Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

St. Jacques looked at Vanier. “That’s all I know,” he said. “The bastard wouldn’t give me specifics.”

St. Jacques continued. “The Coroner’s office reports that they can do two or three autopsies today and the rest tomorrow.”

“Ask them to request the medical records from Grenier. He refused to turn them over without an official request.”

“Will do,” said St. Jacques. “There’s not much else. We’re waiting to learn more from the Coroner.”

“We have a person of interest, Father Henri Drouin. He’s not a suspect, but I want to talk to him in a bad way. He’s a priest who works in the Cathedral, and Dr. Grenier says he was the spiritual advisor to the victims and knew them all. I went looking for him last night, and he’s disappeared. We need to find him as quickly as possible. Any luck on the Santa suits?”

“Not much, sir. There were almost 400 Santa suits rented out over the holidays. Four different companies — two downtown, one in NDG, and the other in Laval. We’ve talked to the owners of all the stores, and they’re all ready to show their records.”

“OK. Have a couple of officers pick them up and bring them to their stores. No, forget Laval for the moment. Let’s concentrate on the Island. Not all Santa suits are the same, so bring photos of our Santa and get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a similar suit. See if they recognize anything special. And tell them that when the rentals come back, they should check for dirt and moisture and hold onto anything that looks that looks like it was worn outside. You can’t go wandering around in the middle of winter in a Santa costume without getting wet.”

“Yes, sir,” said St. Jacques. “Oh, and the Coroner’s office is having someone dig out what they can on any similar deaths in the last year. They said that it might take some time but I’ll keep after them. Nobody seems to keep records on the numbers. I called the city, the hospitals, the shelters. Nobody counts them but people were guessing anywhere from twenty to forty people, depending on what you include: drug overdoses, beatings or just plain natural causes.”

“Any calls?”

“Since I came on shift, we’ve had 23,” said Janvier. I’m taking them with D.S. Roberge.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing on the victims. The usual crap on Santa: looks like my cousin Pierre, that sort of thing. We’re taking the details but it’s going to take time to check them all out. But look at the photos. You can’t see the guy’s face, and he’s dressed in a costume.”

“So how did the papers get the photos? Can someone talk to Morneau and see if he has any ideas?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” said Janvier.

“So, St. Jacques, you keep following up with the Santa suits. Janvier and Roberge, keep on the phones and let me know if anything strange turns up. See if you can track down next of kin. And can we all try to figure out who’s feeding the press? Laurent, you and I are going to find Father Drouin.”

Vanier’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and didn’t recognize the number.

“Vanier,” he said.

“Inspector Vanier, this is Sergeant Julie Laflamme. Just calling to tell you that I’ve had a call from Chief Inspector Bedard. He wants me to handle the media on the homeless cases. I am on my way to Montreal now, and I wanted to ask you not to make any public statements until we have had a chance to talk. Is that OK, sir?”

“Perfect, Sergeant Laflamme. When are you proposing to get here?”

“I should be there in two hours. I was skiing in Tremblant. I’m trying to set up a press conference for 3 p.m. They’re clamouring for information, but let’s keep things quiet until then, Inspector. It’s important that we manage the communications on this one, sir.”

“Sergeant Laflamme, the media seem to be doing pretty well without any help from me. But you have my word on it. I’ll hang up on any journalist who calls me. See you soon.” Vanier clicked disconnect.

Turning to Laurent, Vanier asked, “Who were you with on Christmas Eve? I didn’t see anyone.”

“D.S. Fletcher, sir. He worked Christmas Eve, but he’s off today.”

“So where was he when I was there?”

“He was interviewing staff, I think. It’ll be in his notes. He’s been following up, though. I spoke to him twice this morning.”

“Can’t he let it go? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”

“He’s keen on the case. He wants to be up to speed when he gets back.”

The phone on Laurent’s desk rang. He picked it up and listened.

“OK. Thanks.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Vanier.

“Father Drouin is downstairs. He showed up at the front desk and said that you had been looking for him.”

“Have them put him in Interview Room 2. I’ll talk to him. You watch from outside. Make sure that we get it all on tape. I want a transcript. Let’s go.”

They took the elevator down to the basement. The building was quiet. Headquarters was on minimal staff, with officers taking a short break from the madness, trying to build family as kids laughed and friends told stories. Vanier wondered why Fletcher couldn’t let go. Why was he calling for updates?

10.30 AM

Interview Room 2 was designed to elicit the kind of communication that occurs between doomed miners trapped hundreds of feet below ground, intimate, and of no consequence to the outside world. It was a stark, windowless box, empty except for a table and two chairs, with a two-way mirror built into one wall. The mirror encouraged introspection. Father Henri Drouin sat on one of the flimsy plastic chairs, his shoulders sagging and his eyes staring at the floor. Vanier walked in carrying a yellow note-pad and a brown envelope, nodding at Drouin without saying anything. Drouin half rose from his seat and returned to his sitting position. Vanier reached out his hand, and Drouin stood again to shake it, looking like he hadn’t laughed in twenty years, like he was carrying an invisible weight.

“I’m Detective Inspector Vanier, Major Crime Squad. I was looking for you last night at the Cathedral. The priest who answered the door said that you disappeared after lunch and nobody knew where you were.”

“It’s a problem that I have, Inspector. Every Christmas it’s the same thing. The priestly equivalent of post-partum depression, I suppose.”

Vanier thought that was an attempt at humour, but checked himself. Drouin was serious. “Are you depressed?”

Drouin sat up. “Advent is such a wonderful time in the Church, building up inexorably to that glorious moment when our Saviour is born. The churches gradually fill with the faithful until Christmas morning, when it’s standing room only for the flock adoring their Creator. And then, the next moment, it’s empty again. They’re only there for the show. When I look at the packed church at Christmas, I can’t help thinking how empty it will be after the last service, and how it will stay empty for most of the year.”

“The three Bs, I suppose,” said Vanier.

“What?”

“Baptism, bondage and burial. Most people only want the church to be there for the baptism, the wedding and to see them off in style at the end.”

“Something like that, Inspector. It’s the church as theatre, and Christmas is a perennial favourite. It’s always a shock, and I’ve never learned to deal with it. I get angry. Then I get sad and question myself. Then I question the faithful. Then I question the church itself. With experience, I have found that the best thing to do is to just get away.”

“So where did you go yesterday?”

“I went to my family, to my sister and her husband in Dorval. That was a mistake. They have their children and their Christmas is for the children, you know, presents first, video games and toys, then a feast and as little thought about Our Lord as they can manage. I’m an embarrassment to her.”