Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

Vanier turned to leave, “I’m off to see the Chief.”

As he passed St. Jacques, she turned to him. “I’ll be finished with this in a few minutes.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Vanier said, glancing at the map as he walked out.

9 AM

Chief Inspector Bedard’s door was open, the secretary who usually guarded his lair off for the holidays. The Chief was sitting behind his desk in full dress uniform reading the papers. When you started as a cop, you got a uniform, and if you climbed the ladder high enough, you finished with a better uniform, but there were two differences between recruits and the polished brass. The obvious one was the amount of equipment you carried on your belt; recruits had more stuff hanging from their belts than New Guinea headhunters. Vanier sometimes thought that when he retired he could make a fortune designing stuff that could be attached to the belts of recruits. The Chief had nothing, not even a gun. The other difference was the amount of bullshit you could generate and consume before you felt sick. Recruits had a low tolerance for bullshit, but if you wanted to rise up the ladder, you had to develop a taste for it.

Vanier walked in and stood in front of the Chief’s desk, waiting for him to look up, examining the fat that bulged under his uniform. He was like a giant, over-ripe pear with his neck bulging three chins out of a white shirt collar. Bedard looked up warily.

“Good morning, Luc, sit down.”

Vanier dropped into the wooden chair in front of the desk, and the two men stared at each other in a test of who would speak first. There was no contest. Vanier was still a working cop, and Bedard broke.

“The press, Luc. How does Journal de Montreal know more about this investigation than I do? Am I supposed to read the damn newspapers to know what is going on in my own squad? Does that make sense?”

Again the stare, eye to eye, Bedard trying to remember the old days interrogating suspects. Vanier stared back.

“No, sir. But they have more staff than we do. We’ve been working with close to zero.”

“It’s Christmas, Luc. I know how you feel. But all you have are five suspicious deaths. I can’t cancel leave on the basis of a suspicion. It’s going to take time to find out how they died. Even so, I need to show some progress. Results, Luc, I need some results. And I need to know what’s going on.

“Does that mean that I get more officers?”

“No. Not unless you tell me that you have something real to go on. Are these five deaths a coincidence, or do we have a maniac on the loose?”

“We don’t know yet. It could be nothing, sir.”

“I know that. But the papers don’t think it’s nothing. Have you seen the TV? It’s the first story on every newscast. Before long, the entire city will be yelling for answers. The Mayor called me at home last night. Did you ever try to bullshit the Mayor?”

“No, sir. I’ve never spoken to the Mayor. But I suspect that he recognizes bullshit.”

“He’s an expert. He can recognize it a mile away. And I don’t want to be giving him too much.”

“Sir, we’re doing what we can. Any available officers you can throw our way would be appreciated. That way, you can tell the Mayor that you’re dedicating resources to the case.”

“I know what I can tell the goddamn Mayor, Luc. And I am dedicating resources to the case, Luc. You have a bloody team. What leads are you following?”

“Sir, we’ve got a good start on the identities, and we’re following up with the families and people who knew them. We’re canvassing the shelters and other spots to see what we can find out. We’re also following up on Santa suit rentals. Even without a cause of death, that’s a lot of work, sir. The more people we have, the quicker we can get through all the details. With more manpower we can cover leads faster.”

“Look, I’ll see what I can do about extra officers. In the meantime do what you can. And Luc, you have my numbers, call me. When the Mayor calls I have to answer the phone even if I’m taking a shit. I want to be able to give him something more than he can read in this rag,” he said, gesturing at the Journal de Montreal . “I can’t have him knowing more than I do just because his staff spoke to the bloody journalists. Treat this as a mass murder until we know it’s not. Pull out all stops, Luc. I need results. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. So, does that mean that I’m off budget? Even if I don’t get extra people, can we authorize overtime?”

“Luc, you know that we’re close to year-end, and I’m not going to piss away a good year because we panicked before we knew anything for sure. If you can tell me there’s a mass murderer loose, things will change. For the moment, do what you can with the resources you have.”

“What we have is a skeleton staff. Everyone is off singing carols.”

“People need family time at Christmas. Luc, do what you can. Give me something.”

“Yes, sir,” said Vanier. Figuring the meeting had ended, he got up from the chair.

“And think about this, Luc. How do these journalists know so much about this situation? Some of them were on top of this from the start. There are details here,” he said, lifting the paper for emphasis. “Stuff that only someone connected to the investigation would know: the Santa character, the unknown cause of death, the absence of a suspect. How do they know so much? Find out who it is, Luc. I don’t want anyone from my squad talking to the press.”

“Neither do I, sir, but I don’t think that it’s one of our people. It’s probably someone in the Metro Security.”

“Luc, if there is a madman loose I want you to catch him. I don’t want this played out in the media. And keep me informed of every move that you make.”

“Yes, sir.” Vanier turned and grabbed the door handle to leave.

“And, Luc, why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, sir,” Vanier lied, turning back to face him. “I called yesterday on your cell number. I couldn’t get through.”

“Well, OK. Sorry. I may have had my cell phone off for a few hours. You know how it is, Christmas and all. Anyway, from now on keep me informed.”

“Absolutely, sir. In fact, after my meeting with the team, I’ll call to debrief you.”

Bedard was on the phone before Vanier closed the door.

9.45 AM

D.S. St. Jacques had transformed one wall of the Squad Room, pinning photos of the five victims in situ on the map of downtown Montreal, with arrows leading from them to the places they were discovered. Next to each photo she had pinned a bullet-point list of what was known of each of the victims. Most of that came from Vanier’s notes on their possessions. Off to the side were several of the clearest prints of Santa, but nothing approaching a clear face shot. He was tall, probably six two or three, not overweight. His costume made it difficult to tell, but he looked fit.

Vanier took a seat. “So what do we know?”

St. Jacques looked over to Laurent and saw that he wasn’t going to take the lead.

“Well, sir, we have five unexplained deaths on Christmas Eve. From your work yesterday with the possessions, we have four unverified identifications: George Morissette, found at McGill, Joe Yeoman and Edith Latendresse, both found at Berri, and Pierre Brun in Cabot Park. We need to confirm the identifications and get a positive I.D. on the fifth. We’ve started tracking down the next of kin, and we also need to find the possessions of the fifth victim.”

“The identities are verified,” said Vanier. “Dr. Grenier confirmed them from the photos. We have names and ages. The fifth victim is Celine Plante, 52 years old, well, almost 52. An alcoholic who has been on the streets for most of her life. And Dr. Grenier says they were all terminally ill. What else?”