Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

“John, what…?”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“John….”

John tightened his grip on Drouin’s throat and cut off the words. Using his free hand, he pulled a plastic bottle from the inside pocket of his winter coat and inserted the pointed end between the priest’s lips, forcing liquid into his mouth. He let go of the priest’s neck and clapped his hand over his mouth and nose. Drouin stared up in terror, his mouth full of liquid and his lungs pleading for air. John withdrew the bottle and put it in his pocket. He reached behind the priest’s neck, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled, forcing Drouin to look up at the wooden ceiling of the box. Drouin’s mouth opened slightly, and the liquid flowed down his throat. He gasped like someone drowning, but the hand on his mouth stifled even a cough. Again the bottle, and again his mouth filled with liquid. The knee on his chest was pushing forcefully. In seconds, the liquid had flowed down his throat, and he was drowning again. He couldn’t get enough air. Another mouthful, and he looked into John’s eyes, pleading. John stared back, and Drouin realized it was hopeless and began to pray in his mind, giving himself up to his creator.

“Father Henri. It’s God’s work. Even this. You should not have interfered.”

Before leaving the box, John checked for a pulse, and then placed the bottle into Drouin’s hand, the same hand that was still clutching the rosary beads. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and placed it on the handrail inside the confessional. He took off the latex gloves, placed them in his pocket and left the box, closing the door behind him. Leaving the Cathedral, he dipped his hand into the holy water in the font by the front door and blessed himself.

NOON

Vanier was sitting across the table from Mme. Paradis and the sketch artist. Mme. Paradis’s eyes were sparkling incongruously from within a tired face and a slouching body. She was enjoying her big day, but her body would have preferred to be lying down somewhere quiet.

“Now, Mme. Paradis, take a good look at the sketch and take your time. Tell me if you think that it’s a good image of the man you say placed the ads in the Journal de Montreal . The man who signed himself Pious John.”

She studied the sketch for a few moments, squinting her eyes.

“That’s him. That’s him perfectly,” she said. “You’re very good, M. Beaucage,” she said, giving him a practiced smile.

“Thank you Madame, but I am only as good as the witness’s memory.”

“Are you sure, Madame? Are you confident that this is a good likeness?” asked Vanier.

“Positive,” she said, turning back to Beaucage with another smile.

Vanier hated eyewitness identification, and he hated sketched likenesses even more. Eyewitnesses were notoriously unreliable. When six people inside a bank couldn’t come up with the same number of men carrying guns, how could you expect them to get the eye colour or even the height correct? But it was easy, and too many cops went along with it. He knew it had put thousands of innocents in jails and helped as many guilty go free. And if eyewitness identification wasn’t bad enough, an artist’s rendition of what the witness thought they remembered was even worse. A bad sketch, and they were all bad sketches, was a-get-out-of-jail-free card when it didn’t look anything like the accused.

Vanier turned to the artist, “M. Beaucage, could you get some 8? by 11 copies, maybe twenty, made up as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, Inspector. There’s a machine on the fifth floor that I’ve used before. I can do it immediately.”

Beaucage took his sketch and left Vanier and Mme. Paradis together.

“So, Mme. Paradis, tell me about Pious John.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

Mme. Paradis played with her empty coffee cup, but Vanier didn’t take the hint. “Well, as I said to the other officers, he was a special sort. He would come in, take a number, and wait for his turn, sitting in that long black cassock like he was just like everyone else. Yet he stood out, like a film star. And when he sat in front of you, I’ve never seen eyes like that. It wasn’t the colour, lots of people have brown eyes, but they looked into you like they knew your soul. I see all kinds of people every day, but he was different. There was deepness about him, a sad look in his eyes, like he knew so much more than the rest of us. And when he talked to you, it was like you were the only person in the world. Like that song from the seventies, “and read each thought aloud.”

“ Killing me softly .”

“What?”

“The song, Roberta Flack, Killing Me Softly With His Love .”

“Oh, yes. You’re right.”

“How long had he been placing ads?”

“I think he started a few months ago. It would be easy to tell because all the forms were signed by Pious John. He always paid cash and never wanted a receipt. And, you know, I never saw him smile. And not that he looked sad, just peaceful. Like he knew there was nothing to be happy about and was OK with that. It’s often like that with the St. Judes. But he was different somehow.”

“The St. Judes?”

“The people who place ads thanking St. Jude. Usually they’re embarrassed, and they want you to understand that they’re only doing their duty. With him it was serious. It was like he was proud. As though he was making a statement. I always try to have a laugh, you know, to make the clients feel at ease. But him, he never laughed, but he was always at ease. Like he was keeping score and winning. Confident, he was, that’s the word, confident.”

“You told the officers that the last time you saw him was December 28, right?”

“Yes. It didn’t take long. There was hardly anyone waiting. He placed the ad for the next day.”

“And before that?”

“There were only two times. Always the day before the ad appeared.”

Vanier looked at the two ads that had been circled on the photocopies. “So that would be December 16 and November 12?”

“Yes. The day before the ads appeared.”

Vanier had already sent someone to collect the original requests. Pious John would have signed each one.

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“Never. He was all business. Polite, patient, but he never told me anything about the story behind the ads. He just wanted the ads placed and to pay.”

“You’ve been a great help to us. After M. Beaucage returns, we’ll have you sign off on the likeness, and then have someone drive you home.”

“This has been a long day.”

“I’m sure it has, Mme. Paradis, thank you. So take the rest of the day off.” Vanier got to his feet and left to find Beaucage.

2 PM

The chatter in the war room died down as Vanier walked in and moved to the front of the room. The Chief had come through and found warm bodies to run down all possibilities, but it hadn’t done any good. Officers had visited 26 businesses that handled potassium cyanide and had come up with nothing. Still, Vanier was happy to have the bodies.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re six days out, and we need to make some progress. We have a lunatic out there who thinks he has a direct line to God, and now we have a sketch of the bastard.” Vanier held up the image, as Janvier started passing out copies.

“We have a face and a name: Pious John. Likely not his real name.” There was a round of subdued laughter. “No last name and no address. Today, we’re going to every shelter and drop-in centre in town and every street person we can find. I want others to go back to the companies that store potassium cyanide. Show the sketch around and see if anyone recognizes him. Maybe he worked at one of the companies, maybe he’s a customer. I want to find John the Bastard and quickly. He killed five people on Christmas Eve, and he probably started earlier than that. We have a maximum of 24 hours to find him before the sketch goes to the media, and I want him in custody first. We know he’s close to the homeless, maybe close to the church as well. Details, that’s what’s important. Remember, nothing is insignificant. When you’re talking to people, listen and think. So let’s go find this shit. Laurent and Roberge will coordinate. Any questions?”