by Peter Kirby
However you looked at it, Dufrene knew the kid wasn’t appealing. He was a mouthy idiot, revelling in his celebrity status, and Dufrene couldn’t change that. Given five minutes alone with Barbeau, most sane people would be tempted to give him a severe beating themselves.
The Colonel agreed. There would be no press conference. They would keep the kid under wraps and just sue the bastards. Dufrene crafted a lawsuit that sought $1.5 million from the Service de police de la Ville de Montréal, the City of Montreal, and personally against Detective Inspector Luc Vanier and his partner Detective Sergeant Sylvie Saint-Jacques. He didn’t need a press conference with the kid swaggering before the media with an idiot smirk on his face. Instead, he sent copies of the Statement of Claim to all the media outlets he could think of and waited for calls. His pitch improved with each new call: No, he was sorry, he couldn’t talk about the details of the claim because that was before the court, but the allegations were serious, and they pointed to a deplorable lack of oversight, management, and training of police officers. Citizens have the right to a police force that does not brutalize them. And it was every citizen’s right to fight back when they were brutalized. And no, his client wasn’t available for an interview.
Dufrene knew it was the kind of case that would make his career. With luck, the city would settle, and he wouldn’t even have to go to court.
Desportes was watching the computer screen, every now and then making a strangled, almost giggling noise of approval. Kyle was stretched out on the couch in a blanket, reading a graphic novel, a red tuque on his head. Desportes had bought the book for him after Star mentioned he liked comic books. Star was perched on the couch, at Kyle’s feet, resting her chin on her knees and watching Desportes’s back.
“He doesn’t say much, your brother,” said Desportes.
“He doesn’t say anything. He’s autistic.”
“So you said.” Desportes turned around to look at Kyle. “He never says anything?”
“Nothing. Makes noises sometimes. But no words.”
“He likes the book.”
“I told you. He’ll read it, maybe a hundred, two hundred times, and then he’ll stop.” She turned to look at Kyle. He was immersed in the book, like he was reading it for the first time.
“I don’t think he can read the words,” Desportes said, turning back to the screen.
“You never know,” said Star. “What do you do? For a living I mean. You work from home?”
“Sort of. You could say I’m an independent small businessman. I trade stocks and shares and do some consulting.”
“You make good money.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t seem to worry about money. As far as Star was concerned, if you didn’t worry about money, you were rich.
“I lead a simple life. I don’t need much.”
“What do you consult about?”
“This and that. People who have problems come to me and sometimes I can help them. Like two businesses are in competition and want to find a way to work together. Or someone wants to get a good job. Lots of things.”
“Is it legal, what you do?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re going to get. Did you know it’s illegal to sleep in the street? Or to beg for money? Or to go rooting for food in dumpsters?”
“You’re kidding.”
“People do illegal things every day. But they can only lock up so many people. So the authorities have to choose what laws to enforce and against whom.”
“Sounds like you’re making up a story. Like to justify what you do.”
“Maybe I am.”
She went quiet, and Desportes turned back to the computer.
After a while, she asked, “Could you teach me? I could be your assistant.”
“Assistant? I don’t need an assistant. I work alone.”
“I’m sure you could do with some help. If you thought about it. You could find a lot of things for me to do. I’m cheap, you know.”
“How could I hire someone I know nothing about?”
“You know me. And I’m a hard worker.”
He turned to look at her. “Do you have a cv?
“What? You mean the paper that lists all the stuff you’ve done. Like the jobs and that?”
“Exactly. Do you have one?”
“No. No one ever asked for one.”
“So why don’t you just tell me about yourself. Start wherever you want and end up with today, or yesterday. Like where is your family?”
Her arms tightened around her legs and she looked over at Kyle. He was deep in the book.
“Kyle’s my family.”
“But before that?”
She was thinking, and having trouble. Then her arms loosened a bit and she said. “Born in Drummondville, well miles outside actually … On a farm. But they didn’t grow anything except some vegetables for us and chickens for eggs and meat … Don’t know where money ever came from, but there was never very much. Kyle was born four years after me. When he was two years old, my father left … We never saw him again. Don’t remember him too well … I just remember him not being there.”
She was having trouble getting the story out, taking deep breaths, and blinking back tears. Kyle was motionless, except for his eyes moving from panel to panel, neither faster nor slower than before.
“My mother was crazy. People in the village thought she was just a weird hippie, but she was nuts. As soon as my father left, Cliff showed up and started acting like he’s our father. Mom was just crazy, I told you that. Right? She would forget to feed us, she’d disappear for days, she couldn’t cook, couldn’t clean. Cliff was crazy too, but violent crazy … He was the angriest person I ever knew. After he showed up … All I remember is being scared … Scared to go home from school … Scared to get up in the morning … Scared to eat … Scared to not eat. Anything would set him off, and he exploded all the time … Two or three times a day.”
Desportes said nothing. He sat still and listened.
“He was always beating us. All the time. But he beat Kyle worst of all. I think because it didn’t seem to have any effect on him. Sure he’d bleed and he’d bruise, but he wouldn’t cry out. First time me and Kyle ran away, I was thirteen. Mom and Cliff had been gone for two days on a party … I spent the first day scared they would come back. We went to a neighbour, but as soon as Cliff and my Mom came back, the neighbour brought us back … When I was fifteen, me and Kyle left for good. We hitched a ride to Drummondville and took the bus to Montreal.” She took a long pause. “I’m still looking for our father.”
“What for,” Desportes asked. It seemed like such a forlorn hope.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Desportes didn’t answer. He just turned back to the screen and started typing again.
An old lady in a housecoat was standing in the doorway staring at Vanier suspiciously.
“Yes?”
“Inspector Vanier. For Father Harris. Is he at home?”
“Do you have a card?”
Vanier pulled one out of his pocket and handed it to her. She squinted at it.
“I’ll see. Wait here.” She closed the door. When she came back, she said, “Father will see you in his office. Come in.”
She let him into a carpeted hallway that would have been dark in the middle of summer. The only light came from a window over the door made opaque by street grime. She pointed him to a chair in a small study and told him to wait. The only colours in the room were brown and black, and a splash of blood red from a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The place was worn with age, like the church itself.
He didn’t have to wait long. There was a shuffling in the hallway, and Father Harris walked in slowly, bent in an impossible stoop, as though God was forcing his frail b
ody down with an invisible finger. He swivelled his neck to look up at Vanier. Vanier stood up, towering over him.
“No. Stay sitting.”
The priest moved behind the desk and lowered himself into the seat. Then he swivelled his neck again to face Vanier.
“Thanks for seeing me, Father. I’m here because I thought you could give me some background. You’ve been in Hochelaga for longer than most, and I am trying to learn about the place.
“You’re the policeman who was involved in the riot. I heard you were suspended.”
There wasn’t anything wrong with his mind, thought Vanier. “You’re right, but this isn’t really police business.”
“Isn’t really?”
“Maybe not at all. As you said, I’m suspended.”
“As long as that’s understood. What is it you want to know?”
“I’m trying to understand this place. Consider me an ignorant stranger. I was investigating a murder, and then a riot that exploded out of nowhere. Now I’m under investigation for something I didn’t do, but someone did. I’m trying to understand.”
“Surely that’s for this new committee to look into.”
“The committee will do what it wants. I’m just trying to understand the neighbourhood. I thought I did. It’s like, shit’s happening … Excuse me, like bad things are happening, and they’re connected, or they may be, and I don’t know enough to get the connections. And, if I don’t get them, I’m in trouble. Big trouble.”
“You’re feeling under threat?”
“That’s not the point.”
“On the contrary, I think it is. This community, no, the people of this community, have been feeling under threat for generations. The old people fear crime and being abandoned. The young are facing a future with no hope. There are too many people surviving on welfare or punishing dead-end jobs. Pessimism, fear, and despair have been pervasive in this community for years.”
“What about the changes that are happening? Things are improving, no? New condominiums going up all over the place, new homes and businesses.”
“That’s outsiders. All that development just puts more pressure on the people who have been here all their lives. All this so-called progress is not helping the people who have always lived here. There’s no new jobs for them. It’s just new people moving in and displacing the ones who are here. And it’s not just a question of housing. Sure, apartments disappear and become condos for newcomers. But it’s deeper than that. When everyone’s in the same boat, when your neighbours are having as tough a time as you are, poverty is bearable. But these days the poor are forced to rub shoulders with the young professionals who have moved into the new condo development, and they realize how bad their own situation is. They become ashamed of their poverty, as though they could have done anything about it. Then there’s a sort of sullen envy that sets in. There are upmarket restaurants opening every week, but most people can only look in the window.”
“What about the Patriotes. Where do they fit in?”
“I wondered how long it would take you to get to them.”
“They seem to be very active here. I’m surprised. I’d never heard of them before.”
“They fill a gap, a large gap. They’re local, from here, and they’re doing what any good Christian does, helping others. The government has become almost invisible. Sure, it still hands out money, but these days, it’s always from a distance. It used to be that you would go down to the local office and fill out unemployment forms or welfare applications and then go back the following week to collect your cheque. Now everything is done online, or by telephone, and there’s a direct deposit to your account. Government is anonymous to most people.”
“And the Patriotes are in the community.”
“They’re everywhere. Running programs, classes, providing security, everywhere you turn. They’re a big part of Hochelaga.”
“Security?” That was the first Vanier heard of security.
“Just like they have in the rich communities. The Patriotes provide the local public security force.”
“I haven’t seen them.”
“Oh, you have. You just haven’t noticed. They don’t have the uniforms and marked cars, like they have in Outremont and Westmount. But the Patriotes have a contract to provide local security here. The police can’t do everything. And believe me, the Patriotes take a keen interest in keeping crime under control. It’s their neighbourhood, you understand.”
“You make it sound like they’ve taken over the place.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing. I like to think of it as the community providing for itself. The church has long since given up on earthly politics … Well, mostly. But it wasn’t that long ago that we staffed the hospitals and the schools ourselves and had an influence on every important political question. But since we withdrew from daily life, nobody has been able to fill the gap.”
“The government?”
“Certainly not the government. They’ve always been too far away from the people, and anyway, there’s never enough money to fill all the needs. So people work with what they have. And right now, Colonel Montpetit, with all his idiosyncrasies, is all the people have. He’s doing wonderful things for the community. And, most importantly, he’s part of the community. People know where he is, and if you have a problem you can go and see him. No need to go to City Hall or Quebec City or even Ottawa. You don’t need to talk to bureaucrats or politicians.”
Vanier wondered how much of the priest’s equanimity was a show.
“Even our church benefits. We get rent from the daycare in the basement and all kinds of other meetings. The wrestling pays virtually all of the maintenance costs of the Church.”
“Wrestling?
“Yes. Every Friday and Saturday night, there’s wrestling in the basement. The Patriotes organize it, they run the league. It’s very popular and it brings people to the church. Even if they’re not praying, at least they know where we are.”
Vanier was surprised, but not for the first time.
Ten
Vanier was walking east on Sainte-Catherine Street in the heart of the Gay Village. A canopy of strings of pink balls waved over his head, and it wasn’t hard for him to see he was in a different world. A world where gays were safely in the majority and tolerance seemed to be the motto. That’s why it felt different from most other places.
He took a window seat in Le Planète, ordered a coffee, and stared out onto the street. It didn’t take long for her to show up. He recognized her from television and raised his hand in greeting. Melanie Trudel co-anchored the evening news on CTV. Vanier had called her because he knew her reputation, a tough-as-nails professional with a heart, sometimes.
She gave him a noncommittal wave through the window, no smile.
He was already standing when she reached his table. “Inspector Vanier, I recognized you from the newspaper.”
He smiled, and they shook hands.
“Please. Sit down, Madame Trudel. And thanks for seeing me.”
She did, taking out a notebook at the same time.
“Call me Melanie. Are we on or off the record?”
“Hadn’t thought about it.” He said. He hadn’t realized there was a choice. “Better be off.”
“Okay. If there’s a quote I need, I’ll ask you to go on the record.”
“Fine.”
“I hear you’re in trouble.” A journalist’s opening, leaving room for him to talk about anything he wanted.
“Things could be better. I’m suspended. You know that.”
“Who doesn’t?” she said. Then, “I’m sorry.” She sounded like she meant it.
“Don’t worry. I’m working on it. It’s not true, what I’m accused of. Things are going to work out.”
She didn’t ask the question, but he answered anyway. “Melanie, I didn’
t beat that kid. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. I’m trying to find out.”
The waiter appeared, and she ordered a latte without looking at the menu. There was still time for a late lunch, but she wasn’t going to eat. She wanted him to know this was business.
“You said on the phone that you thought I could help you.”
“I said we could help each other.”
“How so?”
“I’ve seen a video taken just as I let the kid out the back door of Station 23.”
Her eyes lit up at the mention of the back door. Journalists prefer back doors because they imply shady dealings and intrigue.
“It’s not what you think. The doors in front were locked because of the riot. It was safer to send him out the back way. Anyway, in the video, the kid appears unhurt, and he was met by a guy in a raincoat.”
“Doesn’t that solve your problem? If you have an image of the kid leaving, and he’s okay, isn’t that the end of the story?”
“The picture’s not that good. It’s grimy, black and white, and it was getting dark. You know how it is with bad videos, you see what you want to see. The other problem is there’s only a back of the head of the guy who met him.”
“And?”
“And here’s where you can help. The camera shows your cameraman was filming from the other side. He would have got a better picture of the kid, and a face shot of the guy who met him.”
“Inspector, you know the procedure. Your guys have already asked for our footage, and we refused. It’s a question of freedom of the press. The lawyers will fight it out in court, and eventually a judge will decide. So, if what you say is true, it’s just a question of time.”
“I know. And all that will take us to September. And we probably won’t even get the film. Besides, I don’t think anyone on our side is really keen to get the video footage.”
“They made a request.”
“Yeah. They made a request. But they don’t seem that enthusiastic about pushing it.”
“Just how many people have you pissed off in the force?”
Vanier ignored the question. Said, “The way things are going, there won’t be any proof of anything and they’ll close the investigation saying there isn’t enough evidence to make a conclusion. You know what that means?”
