Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

“Are they are serious players?”

“Luc, they are as serious as it gets. Make no mistake, these are very dangerous people to mess with. They have connections you can’t even imagine, and they have muscle they’re not afraid to use.”

“Muscle?”

“They have three guys on retainer that we know of, all Russian, and we think they have just picked up a local asset, Marcel Audet.”

“I know him.”

“Thought you might. The three Russians are the same type, very violent. Luc, I advise you to be extremely careful. Do not underestimate these people.”

Vanier knew that it was too late for that. “Thanks for the heads up, Ian. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please do.”

Before Vanier could get lost in paperwork, the phone rang.

“Vanier.”

“Good afternoon, Luc, or should I call you Inspector.”

“Anjili. Hello will do fine. How are you?”

“I’ve got news.”

“I need good news.”

“It’s not all good.”

“Well, give me the good news first.”

“The body in the truck — M. Latulippe — there was no trace of poison. So we’re putting it down as natural causes. His blood alcohol level was through the roof. He probably passed out in the snow and that was it. It’s likely he was dead before he went into the snow blower.”

“That’s the good news?”

“Everything’s relative, Luc.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“The body from the fire is not John Collins. We don’t know who it is yet, but it’s not Collins.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. Mme. Collins was in this morning to identify the body.”

“That can’t have been pleasant.”

“It wasn’t. She took one long look at the body and said that it wasn’t her son. I was half-expecting her to say that. The body’s in awful shape, and any mother would want to deny it’s her son. But she insisted. She was very calm. When we were arranging the visit, I had asked her to bring down any medical records she had of him. The blood type is different. She even stopped by her dentist to get John’s file, and the teeth are different. The clincher is the broken arm.”

“His arm was broken?”

“No, that’s the point. She says that he broke his left arm when he was ten, and it didn’t set properly. Our victim shows no sign of a healed fracture. Based on all of that, we’re certain the fire victim is not John Collins.”

“Shit.”

“So we have an unidentified corpse, and your suspect is still wandering the streets.”

“Anjili, can you fax me a preliminary report?”

“It’s on its way, Luc.”

“I need to talk to Mme. Collins. When did she leave?” he said, trying to calculate how long it would be before she was back home.

“She’s on her way over. She said that she needed to talk to you. She should be there in about half an hour.”

“She’s coming here?”

“Unless she knows where you live. I only gave her the office address.”

“And for that I thank you. Listen, I have to go.” Vanier thought for a second of suggesting dinner but let the thought pass; he wasn’t sure what time he would be finished.

“Let me know what happens. Luc, you’ll find him. I know you will.”

Vanier put the phone back in his pocket.

The front desk called twenty minutes later to say that Mme. Collins was asking for him. He told them to put her in the family room. It was still an interview room, but a little softer, with a couch and two armchairs squeezed into the impossibly small space. She was standing up when he arrived. He started to reach his hand out to shake hers but realized that she wasn’t offering.

“Please, Mme. Collins, sit down,” he gestured to one of the armchairs. She sat stiffly on the armchair and put her bag on the floor, leaning it against her leg.

“I have just come from the Coroner’s office. It’s good news,” she said. “It’s not him. It’s not my son.”

“Dr. Segal called me.”

“I thought I had lost him forever.”

Vanier watched her carefully, wondering if she would, or even could, be any help in finding him. He doubted it. Mothers couldn’t be trusted to turn in their sons. There was always a sub-plot, a faint hope that they could do something to make things turn out right. They would help you just as much as was absolutely necessary, always hoping that along the way they could save him.

“That doesn’t help us find him, and we need to find him. Mme. Collins, it’s time for you to help us. And we can help you. You couldn’t do it on your own but maybe we can do it together.” He decided to fight dirty. “Who is the father, Madame Collins?”

The blow was obvious, and she took it like a boxer past his prime.

“What does it matter? It has never mattered.”

“If John is alive, and it seems that he is, then someone may be hiding him. And right now, he may be in danger.”

“That’s rich, Inspector. You don’t care about him. You think he’s a mass murderer.”

“He’s a suspect, and I want to talk to him, but this is a messy business. Someone else might think that one way to clean it up is to get rid of him.”

She looked at him. He imagined she was calculating, but her eyes gave no clue.

“Mme. Collins, I’ve seen too many bodies this week, and I want it to stop. If someone is helping him, they are both are in danger. Don’t get me wrong, I want your son in custody. I think he’s killed several people and could kill more. He needs help. And I need your help.”

There are moments when people make decisions and change directions in a heartbeat. The tipping point is unpredictable, but we all have one, when the old arguments finally lose their potency, and we clutch at whatever lifeline is thrown. She slumped forward, and then looked him in the eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right. I have not told the story to anyone. It was 30 years ago. If it all happened today, things would be different. I can see that. There would have been counseling, some support. Perhaps it would have helped to talk to someone about it. But life was different back then. I was alone. I have loved three things in my life, Inspector, and each has taken that love and then rejected me. I joined the Church when I was 17 years old to escape my family. It was the only escape. I gave my life to the Church, and then the Church destroyed me. John’s father is Monsignor Michael Forlini. Back then, he was just an ambitious young priest following a calling that he thought he had. He’s been very successful. I loved him as much as I loved the Church, and I thought he loved me. He didn’t. He used me and then rejected me like I was nothing. As soon as our relationship was discovered, I was sacrificed, and he was protected. His sin was to have given in to the temptations of the flesh, an understandable sin that could be forgiven. My sin was the treachery of a woman, the devil’s handmaiden. I was left with nothing except my child, and I raised him with no help from his father. Then, 18 years later, he left without saying goodbye. But I still love him. John needs my help and I need him.”

She reached for the box of Kleenex on the floor but it was empty. Vanier pulled a Second Cup napkin from his pocket and gave it to her.

“I won’t give you the sordid details of how it happened. But, believe me, the holy Monsignor Forlini does not know where John is. He never even acknowledged that he was John’s father. He has never had anything to do with either of us. He even arranged to have me banned from the Cathedral. Not officially, of course, but any time that I go in, I am quickly asked to leave. When John first disappeared, I was convinced that his father might have something to do with it. Even though I couldn’t enter the Cathedral, I spent months walking around it, hoping to catch sight of John. I would wait outside all the Masses. I watched the doors for hours, more than I care to think of, winter and summer, but I never saw him.”