to let Roméo Leduc know. He pulled out his phone to send a text, and suddenly his wrist was wrenched away. The man had grabbed him. He looked up at Steve, his eyes wide open and terrified. With his other trembling hand, which was attached to an IV bag, he pulled away the oxygen mask. Steve Pouliot leaned in closer so he could hear.

  “Mon chien? Whersh mmme dog?”

  “Pardon? What did you say?” The man had just a few teeth left in his mouth and was very hard to understand.

  “Mon…mon…CHIEN!”

  The paramedics hastened to the man, and started to ask Steve Pouliot to step aside, but the man grabbed him even harder.

  “He said…he said to me. He said, ‘I will help you. Don’t be scared. Help is coming—’”

  The man had a thick accent that Steve couldn’t quite place. He had to listen very carefully to make out what he was saying.

  “Then he…SAT…on me and…and…choked me. But I, I am a fucking veteran of…of…Vietnam, okay? I know how to, how to move some FUCKER off me!”

  He tried to sit up, but the paramedics eased him back onto the stretcher.

  “Where’s my dog? Where is she?”

  He began to whimper. “I think he took her. I think he took MY DOG!!!”

  Steve asked a cop on duty if a dog had been found. He shook his head.

  He returned to the man, whose eyes were closed again. A few tears had escaped them and were trickling down his cheeks.

  “Monsieur? Did you know the man who attacked you? Did you recognize him at all? His face? His voice?”

  The man answered very slowly, as though every word was now an effort.

  “I didn’t see. His face. But. I knew his voice. Know his voice.” The man made a painfully shallow inhalation, and the paramedics stepped in. The oxygen mask was back on, and they moved to close the ambulance doors.

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “The General. It’s closest.”

  Steve Pouliot jumped down from the back of the ambulance before the doors were slammed shut. They had a victim who might be able to identify the attacker. They had a face. Someone with a memory. A survivor. Steve Pouliot pulled his jacket tighter around his neck, and his hat over his ears. There was a nasty dampness in the air. Snow would be coming soon. He headed towards where he’d left Detective Cauchon but stopped abruptly in his tracks. Detective Cauchon was holding forth to a scrum of reporters and TV cameras. He didn’t even glance Steve’s way. Not once. Steve Pouliot made his way out of the three-ring circus and immediately texted Detective Inspector Roméo Leduc.

  Forty-Three

  “BONJOUR, BOSS! Comment ça va ce matin? Did you get my message last—”

  “Yes. I got it.”

  There was a brief hesitation. “Oh. Okay.…Did someone get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

  “Non, pas du tout. What do you have for me?”

  “It’s just that you sound a bit…weird. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine, Detective Sergeant LaFramboise. What do you have?”

  Roméo glanced over at Marie, who was busy in the kitchen frying up some eggs and bacon. Noah was running around being chased by his aunt Ruby, who was now popping out from behind the sofa and startling him into fits of shrieking and giggles. Ben and Maya were drinking coffee like their lives depended on it. Young parenthood. One of the greatest tests of character Roméo had experienced.

  He stepped out for quiet into the living room. Nicole’s tone chilled to officially professional.

  “Well, Detective Inspector Leduc. I went through all the Chantal Lalonde-Fukushima case files. I rechecked all the interviews and had the team re-question the family and a few friends, as per your suggestion. Then, quite by chance, I discovered a photograph of Chantal with this guy. Jean Luc David.” Nicole knew that Roméo wasn’t much into popular culture, and certainly not a binge-watcher of television series. He still had a VCR, for God’s sake.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes. Of course I do.”

  Nicole realized that even Roméo couldn’t avoid the thousands of words written about this guy, and his picture in every Quebec tabloid newspaper, along with significant worldwide exposure.

  “I’m wondering if there’s a possible link between Jean Luc David and the girl who was murdered.” She explained that Chantal had aspirations to be a model, and Nicole had a hunch that maybe she’d gone to one—or possibly more—of his parties and just hadn’t told anyone. She also told Roméo what her college girlfriend had said about him, and the rumors of his infamous debauchery that were circulating in those days.

  “I think he’s cleaned up his act significantly. He has a couple of grown kids, a brand new wife, and settled into domestic bliss. At least for show. But….”

  Roméo’s heart began to pound. “But?”

  “Well, I did a little digging, and it turns out that David pled guilty to one count of sexual assault in nineteen ninety-seven, and was sentenced to one year of probation. He appealed, and his sentence was reduced to an unconditional discharge—which left him with no criminal record. Get this—the authorities felt he was too important in Quebec to be compromised in any way—too big to fail, you know?”

  Roméo nodded his head, but made no audible reply. Nicole pushed on.

  “That way, he was still allowed to travel all over the world. Basically, the powers that be did not want to clip his wings in any way. He was just too important to the Quebec brand.” Nicole made an exhalation of disgust. “Unbelievable. Deguelasse.”

  “There’s no real evidence at all connecting him to Chantal, is there?”

  Nicole’s voice sank. “No, boss. None.”

  “Who did he assault in ‘ninety-seven?”

  “An eighteen-year-old woman. Girl. From St. Lambert. On the South Shore of the city. That’s all I know.”

  “I want you to pull all but one guy off the other cold case team for now and get everyone on this. Get Robert to go over every possible link to the girl and David that you can. Every old photo, every newspaper article. Re-interview whatever high-school friends you can find. Someone must know something.”

  “Okay. Got it.”

  “I want this pursued vigorously, Nicole. Okay? Everyone piles on, understood?”

  Nicole watched as Léo dumped the entire box of mega blocks she had just tidied back onto the living room floor.

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I want the DNA testing from the Fukushima case pulled and check to see if David has DNA on file. Got it?”

  “Yes, boss. Thy will be done.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Roméo thought of the conversation with Marie the night before.

  “No. Nothing for now.”

  Roméo ended the call and stepped back into the kitchen. Marie was trying to coax Noah into eating a piece of orange. Noah was in
his highchair, entertaining everyone by dropping bits of his breakfast on Dog’s enormous head, while Barney, Marie’s much smaller pug, kept hurling himself at Dog’s head to lick it off. Ruby, Ben, and Maya were all watching him and laughing themselves silly, which only encouraged him to do it more. Roméo tousled the mop of silky black curls on Noah’s head. Marie took the spoon from him and explained gently that the food was for his mouth, not Dog’s head. Roméo felt a sudden pang of guilt that Sophie was not a part of this. Marie always invited her for these Sunday brunches and special family events, but she usually sent her excuses at the last minute. Roméo knew she often felt alienated at these gatherings of Marie’s family, even after two years. He didn’t know why. Roméo resolved that next time, he would just go and get her, and insist that Sophie join them. Marie was still wiping her grandson down and briefly looked up into Roméo’s eyes. She could see that he wanted a word with her, so she handed the soggy mess of food and paper towel to Ben and wiped her hands on her pajamas.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you think you could speak with Michaela Cruz again?”

  “I hope to. Why? What’s happened?”

  Just as he was about to answer, Roméo’s phone beeped in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the screen. Another attack. Looks like our guy. Victim survived. Has a dog. Gone to Montreal General hospital.

  “I have to go.”

  “What? You haven’t even eaten breakfast—I made you a special vegan plate of woodchips!” Marie protested.

  Roméo kissed Marie’s lips very lightly. “I have to go.”

  “You will call me later and we will continue this conversation, right?”

  Roméo nodded and threw his coat and hat on. He patted his pockets and checked that his gloves and keys were there. By the time he looked up and went to wave goodbye, Marie had already returned to the kitchen. Roméo watched as they all chatted and laughed with each other. The family circle had just closed up tight again.

  Forty-Four

  Monday afternoon

  February 11, 2019

  ROMÉO SQUINTED THROUGH the windshield of his car trying to make out the road through the relentlessly falling snow. Another blizzard was pummeling Montreal, the third in as many weeks, but Roméo felt a strange relief. After several winters of freakishly warm weather and green Christmases, maybe all this snow meant climate change wasn’t as dire as all the scientists were predicting, and he could deny its inevitability a little bit longer. He glanced over at Steve Pouliot who’d been quiet since Roméo had picked him up outside the station. He was working at getting his right thumbnail chewed down to the quick. Being lowest on the food chain at Station 12 probably left him on edge much of the time. Plus, everyone probably knew Pouliot was cooperating with Roméo despite the Sûreté du Québec being the enemy.

  The victim had finally been identified as Travis Hall, sixty-seven years old. He had suffered two broken ribs, and a fractured hyoid bone in his throat. He was very, very lucky to be alive. Pouliot had taken a statement from him for what it was worth. The attack had left him so traumatized he’d had a psychotic episode and was largely incoherent. The nurse had explained that he was quite heavily medicated for pain and anxiety, and that Pouliot would have to wait twenty-four hours at least. Roméo peered through the windshield.

  “Did you know that the Inuit have something like fifty different words for snow?”

  Steve Pouliot stopped chewing long enough to say “No.”

  “The word for recently fallen snow is qanittaq—not sure of my pronunciation there.”

  Pouliot nodded but his index finger was now being worked on.

  “And qanniapaluk means a very light falling snow, but in still air. Quite poetic, isn’t it?” Roméo leaned in closer to the steering wheel. “Language adapts to people’s need to express what is most important to them. I guess I should have looked up the word for snow coming down at you like an avenging angel of hell.”

  Pouliot stopped gnawing on his hand and looked at Roméo. “You like to read, don’t you?”

  Roméo smiled. “Yes, I do. Always have. Why? Do you?”

  Steve Pouliot shook his head. “I like to do things more.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’d like to catch this fucker.”

  Roméo thought of a local newscast he’d watched that morning. They’d interviewed several homeless people from around Cabot Square. They were really scared now. The threat of violence—being beaten, robbed, or assaulted was always a reality of life on the street. But now, the thought that there was someone actually targeting and killing homeless people was terrifying. Veteran street people who’d never go to a shelter were doing so for the first time. Night patrols had doubled their numbers. The SPVM, in response to media pressure, were organizing a special squad of police officers to put on the case. But Roméo knew that the killer could strike again at any time, and most certainly would.

  Charlotte Paloosie sat on one of the white plastic chairs at a white plastic table inside the enormous room at the Le Foyer shelter. Next to her was Annie Qinnuayuak, the shelter worker Roméo and Steve had interviewed there a week earlier. Roméo had arranged for Annie to join them, as he felt that was a safer and more appropriate way to approach Rosie’s friend. He had also asked Charlotte’s permission before he brought Steve Pouliot inside. She was nervous around the police, and Roméo noticed she never looked at Steve once. For some reason, she made direct and open eye contact with Roméo. He felt perhaps he had Annie to thank for that.

  “Charlotte, thank you very much for coming to talk to us today. Especially in this snowstorm.”

  “That’s okay. I’m pretty used to them.”

  A guarded smile formed on Annie’s face, but she said nothing.

  “So, we’d like to just go right to asking you a few questions. Is that okay with you?”

  Charlotte nodded. Her dark brown eyes bore into Roméo. Straight to his heart.

  “Can you tell us how you met Rosie?”

  “I was at Roasters—you know, that restaurant in the mall? At Alexis Nihon? I used to go there a lot, because one of the waitresses there was real nice, and she always asked us questions about home, and how we were doing here in the South, in the city. And like, she always managed to get us a bowl of soup, or a dessert for no charge.”

  Roméo smiled and held up a finger to pause her for a moment.

  “Sorry—may I ask what brought you here to Montreal?”

  “So I could go to school here. At Dawson College. They got a special program for First Nations and Inuit people…to transition to college. It’s really great. The teachers are so nice. There’s not much opportunity for…higher education back home. There’s one school with grades one to twelve, but hardly anybody goes after grade nine.” Charlotte looked down at her hands. “And we had a lot of…suicides…so, I really needed to get out.”

  Roméo had been horrified to learn that the suicide rate in Inuit communities was ten to twenty times the national average. The loss of their land and traditional life, the devastation to their communities had made suicide epidemic. Especially amongst schoolchildren.

  “I was billeted with these real nice people. But, anyway, I didn’t finish my first semester.”

  “Can you tell us why?”

  Charlotte hesitated, then continued. “They really tried to make it work for me. The people were really nice. But I didn’t know anyone, and I was too homesick. I missed my brothers and sisters. I missed the quiet up there, you know? And everyone here was, like, so different in their thinking. We got in a discussion in class about the seal hunt—I took this class—Humanities, I think it was—and we read this guy’s book who said eating animals was immoral. For my people, the hunt is…it’s what keeps us alive, even if we can get food from the South. It’s our blood. It’s who we are.”

  Roméo remembered the commercial seal hunt was effectively a
nd finally ended by a huge protest movement led by Greenpeace and French actress Brigitte Bardot and continued by Beatle Paul McCartney. He remembered photos of them on the ice floes, cuddling baby harp seals and excoriating people who hunted them. The Inuit have been hunting seals for many generations, but they never hunted the baby white-coated seal pups targeted by the anti-sealing campaigns. Still, the ban had a devastating effect on their local economy. Roméo knew he had never realized how crucial seals are to the Inuit way of life.

  “That must have been real tough for you.”

  Charlotte glanced over for just a moment at Annie.

  “Yeah, well. Like I said. I didn’t make it through the term.”

  Annie Qinnuayuak briefly touched the top of Charlotte’s hand.

  “But Charlotte has decided not to give up. She’s going to go back in the fall semester.”

  Roméo nodded. “I’m so glad to hear it. So you met Rosie Nukilik at…Roasters?”

  “Yes. She was just sitting by herself, and we started talking. She was pretty reserved, but really like, serious and funny at the same time, you know? Anyway, she told me she was from Salluit, which is like a really small community north of where I’m from.”

  Roméo remembered from his quick Wikipedia search that Salluit means “The Thin Ones” in Inuktitut, the language of the Nunavik Inuit. The name came from a time, long ago, when some Inuit were told the region was rich in wildlife. Yet when they arrived, they found almost nothing to eat and, as a result, suffered near starvation.

  “I’m from Kujuuag—it’s only like eleven thousand people, but it’s a big city compared to Salluit. So, we started telling stories about coming south to a real city, and how we didn’t know how to do nothing here. Like, there’s no traffic lights in Nunavik, so when Rosie first came here, she didn’t know how to cross the street. She said somebody had to show her how! Rosie told me all the stuff she did since she came down here with her sister that she was embarrassed of.” Charlotte started to giggle, and then just as quickly, stopped herself.