Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

He was watching the clock and waiting for a lead, any lead. Someone must recognize the sketch. The minutes dragged into hours, and he had a pizza delivered. He was on the second slice when Bedard burst into the room.

“Luc, what the fuck are you trying to do? I’ve just been told that we have a sketch of a suspect. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Chief Inspector, it’s one sketch from one witness, and I’m not sure it’s reliable — I’m not even sure the witness is reliable. We have officers showing it around at all the likely spots, and if it’s good, we should have a name to go with the sketch any moment.”

“That’s not the point. You didn’t tell me you even had a sketch.”

“Like I said, sir, I’m not convinced it’s reliable. I’m waiting for identification, and we’ll have it soon and will pick him up. If he’s gone missing we can release the sketch along with a name. You know what a defence lawyer can do with a sketch that‘s not a good likeness of the suspect. I don’t want to make a mistake. This way, if the sketch is any good, we get a name and we can nab him. If the sketch gets out, he disappears.”

“Well, it’s too late to worry about that. I just got a call from the Mayor’s office about the sketch. It’s on the Journal de Montreal’s website. The fucking Journal de Montreal publishes the sketch before I even know it exists. Luc, why are you doing this to me? Holding out is bad enough, but someone in your unit has a direct line to that piece of shit newspaper.”

“I’ve checked that, sir, and nobody from this squad is feeding the media,” said Vanier, trying to eliminate doubt from his voice. “The witness for the sketch works for the Journal de Montreal , and our people have been out all day with the sketch. There must have been hundreds of people who have seen it, and more than a few with copies. He’s not even a suspect right now; he’s just a loose end. Our suspect is dead.”

“Well, your plan to keep this quiet is flushed down the toilet.”

“We just have to deal with that. I hope to have something serious any moment now. If the sketch is a dead end, then we’ll know quickly enough. We’re hitting everyone who might have seen our guy. If nobody recognizes him, then the sketch is probably useless.”

“So I tell the Mayor’s office that a member of the public leaked it, and we didn’t release it because he’s only a person of interest, not a suspect.”

“That’s right. Go on the attack, Chief Inspector: irresponsible action by the Journal de Montreal endangering a material witness and jeopardizing a murder investigation. Tell them you can’t conduct a rigorous investigation if the media acts irresponsibly, putting the public in danger at the same time. You have enough experience, Chief Inspector, to know that publishing sketches is a last resort. And that’s how we were operating, until our investigation was sabotaged by irresponsible journalists.” Vanier was beginning to believe himself, and the Chief Inspector was beginning to see an alternative to admitting he wasn’t in control.

“I’m sure that you can put it much more convincingly than I could, Chief. It’s not a police failure, it’s irresponsible journalism aimed at undermining a serious inquiry.”

Bedard didn’t have an alternative, and there was a grain of truth in what Vanier was saying. There was enough to craft a message around; righteous indignation coupled with a chance to put the boot to the media at the same time. The Mayor might even like it.

“I’ll talk to Sergeant Laflamme about this — she’s the expert on communications — then we’ll pass it by the Mayor. Let’s hope that we get some leads from this. Otherwise, it could get very ugly.”

“Chief, I am certain we will have a target by tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“Thank you, Luc. Thank you.” As the Chief rose to leave, he reached over for a slice of pizza. “Don’t mind?”

“Go ahead, take two.”

“One’s enough,” he said, before changing his mind, reaching for a second. “Thanks, Luc.”

Vanier watched him leave and went back to his pizza.

And the calls began to arrive. St. Jacques called from the Cathedral to say she had a name, John Collins, confirmed by two witnesses, but no address. But he fit the description, even down to dressing like a priest. Officers began running John Collins through databases, criminal records, people who had been arrested, suspects. Two officers were working on access to wider databases: passport, army, city and provincial employment, social security, and a host of other sources that collect information on citizens. In the electronic world, everyone is in a database. Just by living you leave traces everywhere. Nobody’s anonymous.

The last line of defence for the average citizen was the volume of information being collected and stored. The databases were like haystacks piled up in fields defying anyone to find the needle. But the tools to dig through millions of files in seconds were already in use. In the same way that Google finishes your sentences and has lined up hundreds of thousands of hits before you’ve pushed enter, software spiders are crawling through stagnant data 24 hours a day, remembering everything and putting it in order, just waiting for the right question.

Vanier used the tools but worried about them. If someone decided to link all the data — and it wouldn’t be difficult — lives would unfold without secrets under watchful eyes. Laboratory rats get used to it and copulate under bright lights in front of cameras.

9 PM

Vanier flipped open his phone. “Yeah?”

It was Janvier. “We got an ID, sir, and it sounds like it’s good. I’m with Serge Jauron, the owner of the Xeon pesticide plant in St. Lambert; they make private label pesticides for the industry. He says he recognizes the person in the sketch.”

“John Collins?”

“That’s it. Someone else called it in?”

“St. Jacques got the name about an hour ago. We’re trying to get an address.”

“Jauron says he’s been working at Xeon for years. He drives a forklift.”

“He’s sure about the identification?”

“Positive. Says it could be a photograph.”

“Does he have an address?”

“He said human resources would have an address, but he has twenty people in the house for dinner and doesn’t want to go down to the plant tonight.”

“Put him on.”

Vanier waited for a few seconds.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Jauron. I’m Detective Inspector Vanier. I understand that the person in the sketch may be one of your employees.”

“Not maybe, Inspector. He is. He’s John Collins. He’s been with us for six years at least.”

“Well, we need to speak to him as soon as possible, and I would be grateful if you would accompany Sergeant Janvier to the plant right now and get a home address for us.”

“Inspector, I’ve got twenty people eating dinner here, I can’t just up and leave them. I told your men that I can go down first thing in the morning.”

“I understand your problem. But you have to understand mine. We believe that Mr. Collins may be able to cast some light on the deaths of several people over the last few days. Tell me, do you keep potassium cyanide at your plant?”

“Yes, of course we do. That’s why Sergeant, whatever his name is, and his buddy are here, isn’t it?”

“Sergeant Janvier, sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant Janvier.”

“Potassium cyanide has been used to kill at least five people. It could well be your potassium cyanide, and you need to accompany Sergeant Janvier and his partner to the plant and get an address for Mr. Collins before anyone else is killed. Oh, and by the way, while you’re there, it might be useful to check again to see if any potassium cyanide is missing from your facilities. Now, pass me back to the Sergeant while you put on your coat.”