A Deadly Divide

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  “That’s because we matched it to one in our database. It matches casings collected from another crime scene.”

  The whole room became alert. Rachel itched to steal the report from Lemaire’s hands. Perhaps sensing her intense interest, he set the report down on her desk. Rachel quickly flipped through the pages.

  “Continue,” he said to the technician.

  “Two years ago, there was another murder committed with the AR-15.”

  “What murder? Where?”

  The technician seemed bewildered by Lemaire’s sharp questions. Stumbling over the words, he spit out, “Montreal’s Rue Sainte-Catherine’s shooting. It was used to kill a member of a biker gang. His name was Michel Gagnon.”

  * * *

  A whisper ushered through the room as the case took on an entirely new complexion. Québec had a long history of biker gangs who trafficked in guns and drugs and who spewed violence against one another in the streets of Montréal and all over the province. Michel Gagnon was a former drug lord, leader of an infamous motorcycle gang. He’d been killed in a drive-by shooting. There were no witnesses to the shooting, at least none who were willing to speak. No one had claimed responsibility for his death. Not even rival gangs. No one had wanted to strike that spark, but the war between the gangs had raged on for a decade.

  Now at last they had a clue that could lead them back to the night Michel Gagnon had been murdered. And the use of the fleur-de-lis symbol carved out on Soufiane’s back could easily be attributed to the gang’s Québécois de souche philosophy, the French-language formulation of “old-stock Québécois”—a code word for white identity. Which meant that the gang members were also French nationalists, with a supremacist twist. Immigrants from North or West Africa, like those who had settled in Saint-Isidore, would never be welcome in their ranks. And as the home of one of the first Codes of Conduct, Saint-Isidore was the ideal battleground.

  Lemaire dismissed the technician, addressing himself to Rachel.

  “Looks like you were right about the danger of making assumptions. This shooting wasn’t carried out by a disaffected member of the Al-Salaam congregation. It looks like Montréal’s gang wars have landed in Saint-Isidore.” He glanced over at Isabelle Clément, whose main concern was how these developments would play in the media and reflect on the premier of Québec. “We should be asking ourselves how they knew to come here. And taking a very close look at Maxime Thibault’s chapter of the Wolf Allegiance.”

  Rachel raised her hand to ask a question.

  “I’m a little confused about the members of this Allegiance. Were they on the local cops’ radar before the shooting at the mosque? Do they have broader community support, or do you consider them a fringe element?” She thought about what Alizah had told them and added, “Apart from the break-in at the MSA student group’s office, I understand there were previous incidents. Could you speak to that?”

  Again, that unfamiliar look appeared in Lemaire’s eyes. Something elusive balanced between assessment and appreciation.

  “Excellent questions,” he said. He scanned the room, pointing to a young man at the back. “You’re local, Constable Benoit. Can you advise us on previous incidents?”

  A young man in uniform scrambled to his feet, so astonished to find himself the center of attention that he flushed to the tips of a pair of ears that stuck out like the blades of a fan. He asked permission to speak in French, and both Esa and Rachel nodded their assent.

  Though he was nervous, the young officer’s summary was a model of concision.

  The first incident had consisted of a call-in show’s quarrelsome host asking for listeners to suggest amendments to the proposed Code of Conduct. That discussion had precipitated a deluge of abuse against Saint-Isidore’s small Muslim community that the host had actively encouraged. Each suggested amendment recommended a greater curtailment of the rights and freedoms of this community, until an all-out ban was proposed. Borrowing language from the rest of Canada, a stand was made against barbaric cultural and religious values.

  Shortly after the program, some individual or group had broken the windows of the local synagogue and the mosque.

  The second incident had taken place under cover of night. On Easter morning, a pig’s head, fresh with blood, had been left on the steps of the mosque before the first prayer of the day. No one had claimed responsibility, but a note had been stuffed inside the head: Pigs deserve pigs. Pigs go home. A report had been filed with the SQ from the area, but the note inside the pig’s head had disappeared before it could be tested.

  Then exactly one month before the mosque shooting, the imam’s car had been set on fire in the parking lot while he was inside leading prayers. No one was hurt in the incident, and again no one claimed responsibility. The incident was investigated by both local police and the fire department, but no suspects had been named and the case was still considered open. The police had recommended that the mosque consider setting up security cameras. Within a week the cameras had been smashed. When the mosque committee had replaced them, the new cameras had been stolen. No usable footage had emerged from either set.

  Philippe Benoit finished his recital and sat down, a hush settling in the room. Lemaire let the silence build. Rachel knew what he was doing. He wanted his team to consider that all along the violence had been escalating—that there had been warnings before the assault on the mosque that the local police either had been too inexperienced to field or had chosen to downplay. She couldn’t tell which of these theories Lemaire was inclined to believe, but something about Constable Benoit’s recital puzzled her.

  “There’s still something missing, isn’t there? What’s the connection to the Wolf Allegiance?”

  Lemaire let the constable answer.

  Awkwardly poised between sitting and standing, Constable Benoit stumbled over his response. “Ah … I’m not certain.”

  Lemaire gave him a friendly smile.

  “Come on,” he said. “You’ve done good work. Think it through. You know this town better than any of us.”

  Flushing beet-red again, Benoit straightened his shoulders. He was applying himself to the task—his embarrassment was not a cover for dim-wittedness; he was merely overwhelmed to be relied upon by an officer of Lemaire’s stature.

  “There’s no direct connection I can point to, sir. It’s just that this group—the Wolf Allegiance—they held some kind of party to celebrate each event. And I did some digging through their online channels: they were most pleased each time an act of vandalism occurred.” He switched to English. “They egged each other on.”

  “How did you keep track of this?” There was genuine approval in Lemaire’s voice. Constable Benoit began to gain confidence.

  “It was the young lady—Miss Siddiqui. She stopped by the station many times. I thought she was right about the things she was saying,” he said simply. “So I began to take an interest.”

  Rachel looked from Lemaire to the young constable. There was an opening here if Lemaire chose to take it. He could ask Benoit whether he had reported his concerns to his senior officers and what, if anything, they had done about it. But it would put the young constable in an untenable position, because his immediate bosses would be sure to hear what he’d said.

  Something was rotten in good old Saint-Isidore, all right. Rachel wondered what Lemaire would do.

  “You’re an independent thinker,” Lemaire said curtly. “You’re an asset to this team, Benoit.”

  Looking like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard, Benoit mumbled his thanks. He would have sat down again if Khattak hadn’t intervened.

  “You mentioned online channels.”

  The young man nodded.

  “So you have some expertise in this area?”

  He nodded again, apparently tongue-tied, perhaps wondering if the axe was about to fall on his neck. Khattak gave him a reassuring nod.

  “Good. We have a team member coming in—Paul Gaffney.”

  A murmur
of surprise rippled through the room. Gaffney was a legend in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the federal police service. It looked as though his legend had spread to the Sûreté.

  “I’d be grateful if you would consent to being paired with him. There’s something I need you both to look at.”

  Khattak didn’t elaborate, and overwhelmed at his good fortune, Benoit’s mouth went slack until he collected himself enough to indicate his assent. He cast an admiring glance at Khattak, his sheepish gaze lingering for a moment on Khattak’s face.

  Lemaire rattled off assignments, indicating that Rachel and Khattak should join him in his office, where Isabelle was already waiting.

  “You know something I don’t?” he asked Khattak, referring to his reassignment of Benoit.

  Khattak gave him a friendly smile. “You’ll know it, too, once Gaffney gets to work.”

  23

  WOLF ALLEGIANCE CHAT ROOM

  [English-language page]

  SUBJECT: ANY TIPS ON THE INVESTIGATION?

  COMMENTS OPEN

  BROADSWORDBEN: YOU HEAR ANYTHING?

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: THEY LET DUCHON GO. HE WASN’T CHARGED.

  BROADSWORDBEN: EVERYONE KNOWS THAT. I’M TALKING ABOUT INSIDE INFORMATION.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: THE COPS HAVE SOME HEAT ON THEM FROM THE FEDS. KHATTAK AND THAT WOMAN.

  BROADSWORDBEN: GETTY.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: YEAH, GETTY. SHE’S DOGGING LEMAIRE WAITING FOR HIM TO GO WRONG.

  NINEINCHNAILER: WHAT KIND OF HEAT?

  MAXIMIUMDAMAGE: THEY MISSED SHIT. THE PIG’S HEAD, THE FIRE, THE CAMERAS.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: THE SYNAGOGUE.

  FRENCHKISSER: THE MUZZIES COULD HAVE DONE IT. THEY HATE THE JEWS MORE THAN THEY HATE EACH OTHER.

  WHITEVICTORY: THE PIG’S HEAD WAS ME. I ALSO DID THE BACON ON THE DOORKNOBS. NO ONE REPORTED THAT?

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU KNOW BACON DOESN’T HURT US, RIGHT? WE DON’T CATCH ON FIRE OR ANYTHING. YEAH, IT’S GREASY AND IT DOESN’T SMELL GREAT, BUT WE HAVE WINDEX FOR THAT.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: LURKING IN OUR CHAT ROOM AGAIN, ALIZAH? GUESS YOU CAN’T LEAVE ME ALONE. NICE NICKNAME, BY THE WAY—NO HATE HERE.

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU PUT THAT TOGETHER? I’M JUST TRYING TO KEEP YOU HONEST.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: MAYBE WE DON’T WASTE TIME TALKING.

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU NEED TO STOP THREATENING VIOLENCE IN A PLACE WHERE WE’VE HAD A MASS SHOOTING. UNLESS YOU ACTUALLY DID IT, AND YOU’RE LOOKING TO ESCALATE. IN WHICH CASE, YOU’D BE STUPID TO ADVERTISE HERE.

  BROADSWORDBEN: SOMEONE NEEDS TO BE TAKEN DOWN A PEG.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: SHUT UP, BEN.

  NINEINCHNAILER: NO NAMES.

  NOHA TEHERE: OH COME ON. EVERYONE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE. JUST OWN YOUR NAZI IDEOLOGY.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: SO EVERYONE WHO DISAGREES WITH YOU IS A NAZI?

  NOHA TEHERE: IF THEY CALL FOR EXTERMINATION. I’M A LITTLE PICKY LIKE THAT.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: NO ONE HERE SAID THAT.

  NOHA TEHERE: YOU HAVEN’T BEEN PAYING ATTENTION. ONE DAY IT’S GOING TO BE TOO LATE.

  WHITEVICTORY: LOOK AT THAT. SHE SOUNDS LIKE SHE CARES ABOUT YOU. TALK ABOUT ARYAN NATIONS! WE GET ALL THE GIRLS. #muzziepussy

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: SHUT THE FUCK UP. ALIZAH, GET OUT OF HERE NOW.

  NOHA TEHERE: COME WITH ME, MAX.

  FLAYALLTHEPLAYERS: WHAT THE HELL’S UP WITH YOU, BRO? YOU GONNA LET THIS BITCH OWN YOU?

  BROADSWORDBEN: YOU WON’T LET US TAKE HER ON. YOU GOING SOFT?

  NINEINCHNAILER: I’LL TAKE HER ON. SHE LOOKS LIKE SHE’D SCREAM REAL SWEET.

  NOHA TEHERE: I’D SCREAM FOR THE POLICE, YOU MEAN. MAX, COME WITH ME, PLEASE.

  MAXIMUMDAMAGE: GET OFF OUR MESSAGE BOARD, BITCH.

  24

  Rachel shamelessly eavesdropped as Isabelle Clément took Lemaire to task.

  “You’re lighting a conflagration if you’re thinking of pitting pure laine Québécois against an immigrant population.”

  “I am?” Lemaire raised an eyebrow, not the least intimidated. “I didn’t draft the Charter of Values. And we are well past the point of considering minorities immigrants. They’ve been here for several generations.”

  Isabelle Clément made a little moue of distaste. “Not long enough for the pure laine.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the pure laine. I have a killer to catch, and I don’t give a good goddamn who it is—or what community they spring from. Twelve people are dead, Isabelle. And more will probably die in hospital. What would you have me do?”

  Isabelle took the question quite seriously, as if Lemaire had offered her an opening.

  “I would prefer—as would the premier—if you didn’t release Amadou Duchon just yet. The moment he’s released, he opens his mouth as to why he was detained. And there are legitimate concerns about his background.”

  This time Rachel couldn’t mask her dislike of Clément, her earlier solidarity evaporating.

  “Background?”

  Isabelle flashed her an impatient look.

  “I don’t mean that he’s black. I mean all the agitating he’s been doing with this other congregant of the mosque.” She snapped her fingers, trying to recall the name. “The one who calls you all the time,” she said to Lemaire. “This—this Alizah.”

  “Aleezah,” Khattak clarified the pronunciation of Alizah’s name. “But protesting the actions of a group like the Wolf Allegiance is not a reason to detain him. Amadou’s only crime is that he tried to save his friend’s life, and was caught in the wrong place.”

  Isabelle gave Khattak a dismissive look that Rachel knew her boss was unaccustomed to. He was usually met with overwhelming feminine interest.

  “Your politics are racial, Inspector.”

  “What makes you think yours aren’t?”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. It was a direct, unequivocal challenge, which Khattak had never issued before. Offered coolly and politely as if Khattak was unconcerned by Isabelle’s contemptuous dismissal. He rubbed a hand along his newly grown beard for emphasis. And Rachel took a minute to think about why Khattak had let his beard grow out and why he’d chosen not to shave it off the instant he’d heard they were heading to Québec.

  Isabelle scowled at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  Khattak’s response was stated so evenly that it took Rachel a moment to realize what he’d said.

  “Identity politics aren’t just black or brown. Sometimes they’re old stock, pure laine—with a fleur-de-lis etched in blood for emphasis.”

  The press liaison fell silent for a full minute. When she spoke, her voice was shaking.

  “How dare you speak to me like that? How dare you make that kind of assumption about me?”

  “But you’re perfectly free, of course, to make any assumption you like about me or my racial politics.”

  Khattak’s smile was cold, echoed by the lift of a sleek black eyebrow.

  Isabelle’s face flushed, a line of sweat forming on her brow. Rachel almost felt sorry for her. Isabelle deserved Khattak’s rebuke—which had been delivered quietly—but confronted with her own hypocrisy, she seemed to be at a loss. Her hands were trembling at her sides.

  She took a quick breath, but she didn’t look to Rachel or Christian Lemaire for support.

  “You’re right, Inspector. I deserved that. I owe you an apology. It’s not an excuse, but I’m under some pressure from the premier.” Embarrassed, she added, “I’ve never had to be the public face of anything like this.”

  “Thank you.”

  Khattak said nothing else to let her off the hook, and Rachel was amazed by the change in his demeanor. He rarely let a colleague suffer discomfort on his account; he was much more likely to be the one to smooth over personal conflict.

  She decided they needed a moment alone. This wasn’t how they usually proceeded on a case. Khattak focused on the facts; it was Rachel who led with her heart.

  Her concern must have been evident, because when she looked away from Khattak it was to find Lemaire studying her, an expre
ssion of great interest on his face. Alarmed by it, she said, “So what is our position, then? What happens now?”

  Lemaire came to a decision. “Let’s get Duchon home.” He summoned one of his officers to arrange Duchon’s release before continuing. “I’ve got camera footage in from the main street. The team is studying it now. If we get anything, we’ll expand our search beyond the creek. Until then, I suggest you all get a few hours’ rest. We’ll begin again in the morning.”

  He conferred with Isabelle, emphasizing what she could state publicly and what it was necessary to omit. She repeated her apology to Khattak before she made her excuses and left.

  Lemaire gave them the address of the hotel where he’d checked them in, and Rachel followed Khattak out into the late summer night. They’d come straight from Toronto to the scene of the shooting, their presence too urgently required to delay by dropping off their gear. They were edging toward dawn now, and the subdued activity down the road at the mosque seemed almost unreal.

  “Can’t believe this happened here, sir. I can’t believe some lunatic walked into a mosque and murdered twelve people, then took the time to mark one of his victims with a fleur-de-lis.”

  She offered to drive the rental car to the hotel and Khattak let her, wearily pressing his palms against his eyes.

  “Are you all right, sir?” She hesitated, thinking of how he’d spoken to Isabelle. “This must have hit you hard.”

  She kept the windows down to reduce the stifling heat in the car but also so Khattak could look away if he chose.

  He didn’t. He did the same thing Lemaire had done, studying Rachel closely, examining her face for something she couldn’t guess at. Signs of support? Loyalty? Judgment?

  An unpleasant thought struck her. Surely he didn’t imagine that she saw the case any differently than he did—that she and Isabelle were allied in thinking that peace should be purchased at any cost.

  “Rachel,” he said slowly, his deep, attractive voice sending a sudden shiver down her spine. “I’ve been thinking about the fate of Community Policing.”