“There’s more than one profile?”
“I think there are three.” She listed them in those same dispassionate tones. “The attack on the women’s area came first. It was conducted execution-style, at close range, with deadly and determined precision. The shooting in the main hall upstairs with a different weapon suggests something else again. Unchecked rage—a commitment to annihilation. The shooting up of the mihrab certainly suggests a personal, anti-Islam animus.”
Esa noted her choice of words. Anti-Islam, not anti-Muslim. Was the distinction significant?
“And the third?”
“Your kidnapping. The messages you’ve received, the photographs left for you, the act of causing you physical and emotional duress. That’s something else altogether.”
A number of questions ran through Esa’s mind, but Sehr spoke up first.
“If there were white supremacist markers at the location Esa was lured to, isn’t that indicative of the same motivation behind the mosque attack? And then isn’t it likely that the same individual was responsible for each of these scenarios? Esa is quite well known. Is it possible the shooting at the mosque was designed to bring him to a place where he would be more vulnerable?”
Though she tried to mask it, Esa heard the tremor in Sehr’s voice.
“It’s possible,” Dr. Sandston conceded. “But it doesn’t align with certain other elements of the shooting.”
“The broken lights,” Esa said. “The lily carved on Youssef Soufiane’s back.”
“Correct.”
“What is your theory, then?”
Marlyse Sandston reached behind her to collect several sheets of paper from the office printer. She slid these across the desk to Khattak.
“Controlled, premeditated rage in the basement. Frenzied rage in the main hall. But then the act of marking Youssef Soufiane—controlled again.” She showed them a photograph of the carving on her monitor. They both flinched from it, and her cool professionalism eased. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have warned you. The point is, look at how the lily is carved. There are no hesitation marks, and the pattern itself is perfect—almost artistic.”
Esa’s stomach clenched.
“You’re saying whoever carved it practiced.”
“Yes. They were deeply familiar with the pattern. But also note that Youssef Soufiane was marked like this in the midst of chaos, while the shooter risked being discovered at any moment. Think about the discipline that would require.”
Sehr shook her head, bewildered. “I know shooters like this prepare, but that’s not what you’re saying, is it?”
Dr. Sandston leaned forward, pointing to one of the pages on the desk. She had created a diagram of the shooting, putting events in chronological order and ending with the moment that had been captured on the security footage—the woman in the abaya looking at the camera.
“What I’m saying is that every moment of this attack was premeditated. The shooter had to consider a number of different things. Who he would kill first and by what method. How he would gain entrance. Whether he would be able to disguise himself and escape. How best he could avoid a confrontation with police.” She paused, thinking over her own words. “On the whole, shootings like these are carried out by radicalized white men between the ages of twenty and forty. Shooters who fit that profile are certainly capable of planning.” Her fingers traced the route on the diagram. “What they are not capable of is total self-possession in the aftermath of the event. The words ‘going out in a blaze of glory’ come to mind. But this shooter was able to cover his tracks completely, so much so that we don’t know where to look. He also managed to implicate the targeted community.”
Sandston raised her eyes to Khattak’s face.
“The shooting was personal. It wasn’t a random act of violence, which means—”
Khattak interrupted. He’d finally understood what she’d been trying to explain. “Which means we have to identify who the target was. Do you think it was Youssef Soufiane and his mother?”
“It may have been.” She showed him the position of bodies in the main hall. “But it may have been the imam. It may also have been this father with his small son.”
“Could it have been Amadou Duchon? Or Alizah Siddiqui?” He explained about the threats that had been made against them online.
A certain alertness entered her expression at his mention of Alizah. He felt Sehr straighten in her seat beside him and made an effort to keep his voice neutral.
“Of course, I can’t rule it out, but if Alizah and Amadou were the targets, someone who had planned so meticulously would not have left their absence to chance.”
“So what do the online threats signify, then?”
“I would say they’re incidental. Not to Amadou and Alizah’s well-being—to the profile of the shooter.”
A little of his worry eased. “What about the link we found to biker gangs? There’s now a suggestion that Amadou was on their radar, though I don’t know why.”
Sehr turned to look at him. “I may have found something relevant in the files.”
“Tell me, Sehr.”
He knew his voice was different—softer, the tone more intimate—when he spoke to Sehr, but he couldn’t help that. It was why he tried to separate her from his work, a distance she was steadily erasing.
“Inspector Lemaire ran a number of successful operations against the gangs. He himself testified against key members of Gagnon’s club. Just as Isabelle Clément once represented Gagnon during the course of her work as a defense attorney.”
“Does that speak to the profile?” He referred the question to Dr. Sandston, who shook her head.
“A personal attack on either Lemaire or Clément would not have been staged at a mosque.”
“There was something more on Amadou,” Sehr said. “It’s actually very sad, Esa—I thought he might have told you. Amadou’s brother was a casualty of the wars between the gangs. He was killed crossing the street—a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong moment. Amadou hounded Gagnon trying to get justice for his brother. Just before Gagnon’s trial, Amadou was badly beaten by one of Gagnon’s goons. He escaped to Saint-Isidore-du-Lac.”
Khattak went over the chat room transcript in his mind. This new information explained the references to Amadou.
If a biker gang thought Amadou Duchon had escaped their delivery of justice, the motive would have been personal indeed. And the window between Amadou’s leaving the mosque and reentering it to speak with Youssef was nearly negligible. Even the most prepared shooter might have missed the target. The chat log seemed to confirm this.
Yet he couldn’t simply assume that Amadou had been the target. He needed to consider other possibilities as well. If Amadou wasn’t involved, why had the mosque been targeted? Could it have more to do with the politics involved?
Isabelle Clément and Christian Lemaire were two high-profile individuals associated with the investigation. Could the mosque have been chosen as a target to draw either Isabelle or Lemaire—perhaps both—back to Saint-Isidore to expose them in some manner? Suppose the shooter had known about Lemaire’s efforts to root out elements of the far right in the Sûreté. Or suppose they’d thought if the shooting could be blamed on a Muslim woman wearing a veil it would widen support for the ban on the face veil, ensuring that the premier would not be subject to the pressure to reconsider his position. And Isabelle Clément was the premier’s public face.
Esa knew there were holes in his logic, but his head had begun to ache and he couldn’t condense his thoughts into appropriate action. It was time for him to reconnect with Rachel to try to find answers—it was how they worked best.
“Could you say if the shooter was a man or a woman?” he asked at last.
Dr. Sandston spread out her hands, but it was not an admission of failure.
“As the shooting was orchestrated, it could easily be either. If we found the missing handgun, that might give us a little more to work with.”<
br />
Yet despite extensive searches, the handgun had still not been found. Which led Esa back to the question of infiltration. If the investigation had been compromised in some way—
Dr. Sandston cleared her throat. “I think we should talk about what happened to you now, Inspector Khattak.”
Khattak’s response was sharp. “Because you don’t believe the incidents are connected.”
“Precisely.” She gave Sehr a warm smile. “This is something the inspector and I should discuss on our own.”
Sehr didn’t take offense. She shut down her laptop and gathered up her purse. Her hand brushed Esa’s wrist and his whole body warmed at the contact.
“I’ll find us some refreshments. I have a sense this isn’t done.”
58
Rachel was still chatting with Lemaire when Sandston called her on her phone, asking her to bring the photographs back to her office. A little awkwardly, Rachel excused herself. A moment later, she was at Sandston’s door, Philippe Benoit at her shoulder.
Bashfully, he said to Khattak, “I’ve got something you should look at here.”
“Will you give me a moment?”
Benoit nodded eagerly. “I’ll just brief Inspector Lemaire.”
Rachel hustled him out of the way, closing the door behind her.
“I reckon you have another admirer there, sir. Try not to break his heart.”
Khattak grinned, amused as she’d hoped by her irreverence.
Dr. Sandston pointed to a chair. When Rachel had taken her seat, she was asked to lay out the photographs on the desk.
“All of them?” A tangible note of alarm raised the register of her voice.
Marlyse Sandston gave her a chiding glance. She knew why Rachel didn’t want to be around while Khattak went over the photographs. But she had to concede when Sandston said, “How can Inspector Khattak protect himself against things he doesn’t know?”
Dr. Sandston arranged the photographs in a pattern. Khattak studied them with a frown. Like Rachel, his attention was fixed on the photo of Sehr in Greece. Then his lean and elegant hands touched the photographs taken in Iran and Turkey.
“He’s been following me for some time.”
Dr. Sandston let the assumption on gender stand.
“Yes.”
“To be in Iran and Turkey at the same time as I was would have required detailed knowledge of my movements. Advance knowledge, as it’s difficult to arrange the visa to Iran.”
“Yes,” Sandston said again.
“Yet he had me at his mercy and took no further action.”
“He’s taken further action.” Sandston’s reply confirmed Rachel’s own thoughts. “The text messages—the taunts. He’s trying to rattle you, to push you into making a careless mistake.”
Rachel’s chin jutted out. “Because he wants Inspector Khattak off the case. He knows it’s just a matter of time before we figure out the shooting.”
But even as she said it, she knew it was wrong, a fact confirmed for her by Dr. Sandston’s swift shake of her head.
Rachel pretended not to notice when Khattak slid the pictures from Algonquin toward him. He fell quiet and neither woman interrupted his perusal of that evening at the lake.
“A terrible night.”
He didn’t elaborate. But then with a snap of anger in his voice, he added, “For someone else to have been there, yet refuse to offer their help … Rachel nearly died that night.”
Dr. Sandston stayed silent as he turned to look at Rachel. She made an effort to meet his gaze, her face uncomfortably flushed.
“I appreciate that you saved me, sir.”
She watched him swallow, unused to seeing him so defenseless.
“You saved me, Rachel. I thought you knew that by now.”
She let that sink in, a ball of warmth settling somewhere deep in her chest.
Her blush deepened as she met Dr. Sandston’s probing gaze. She remembered the other woman’s words.
There are many kinds of love, Rachel.
Khattak broke the ensuing silence.
“Are these photographs threats? To my family—to Sehr and Rachel?” His fingertips lingered on the photograph of himself with Alizah.
Marlyse Sandston nodded. “Quite clearly. To anyone you care about.”
“You’re concerned about escalation.” Frowning, he pulled the photograph of Tom Paley aside from the others.
“If this was a case of stalking, escalation would be at the forefront of my mind.”
She reached across the desk for the photograph of Paley and held it up to the light.
“It’s not?” Khattak sounded puzzled.
“I’m afraid not.”
Rachel knew where this was headed. She bit back a sound of protest.
From Khattak’s impatience, she could see that he thought Dr. Sandston was deliberately holding back. Whereas Rachel knew the doctor was simply gathering herself to tell him.
“It can’t be a case of escalation, if it begins with murder.”
Khattak looked at her, shocked.
She touched the photograph of Paley.
“Sergeant Getty told me that your former colleague Tom Paley died of natural causes—of a heart attack. But we need to consider why Paley’s photograph was left for you with the others. And whether the person who took these photos has been acting to harm you from the start.”
59
Esa found Philippe Benoit in conference with Lemaire.
“Join us,” Lemaire said, shoving a chair at Esa with his boot.
“Anything?” Esa rubbed the back of his head. The ache was growing sharper and more persistent. “Constable Benoit wanted to show me something.”
Abashed at being the focus of their interest, Benoit’s freckled skin acquired a tinge of pink. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. But despite his nervousness, he gave a concise summary of his report. He’d been tasked with the long, hard slog of going through Richard’s radio broadcasts over a period spanning two years. What he’d found was an interview Richard had conducted after Saint-Isidore’s Code of Conduct had passed. Richard had invited a man named Stéphane Marchand onto his show.
Khattak didn’t know the name. He didn’t remember it from his review of key members of the Allegiance.
“He wasn’t a member of the Wolf Allegiance,” Benoit clarified. “Marchand and another man by the name of Jean Roussel were two of Michel Gagnon’s chief lieutenants. They were both brought up on a manslaughter charge for the killing of Bilal Duchon—Amadou Duchon’s brother. But Bilal Duchon’s killing was accidental—he wasn’t the target; he was caught in the cross fire. Roussel was convicted of the crime, but Stéphane Marchand had an alibi.”
Khattak’s eyes widened. So they were back to Amadou’s brother. Could Amadou have been the reason Marchand had accepted Richard’s invitation to come to Saint-Isidore? He followed this up with Lemaire.
“Why would Richard have hosted Marchand on his radio show? Surely not to speak about the killing of Bilal Duchon. I’m guessing Marchand would want that safely buried in the past.”
Benoit placed his large hands on his knees and squeezed.
“No, Inspector Khattak, you’re quite right. Marchand was invited onto Richard’s show to speak about the Code of Conduct. His appearance here had nothing to do with Duchon.”
“Why would a lieutenant of Gagnon’s be invited to Saint-Isidore to speak?”
Benoit was red eared in his eagerness to get his story out.
“There was a fundraising campaign aimed at raising the profile of the Code of Conduct. Stéphane Marchand was the driving force behind that campaign. And as you know, Richard himself was the one who called for the Code from the start.”
Khattak thought this over. It was clear that Benoit was suggesting Pascal Richard was their man. He glanced at Lemaire, who’d crossed his arms over his chest, his head tipped back and his eyes half-closed, mulling his own private thoughts.
Esa couldn’t stop himself from saying it.<
br />
“What price the key to the city now?”
To his surprise, Lemaire grinned. “So you’re not always as polite. You know how to throw a punch.” He nodded at Benoit. “Continue, please.”
“The reason the charge against Marchand didn’t stick in the Bilal Duchon case was not only because of his alibi. Marchand is known to move guns and drugs for Gagnon. But there’s not a single firearm registered in his own name.”
“He keeps his hands clean,” Khattak noted.
“More than that,” Lemaire concluded. “He’s a natural conduit for an unregistered gun.”
Which meant that Richard could have obtained access to the weapon used in the shooting.
* * *
Khattak drove himself to his next meeting, overriding Rachel’s protests. He’d convinced her not to leave Sehr’s side until he returned. He was due at the home of Youssef Soufiane’s family, where he expected to meet Alizah and Amadou. Once the vigil was over, he’d insist they both be brought under police protection. Until then, he didn’t intend to allow either out of his sight. And when he could, he’d find a moment to ask Amadou about the killing of his brother.
The Soufiane family owned a home on the upper slope of the town at the north end of the lake. Their back garden was populated with oak trees that feathered down to the lake. An outdoor gathering had been organized. The order of events would be evening prayer, Khattak’s address, and then a large communal dinner, with the food provided by members of the community.
He parked his car and slid his tasbih onto his wrist. Next he slipped a clean white kufi from his inside pocket and settled it over his hair. His beard was growing in thick and dark, though he’d trimmed it close to his jaw. He’d made the conscious decision not to shave it the moment he’d heard about the shooting. His beard could be taken as a signifier of faith; he hadn’t wanted the Muslim community to harbor any doubt.
As he was greeted by the Soufiane family and invited to join the prayer in the yard, he felt as though he’d exchanged one identity for another. Here among this group of Québécois Muslims whose origins could be traced to every corner of the globe, his sense of being on guard subsided. The community was ready for him—prepared to receive him as their own, though they spoke many different languages that Esa didn’t speak and his French was only adequate at best.
A Deadly Divide Page 27
