Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

11 AM

The drive to the Coroner’s building was easy. Most people were still on vacation, and the only serious traffic was caused by giant trucks loaded with snow going to the dump or returning empty for their next load. Vanier drove fast, speeding up through yellow lights and anticipating the greens.

“So what’s the story at the Holy Land Shelter?” asked Vanier.

“Well, up to last March, Father Drouin was on the Board.” Laurent was leafing through his notebook. “Then there was a huge turnover in March, seven new members on a ten-member Board. That means seven resigned or were kicked out. That has to be pretty disruptive for the organization. I’ve started to get the stories on the ones who resigned first. I figured, if there was a problem, the outgoing members would be more inclined to talk.”

“Who can we talk to besides Drouin?”

“I’m running through the names, trying to figure out how to get in touch with them. A likely one is Pascal Beaudoin. I found a listing for Pascal Beaudoin as the Secretary of the Board for the last four years. And I found a lawyer downtown called Pascal Beaudoin with Henderson amp; Associates.”

“How do you know it’s the same Pascal Beaudoin?”

“The new Secretary is a certain Gordon Henderson, the same name as the main guy in Henderson amp; Associates. I figure it’s not a coincidence.”

“So why don’t you call this Beaudoin and see if we can go to see him after the autopsies.”

Laurent got on the phone and had an appointment confirmed with Beaudoin by the time they were pulling into the parking lot. The Coroner’s building sat on rue Parthenais in the East End, in a poor residential neighbourhood. A typical 1960s government building, unimpressive in form, style, and functionality, someone’s idea of building up the local economy by dumping a government building in the middle of a depressed area.

The autopsy viewing room was a small, utilitarian space designed to allow students to watch and learn; wooden benches and a large picture window overlooked the business area. On December 27, the students had found better things to do, and the detectives were alone.

Vanier and Laurent settled in and looked down on a theatre of three ribbed stainless steel tables. The naked body of an emaciated woman lay on one of the tables, dwarfed by its size. The table had been raised at one end to allow blood and other fluids to drain down into a collecting bottle. Vanier guessed it was Edith Latendresse from the Berri Metro, with her empty breasts nothing more than flaps of skin draped over a protruding ribcage. More bones than flesh, the skeleton wrapped in skin was a stark contrast to the plump cocoons of blankets he had seen on Christmas Eve. She had looked full then, bundled in layers against the cold.

Laurent perked up as Anjili Segal entered the room below them. Her dark hair was held tight by a headset that supported a microphone in front of her mouth, and her surgical uniform couldn’t hide the curves of a woman in good shape. She looked up to the viewing gallery and caught Vanier’s eye. They smiled at each other. Then, for Laurent and the transcript, she said, “Inspector Vanier, how good to see you, and you, too, Sergeant Laurent. A very Merry Christmas to you both. I was just getting ready to begin. So glad you could come.”

“Always a pleasure, Dr. Segal. Any word on the others? Anything unusual?”

Segal seemed to deflate as she thought about her response.

“Inspector, I did not perform the earlier autopsies, but I’ve looked at the initial reports. The first three victims were very sick, probably terminal. If it hadn’t been Christmas Eve, it could have been tonight, or next week, who knows? My colleague guessed at three months, maximum, for each of them. But you never know. A guess is a guess. Maybe with care one or two of could have lasted longer. But out on the streets, nature takes over, and nature hates frailty. These were all the walking dead.”

“Is there a cause of death?” asked Vanier, forcing himself to look away from Segal and stare at the body on the table. Naked is how we arrive and leave, naked and alone. Protocol demanded nothing be done to the body before the autopsy, and the grime of the street was obvious, even from a distance.

Segal picked up a clipboard and began reading from the reports: “The first, a male of about 63, had a stomach tumour as big as a full term baby. The second male was about 60 years old. Both his lungs were locked solid with emphysema. It does not say why, but it’s probably from smoking the discarded butts of more affluent smokers. The last, a female of about 50, had a liver that was close to non-functioning. Probably an alcoholic, drinking too much cheap wine from the depanneur for too long. Her blood alcohol level was elevated. For some reason, I don’t expect much different from Madame Sans-nom,” Segal said, gesturing to the naked cadaver on the table.

“She’s no longer nameless, Dr. Segal” said Vanier. “Her name is Edith Latendresse.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” She wrote the name on her clipboard and returned to reviewing the notes from the earlier autopsies. “From what I can see, my colleagues will probably conclude that death was from natural causes, Inspector. As if all this is natural.” She looked up at her guests. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m getting carried away. Perhaps it’s the season.”

“No excuses. This isn’t natural, Doctor,” said Vanier, meeting her eye. “It’s an affront. Let’s do them a service. If they did happen to die by the so-called grace of God on Christmas Eve, at least give them the best damn reports we can, write a few pages of details for them.”

“What are you asking for, Inspector?”

“The star treatment. Pretend it’s the Mayor or one of his buddies who turned up stiff. All the tests your people can think of. Every detail. It’s all we have. If we’re all letting this happen every day, at least we can record the details,” said Vanier.

“We will do our best, Inspector.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I am sure that Madame Latendresse would thank you too,” he said nodding in the direction of Edith Latendresse.

“That’s something, isn’t it?”

“What?” asked Vanier.

“It’s something to have a name.”

“That’s all she has now.”

Dr. Segal turned to the emaciated body and began talking into the headpiece, bending over to inspect the body. After a fifteen-minute tour of the outer shell, always talking into the microphone, she reached for a surgical knife. Soon she would need sturdier cutting tools. Her first slice was clean, from just below the throat all the way down to the pubis. Vanier was getting squeamish when she sliced and pulled at the skin to expose Mme. Latendresse’s organs. He looked to the floor as she picked up the electrical tool and began to cut through bone. There was no reason for him to be here. Everyone knew it. But Vanier still kept coming. Three or four times a year he would sit through an autopsy and force himself to watch bodies being taken apart.

2.30 PM

The offices of Henderson amp; Associates were located in a tired high rise on University Street, reasonably well situated downtown but well past anything resembling its prime. Vanier and Laurent went up to the fifteenth floor and followed the arrow to an incongruous set of mahogany doors with gold handles that contrasted with the industrial carpet and painted gyprock of the hallway. Inside the heavy doors their feet sank into thick carpet in front of a fortysomething receptionist who was winning the war against age. She was wearing a headset and working a console like a D.J.

“Henderson and Associates. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Vanier, leaning towards her and getting lost in the faintest hint of perfume. “We’re here to see Maitre Beaudoin.”