A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  For a moment her mask of preternatural calm shifted, and he witnessed the raw and very real pain beneath it. “But I’ve known men like you, Esa. So why would I look at him?”

  He was too humbled by the words to respond. He took out his phone to check for an update from Lemaire, hoping to change the subject. He frowned as he saw a text from an unfamiliar number.

  I’ve been waiting for you. Now that you’re here, let’s begin.

  The text had the unsettling language of a threat.

  Seeing his frown, Alizah peered over his shoulder to read the text.

  “Does this seem like something Thibault might say?” he asked her. “Or that he would have one of the members of his group send?”

  The number flashed up as unknown. She looked dubious. “We call them the Wolves or the Allegiance. How would they have your number? They’re not hackers. They’re just bored and easily distracted.”

  But the graphics on the MSA’s door had been sophisticated, well-timed, and well-placed. Was it possible that the graphics had gone up first and someone driven by cruder instincts had been inspired to spray-paint the swastika? Did the act of vandalism somehow mirror the dual nature of the attack at the mosque?

  Alizah was watching his face.

  “Amadou would know,” she said. “What’s going to happen to him, Esa? Can you protect him? Can you get me in to see him?”

  “He said the two of you were friends, and that you’d told him about me. Did you have some reason for thinking I’d come to Saint-Isidore?”

  Alizah tilted her head to one side. Though his jacket was oversized on her, she looked anything but defenseless. She was measuring him, weighing what she wanted to say.

  “I’m reminded of a five-act play.” She pointed down at the mosque that had now become a crime scene. “This is the fifth; the vandalism of our offices counts as the fourth. But there were other things that happened before this. I wanted to call you after the first, but both Amadou and Youssef said that we should wait. He thought we could handle things ourselves.”

  Suddenly her calm deserted her, and Alizah began to cry. With great gulping sobs she said, “We waited too long. I waited too long. This is my fault, Esa. Everything that’s happened—each of the acts—is because of something I did.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  He offered the words softly, not drawing close, not reaching for her to console her. She needed to stand alone, just as she needed to cry. It wouldn’t be the last time.

  He didn’t know what she was referring to, but he didn’t need her to elaborate. He knew exactly what Alizah was trying to tell him.

  The massacre at the mosque was a climax.

  The case was about beginnings.

  13

  “TAKE NO PRISONERS” CAMPUS RADIO CALL-IN SHOW

  [Translated from the French]

  TODAY’S HOST: ALIZAH SIDDIQUI

  ALIZAH: Welcome to the program, Alain. I understand that you have some concerns about how the Saint-Isidore mosque shooting is being portrayed in the national media. You think the coverage is making Quebeckers look bad.

  ALAIN: I do. All we want is to hold on to our culture and heritage.

  ALIZAH: French language and culture, just to clarify?

  ALAIN: Yes, what’s wrong with that?

  ALIZAH: Nothing at all, but why can’t others hold on to theirs, Alain?

  ALAIN: Because … they’re not like us. They’re against us.

  ALIZAH: From the shooting at the mosque, it would seem like it’s the other way around.

  ALAIN: I’m not talking about the shooting, I’m talking about Québec.

  ALIZAH: Fair enough. But don’t you think that at some point that’s where all this “they’re not like us, they’re against us” rhetoric leads? One day you’re writing a “Québec First” Facebook post. Then to kick it up a notch, you and your friends form a quiet little anti-Muslim group. Two months later, you’ve got forty thousand members. And the next thing you know you’re organizing, getting guns, and somebody goes off-script. Unless that is your script.

  ALAIN: You’re putting words in my mouth. I didn’t say anything like that.

  ALIZAH: I’m just asking you to think about where this leads. Why even start this up?

  ALAIN: I’m talking about Francophone rights. I won’t apologize for being Québécois.

  ALIZAH: I’m not asking you to. I’m saying maybe don’t assume being Québécois gives someone the right to shoot up a mosque.

  ALAIN: [angry] You’re forgetting we were here first!

  ALIZAH: [very quietly] So that means French culture is what matters? You should be able to hold on to it, preserve it, pass laws that make sure it’s protected, and get the whole country to agree?

  ALAIN: [with pride] Yes! Now you’re getting what I’m saying.

  ALIZAH: By that logic, what about Québec’s First Nations? They were here first. They deserve to preserve their culture, languages … treaty rights. They don’t want to be erased by an onslaught of people who don’t act or look like them.

  ALAIN: You cannot compare the accomplishments of the French civilization with savages who hunt the buffalo.

  ALIZAH: [softly] And you don’t think your sentiments are racist? When what you’re saying is that it’s not so much that the French were here first—before the immigrants and other riffraff—it’s more that French culture is superior, and that’s why it should be protected at the expense of everyone else.

  ALAIN: Obviously. Would you rather see a woman in a bikini on a beach, or in a shroud you could wrap around a corpse?

  ALIZAH: So then what you’re really talking about is French supremacy. White supremacy, if I’m hearing you correctly. Does that make you a white supremacist?

  ALAIN: I didn’t agree to come on your show so you could insult me.

  ALIZAH: This is a call-in show. I didn’t solicit your call in particular. But are you saying it’s an insult to be called a white supremacist?

  ALAIN: [sullen] You’re calling me a Nazi.

  ALIZAH: That was your word, not mine. [pause] Are you definitively telling me that you’re not a Nazi and you don’t support white supremacist beliefs?

  ALAIN: Fuck off and die, Paki bitch.

  [Call terminated.]

  ALIZAH: And that concludes the latest episode of Take No Prisoners, where we discussed white nationalism in Québec. Thanks for tuning in.

  14

  Maxime Thibault was brought in to be interviewed. The flyer Rachel had found in his notecase linked him to the destruction of the MSA office. They couldn’t ignore that link: that unfettered act of vandalism could now be seen as a precursor to the shooting at the mosque. The flyer Rachel had found in Thibault’s bag was suggestive of the first possibility. But the interview with Maxime Thibault didn’t take place in the incident room. Instead, Thibault was taken to the local police station, the interview conducted personally by Lemaire while Khattak and Rachel watched from the other side of a semi-transparent window.

  Within moments, it became clear that like Étienne Roy, Thibault was receiving treatment that had not been meted out to Amadou Duchon. Lemaire had established a relaxed atmosphere; they had the camaraderie of two men who knew each other well. As she listened to the pace of proceedings, Rachel’s disquiet deepened.

  “What the hell is this?” she muttered to Khattak. “It should be obvious that Maxime Thibault’s group of neo-Nazis is responsible for defacing that door, and more than likely that they played a role in the attack. Thibault is probably the ringleader.”

  Khattak shared what Alizah had told him with Rachel. She supposed it was something to consider—that Maxime was like a little boy who pulled a girl’s pigtails for her notice—but it certainly wasn’t the whole story. His poise and self-confidence, his utter lack of remorse—whatever role his group played in this place so close to the nation’s capital, he was thinking of more than Alizah. Something ugly was festering under the surface of this town.

  She’d sensed it outs
ide the mosque. She’d felt it at the hospital and in her interactions with local officers. As if they all knew a secret Rachel hadn’t figured out. And now someone was bringing Thibault a piping-hot cup of tea.

  Rachel’s eyebrows shot up. Thibault was a suspect in a terrorist attack. What if he flung the tea in Lemaire’s face? But Lemaire didn’t seem worried. He was slumped back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest, and he sounded as though he had no more on his mind than a chat with an old and dear friend.

  “He’s trying to gain his confidence,” Khattak murmured.

  Rachel shook her head. “No. They know each other, sir. There’s already a pattern there. Listen to the way Thibault keeps calling Lemaire ‘Patron.’ I’ve got a bad feeling about this. This guy should be in handcuffs.”

  One of Lemaire’s team members took exception to Rachel’s words.

  “Don’t tell us how to do our jobs. There are no guns registered to Thibault. He has no criminal record. He’s never even been charged with something as minor as public disorder.”

  Rachel shifted to face the other man, whose name she hadn’t caught.

  Photographs from the mosque’s multiple crime scenes were scattered over his desk.

  “Public disorder doesn’t seem so minor now, or haven’t you noticed?”

  He scowled at her, but when Khattak flicked him a glance he subsided into his seat. All Khattak said mildly was, “There are other ways to get a gun.”

  They both turned back to the interview. Lemaire asked Thibault about the vandalism on campus. He shrugged it off.

  “They’re making something out of nothing. It was just a little harmless fun.”

  “So you’re admitting you papered the office with those flyers?”

  Thibault smirked. “Can’t deny it, can I? That cow of a woman saw it in my bag.”

  Lemaire adjusted the edge of the table with care. “I’m sorry, who?”

  “The Anglo kike. The one who looks like the side of a mountain.”

  Rachel’s ears burned; her body was abruptly doused in sweat. She’d heard worse—on the ice, at home, at work—but never in front of Khattak. Or someone like Christian Lemaire. She froze, not looking at the others in the room.

  Khattak faced her head on.

  “He’s a Nazi, Rachel. The only thing that’s ugly here is him.”

  Thibault was grinning over at the window like he knew, and again Rachel was struck at the rot concealed behind his smooth façade. The days of skinheads were over; the racists had changed their guise.

  She gave an offhand shrug. “I’m not bothered. I’m pretty sure I could take him.”

  His head down, Lemaire’s officer grinned into his collar. His whisper was thickened by his Québécois accent, but Rachel heard him anyway.

  “Kikes like to talk big.”

  Khattak leaned forward and rapped on the window. Lemaire looked up with a frown. He eased out of his chair, leaving Thibault to cool his heels.

  When he entered the outer room, his gaze lingered on Rachel’s flushed face.

  “Sir,” she said to Khattak. “Don’t.”

  Khattak ignored her. He pointed to Lemaire’s man.

  “Your officer just insulted my partner—I want him off this case.”

  Lemaire’s eyes widened with surprise. He jerked his head at his subordinate. They exchanged a rapid volley in French, the younger man with a sulky cast to his face.

  “He insulted you?” Lemaire verified.

  Rachel’s face was burning. But she looked Lemaire dead in the eye.

  “I’ve heard worse. So has Inspector Khattak.”

  He frowned over at Khattak. “I’m concerned that we’re a little short of manpower.”

  Khattak looked over at Thibault behind the glass. And then back at Lemaire’s officer.

  “I’m concerned about the excess of Nazi effluvium, when we’re interrogating Nazis.”

  “Nazis?” he challenged Khattak. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

  “They’ve been painting swastikas. That’s what I find harsh.”

  Lemaire barked something at his officer, who quickly escaped the room.

  He made a polite half-bow at Rachel. “You won’t have to deal with him again.” He noticed Khattak’s skepticism and said, “What? What fault have you found now?”

  But Khattak didn’t tell him, and at his urging Lemaire returned to the interview.

  Rachel sighed, her hands clenched into fists. She didn’t need Khattak to fight her battles. It made her look weak when she needed to appear as invulnerable as any man on the team.

  “You’ve heard a lot worse about yourself, sir.”

  “It’s different for me, Rachel.”

  Rachel sized Khattak up, his grave demeanor, his steady presence. As usual, it made her furious. “Christ Almighty, sir. Why the hell are you so calm? You know what’s happened here. And I’m pretty sure you know which way the wind is blowing.”

  As usual, he was patient with Rachel—dignified in a way she couldn’t hope to emulate when she was giving free rein to her anger.

  “I actually prefer this, Rachel. I prefer it when the enemy comes out into the open. It’s the ones who smile at you while they’re plotting in the dark that I’ve learned to worry about. That’s why I called him out.”

  Her voice a little scratchy, she said, “That wasn’t your sense of chivalry kicking into overdrive again?”

  He shook his head, his smile a little wry. “What you think of me, Rachel. Perhaps it was a little of that. But mainly, I’m beginning to worry that as gruesome as the shooting is—as wretchedly evil—there’s more going on in this town.”

  Rachel had been thinking the same thing. She nudged Khattak to put it into words.

  Glancing at Rachel, he rested a hand on the glass partition.

  “Sometimes the monsters we fear aren’t on the opposite side.”

  15

  “You can lead this interview, if you like.”

  They were in the lounge, which had been emptied out so Lemaire could have the room to himself to speak with Père Étienne, now that the interview with Thibault had concluded with his release. They didn’t have anything to connect Thibault with the shooting yet, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find something as their inquiries progressed.

  The station was overheated, the lounge cramped and stuffy, not a place where big men could find themselves at ease. Various flyers had been posted to a bulletin board, notices of services available to the community tacked up between posters of wanted men. Members of biker gangs, tattooed according to their creed, featured heavily in this mix.

  Rachel found a chair that she thought might accommodate her size, leaving the sturdier one across from it for Lemaire. She felt a little uncomfortable at his unexpected benevolence, though it was far less troubling than the fact that this was the place he was planning to interview Étienne Roy.

  A junior officer ushered Roy into the room. He was urged to the room’s only sofa, and a cup of coffee was placed at the table by his elbow. He was then asked in deferential tones if he needed anything else. As he expressed his thanks in a still-dazed voice, Lemaire signed off on reports brought to him by another officer.

  “One hour,” he told his team. “We make no public statements before then, and if he doesn’t like it, the mayor can kiss my ass.”

  Rachel’s ears perked up at that. Her favorite kind of cops were ones who hated politicians, and if Lemaire fit into that category she was willing to cut him some slack. She switched her attention to Roy. He was younger than she’d expected, perhaps fifty years of age, with a face that revealed that this was his first real encounter with tragedy. He seemed muddled by the events that had just unfolded.

  Rachel wondered how such a helpless individual could oversee the needs of a large congregation, let alone summon up the dispatch to carry out a crime like this.

  Lemaire sat down heavily across from her, angling his chair between Rachel and the priest. He nodded at her and she bega
n. He might not like her technique, but if he was giving her carte blanche she knew what she wanted to ask.

  “Why were you holding the assault rifle, Père Étienne?” She sensed Lemaire’s surprise at the precision of her accent and her use of the correct form of address. She ignored it, keeping her eyes on the priest. She followed up her question by repeating it in French and asking if he’d prefer for her to conduct the interview in his own language.

  Étienne Roy blinked at her, his eyes large and round behind his owl-shaped glasses, his lashes sandy and sparse. His hands trembled in his lap. He answered her in English.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what compelled me to pick it up. It was there on the floor, and when I saw the bodies everywhere … I thought perhaps I should move the weapon out of the way.”

  Her voice cool and precise, she said, “You’re saying you didn’t fire the weapon? It wasn’t you who opened fire on the people who’d come to pray at the Al-Salaam mosque?”

  Lemaire’s sharp eyes shifted to Rachel, but he didn’t interrupt.

  Roy expelled his breath on a sob. “Fire it? No, of course I didn’t. Those were my friends inside the mosque—even were they not, I am a man of God. I would never take the life of another of God’s creatures.”

  He appealed to Lemaire, who waved the appeal aside.

  “Désolé, Père Étienne. Please, just answer our questions. It will help us to resolve this.”

  So he’d made up his mind, Rachel thought, with a quiet little flicker of protest. She’d been starting to like Lemaire. But he’d released Thibault with a warning, while Amadou was still under guard. Not that Rachel believed anyone at the scene was entitled to the benefit of the doubt—she was trying to fulfill her mandate, the mandate that required her to treat all suspects as equal, with the same presumption of innocence.