“Where did you enter the mosque from?”
“The side entrance.”
A small corroboration of Amadou Duchon’s story. If he’d entered from the side door, it was conceivable that Amadou wouldn’t have seen him. Nor would the priest necessarily have seen Amadou.
“Before or after you heard the attack begin?”
He looked uncertain, confused perhaps by her phrasing.
“I didn’t hear the attack. I just—I heard people crying. I thought I heard a young man calling out.”
“Did you recognize his voice?”
“Not—not in all that chaos. But later I saw Amadou, outside in the parking lot. He was being arrested.”
“Did you hear him before you entered the mosque, or after?”
Père Étienne shook his head. “I’m not sure. Things were happening so fast. I’m trying to reconstruct what happened in my mind, when I really should be at my church. I need to set up services for the families who are grieving tonight. My congregation will be eager to help.”
“Will they?”
Rachel stared at the priest without blinking, wondering what he would make of the starkness of her question. He rubbed his beard, made an abortive little swipe for the cross he wore at his neck, then looked from Rachel to Lemaire and back.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”
Rachel considered her options. She could confront him with the things that were on her mind, the inside information she and Khattak had gleaned from Alizah, or with tidbits from the rancorous anti-Islam debate taking place in the province of Québec. Or she could stay quiet in her seat and wait him out. She chose the latter option, and after a moment of tense silence Père Étienne hurried into speech.
Without being prompted, he took them through the scene from the moment of his arrival to the instant he’d picked up the gun. He’d been running late for a meeting with the imam. He met with the imam regularly to discuss an interfaith initiative they’d undertaken with a local rabbi. Because the imam wasn’t in his office, he’d entered the hallway to search for him, realizing he might still be at prayer.
He hadn’t noticed the body in the hallway right away, heading straight into the main hall. What he’d seen there had caused him to drop to his knees.
Rachel looked the priest over. He was wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing at the scene; they hadn’t been entered into evidence. In silent witness of Père Étienne’s words, the knees of his dark brown slacks were discolored. Possibly by blood. His shirt was also stained.
“I think that’s when I heard the voice—someone calling out for help. I went into the hallway and saw a man’s body at the far end. The gun was beside it on the floor. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was such a shock. There was so much blood in the prayer hall. There was more at the end of the hallway. I went to the man—I turned him over to see if I could help.” His voice broke over the words, his pupils growing larger, his breathing harsh in his chest. “I couldn’t. I was certain he was dead. So I picked up the gun to make sure no one else could use it.”
“Did you call the police? Did you check on anyone in the hall?”
Shame crept over his face and the priest bowed his head.
“I should have done something. I should have done more to help. I was stunned, Christian; you must believe me. By the time I gathered myself together, the police had arrived to secure the scene. You were there, mon fils; you saw. You were the one who took the gun away.”
Lemaire reached over and patted the priest’s knee, a gesture that shocked Rachel. Did no one at this station observe protocol? Not even the man in command?
No wonder a member of Lemaire’s team had felt confident enough to call her by a racial slur. She cleared her throat with some fanfare.
“Père Étienne, you said you left the imam’s office and observed nothing to distress you in the hallway. You went straight into the prayer hall without any idea of what you’d see there, is that correct?”
He nodded. “Yes. That is exactly how it happened. It is my duty to tell you the truth.”
“You were in the habit of visiting the mosque, you said. You knew the congregation.”
“Yes,” he said again. “Of course. We organized many joint activities for our congregations. Along with the Temple Beth synagogue.”
“So you’d be familiar with observances inside the mosque.”
Bewildered by her line of inquiry, the priest nodded again.
“Hmmm.”
Rachel looked down at his footwear, scuffed and bloodied from his presence on the scene. She leaned closer to him, her sharp brown eyes unwavering as they examined his face.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me then, if you thought nothing was amiss before you entered the hall, why did you enter the prayer space while you were still wearing your shoes?”
Étienne Roy went still, a boneless stillness that failed to conceal his distress or the slight glimpse of a strange emotion roiling beneath the surface. Lemaire swore to himself in French. Rachel waited both men out.
At last, Roy spoke, with an air of irritability.
“It happened so quickly, I am still in shock. I may have the sequence of events wrong. I might have seen the body in the passageway, and therefore rushed into the hall. To tell you the truth, mademoiselle, it’s become something of a jumble in my mind. I will need long hours of reflection before I can be certain.”
Rachel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Pas de problème, Père Étienne. Take all the time you need. There’s just one other matter I’d like to clear up, if I may.”
“I don’t think—”
She breezed over the interruption.
“If you saw the body in the passageway first, did you also then notice the gun?”
16
WOLF ALLEGIANCE CHAT ROOM
[Translated from the French]
SUBJECT: PÈRE ÉTIENNE IN CUSTODY
CLOSED GROUP
BROADSWORDBEN: WE NEED TO MAKE A MOVE. WE NEED TO GET HIM OUT.
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: IT’S COOL.
NINEINCHNAILER: HOW IS IT COOL? THEY’VE GOT OUR FUCKING PRIEST.
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: WE HAVE PEOPLE INSIDE. PÈRE ÉTIENNE HAS PEOPLE.
WHITEVICTORY: AND WE SHOULD TRUST YOU WHY?
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: YOU READY TO TAKE ON THE BIG DOG?
[WHITEVICTORY HAS LEFT THIS CHAT.]
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: ANYONE ELSE?
BROADSWORDBEN: JUST GIVE US SOMETHING.
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: THEY’RE NOT DOING ANYTHING TO PÈRE ÉTIENNE. THEY KNOW THE MOSQUE IS A BASE FOR TERRORISTS.
FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: YEAH, BUT WHAT IS PÈRE ÉTIENNE TELLING THEM?
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: HE’LL SAY WHAT HE HAS TO SAY. THE QUESTION IS WHAT IS HE THINKING. WHAT IS IT HE’S NOT SAYING.
NINEINCHNAILER: SOUNDS LIKE YOU KNOW THE ANSWER.
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: DON’T YOU? IF YOU’RE ONE OF THEM, YOU FOLLOW THE RELIGION OF WAR AND IF YOU FOLLOW THE RELIGION OF WAR, THE CHRISTIAN GOD SAYS YOU’RE THE ENEMY.
WE’VE BEEN PLAYING BY THE RULES WHILE THEY’VE BEEN CHOPPING OFF HEADS. SO JOIN THE CRUSADE. JOIN US BECAUSE OUR VALUES ARE TRULY FUCKING SUPERIOR.
FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: IMPRESSIVE. YOU REALLY THINK A PRIEST WOULD TALK LIKE THAT?
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: FUCK IF I KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS WANT FROM ME.
FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: NO, THAT WAS GOOD. IF THAT’S WHAT PÈRE ÉTIENNE TOLD THEM ALL I CAN SAY IS THAT’S GOOD.
NINEINCHNAILER: YEAH, BUT WHAT ABOUT THE AR-15? HE WAS FOUND WITH THE GUN IN HIS HAND.
BROADSWORDBEN: CHRIST YOU’RE OBSESSED WITH THAT GUN.
NINEINCHNAILER: IF WE’RE FIGHTING A GLOBAL WAR AT SOME POINT WE NEED TO ARM.
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: JUST LAY LOW FOR NOW. KEEP AN EYE ON THAT MUZZIE COP.
BROADSWORDBEN: WHAT ABOUT THE DEVIL’S DUO—A & A? YEAH, THEIR OFFICE WAS TRASHED BUT THEY’RE STILL ON THE RADIO. YOU WANT WE SHOULD MAKE IT PERSONAL?
MAXIMUMDAMAGE: I SAID LAY LOW. I’LL TA
KE CARE OF THE REST.
17
Khattak had sustained an uneasy relationship with Diana Shehadeh for years. Sometimes their work overlapped; sometimes they were at odds over a direction Diana argued he should have taken pursuing a particular inquiry. Diana didn’t hold back when it came to telling Khattak where she thought he’d erred, lately with greater frequency. He was under no illusions about how the current investigation was likely to play out. If Diana couldn’t influence him, she would cast him as an adversary and demand a recalibration of his efforts. And of Community Policing.
It was nearly four in the morning. The scene outside the mosque had been cleared, and they stood together at the far end of the parking lot, away from the glare of the lights set up outside Lemaire’s center of operations.
Khattak was hoping that a little conciliation in advance would buy him some flexibility as the investigation rolled on. They waited while the last few bodies were loaded into mortuary vans, and quietly and privately they offered prayers over the scene.
Alizah’s insights were as sharp as ever. She was right: he hadn’t faced the shooting at the mosque—not what it truly meant. He didn’t want to. He wasn’t certain what shape this new reality would assume or what it would bleed from him when it had ended.
Diana’s phone had been buzzing since he’d come to meet her, and now she turned it off and put it away.
“Can we just talk about this honestly?”
For once, she didn’t sound confrontational. Her tone was despairing, at odds with the aura of invincibility she projected during her interviews. She was young and attractive, her chestnut hair tamed into waves that framed her intelligent face. Her professional dress was like a uniform—her suits either black or navy blue, her blouses buttoned up to the throat. She’d been on her feet since she arrived, either coordinating the MCLU’s response on her phone, or seeking information from various law enforcement agencies, or lending an ear to those who’d waited outside the mosque through the long hours of uncertainty.
“Of course, Diana.” He gave her a respectful nod. “I’m happy to speak to you, as long as you aren’t confusing honesty with full disclosure.”
A curious frown settled on her brow. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Some matters must remain within my discretion while the investigation proceeds.”
She gave an exasperated sigh, pinching at her collar again.
“Can there be any doubt about what’s happened? The priest was found with the gun in his hands. The whole point of being at the scene is to ensure they don’t try to make that go away.”
“There’s always doubt,” he warned her. “These are still early stages. We have to ask ourselves why a Catholic priest who served on an interfaith committee with Al-Salaam’s imam would devise an attack against the mosque. Does that make sense on its face?”
Diana’s head swung around to the mosque, then back to the activity at the trailers.
“Just whose side are you on?” she asked moodily.
Esa suppressed a sigh. These were the kinds of comments he loathed. A construction of binaries, where people were either with you or against you, with no common ground in between. He’d hoped that a leader of Diana Shehadeh’s caliber would be well past these questions by now.
But any response he made along these lines was bound to sound condescending.
He spoke cautiously, hoping she’d hear his undertone of humor: “I’m on no one’s side. I am for justice—no matter who it’s for or against.”
Diana had been asked the same question about her loyalties during a now-infamous parliamentary debate. Khattak had just quoted back Diana’s indignant response.
She wanted to be angry at him, but a smile twitched the corners of her wide-lipped mouth.
“You would remember that.”
He smiled, too, a little rueful. “Hard to forget the way you made your mark.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, releasing the tension there. Then, almost as if grasping his cautiously tendered olive branch, she said, “So what can you tell me, Esa? What are your honest thoughts about what will happen next?”
“There’s a search on—if Étienne Roy isn’t responsible for the shooting, then someone else is, or he may have had an accomplice. But there are two things you should know up front.”
He told her about the vandalism of the student office, and in more detail he walked her through what might happen to Amadou Duchon. He watched the angry color rise to her face, the tightening of her lips, the frown that had become habitual. He would have been wiser not to ask, but sometimes, like Rachel, his emotions colored his perspective.
“Is this becoming too much for you, Diana? You haven’t had an easy tenure as head of the MCLU.”
He was expecting her to flare up like his sister Ruksh often did when he expressed his concern, but the tentative trust between them held.
“Walk me to my car,” she said. “I should get over to the hospital.”
Esa took her briefcase from her while she unlocked the door of a small red Volvo. It wasn’t a rental car. She must have driven down, as soon as the shooting had made the news. No wonder she was tired.
“It’s gotten worse and worse,” she admitted. “Did you know we published sixty op-eds this year? You’d think they were meant to be educational—to address specific hate crimes—but God, Esa. Half of them were on policy. Official government policy. Of course, it’s not just Québec. You must have heard what’s been happening in Alberta.”
Esa nodded. When he’d been called to Saint-Isidore, he’d been working a case linked to two extremist groups in the province of Alberta who were seeking to defend so-called Canadian purity against the Islamic threat. One was called Wildrose, the other the Three Percent. They held an ideology in common with the Wolf Allegiance.
“We’ve been engaged in this work for so long. You, me, so many others—yet a terrorist attack anywhere in the world and we’re right back at the beginning.”
“Diana—”
“I’m sorry, I meant attacks on the Western world.” There was a cynical droop to her mouth. “When attacks like these happen in Somalia or Pakistan, they barely register a pulse.”
At the look of sympathy in Esa’s eyes, she bristled and said, “Every day, it’s something new. There’s no laying down our arms.”
The statement fell into a sudden hush, painful and disquieting.
After a moment, he asked her, “Are we at war, Diana?”
She slid into her car, nothing agreed between them on how to proceed, nothing yet resolved.
She gestured at the mosque, small and strangely ominous in the glow of the outdoor lights. At the mortuary technicians, traveling back and forth through the doors, in the process of cleaning up.
“They’re certainly at war with us.”
18
Esa spent some time canvasing both the parking lot and the mosque. Though he was careful not to interrupt the officers still working the scene, he tracked the different entrances and exits, moved from the basement back to the main hall of the mosque, trying to estimate for himself the amount of time the shooter was likely to have spent inside the mosque and the possible routes he might have taken. When Esa had finished considering several different scenarios, he pulled out his phone. He had several missed calls—one from the hospital that might have been Amadou trying to reach him, another from Alizah, and two from Rachel. Something must have happened.
Before he could call Rachel back to clarify, his phone buzzed with a text delivered by an encrypted service. He read it quickly.
I’ve been wondering who’s important to you. It looks like Shehadeh is a player.
Esa scanned the parking lot, suddenly conscious that he was alone in a corner, some distance away from the lights. He picked up his pace, heading to the entrance of the mosque, passing members of Lemaire’s team as they came and went, with no sign of Lemaire himself.
Instinct told Esa to act on the message. He needed to get Paul Gaffney out here so he c
ould take Esa’s phone apart. Gaff was the tech specialist at Community Policing, and he could play a role in the greater investigation as well.
Esa scanned the parking lot. Whoever had sent the message had witnessed his conversation with Diana. It could have been anyone. One of the technicians, one of Lemaire’s team—a stranger in the shadows. The shooter returning to the scene to witness the aftereffects.
Khattak moved to the perimeter of the lot, scanning the streets on the other side of Lemaire’s headquarters. He knew the trailers were temporary; Lemaire would commandeer operational quarters soon, but Esa was checking for cameras. Lemaire should have set them up as part of his surveillance of the scene, but Esa couldn’t see them. There were no businesses this close to the mosque, no cameras on the streets, either. But he remembered that when he’d walked down the hill with Alizah and Rachel there had been signs that cautioned against speeding. Perhaps somewhere in the area there were red-light cameras. He’d find out. But first he had calls to make, and he wanted an update from Rachel.
The first call he made was to Diana Shehadeh. She needed to be careful, in case the texts were more than a prank from someone in the Wolf Allegiance. Gaffney would be able to tell him how they’d accessed his phone.
Before he could relay his warning, Diana interrupted him, a note of relief in her voice.
“Can you get here right away?”
She had already reached the hospital.
“What’s happened?”
“Some good news for a change. The student, Youssef Soufiane, is out of surgery, and he’s regained consciousness. He’ll be able to tell you what happened inside the mosque.”
A hand gripped Khattak’s shoulder. He wheeled around to find Christian Lemaire with Rachel at his side.
“Diana, I’ll call you back.” He looked at the scene beyond them, the signs of increased activity. “What is it? Have you found the second gun?”
“Youssef Soufiane is ready to speak,” Lemaire said.
“Yes, Diana Shehadeh just told me.”
Lemaire hesitated and Khattak hastened to reassure him. “We’ve worked together in the past, but obviously I’ll say nothing that would compromise the investigation.”
A Deadly Divide Page 7
