Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

To influence secular life for good, you need power, and the confessional was the place where power shifted. That’s why the decline of the sacrament is seen as such a threat to the Church. While the Protestants might accept that people can confess their sins in a vaguely worded public acknowledgement of weakness, that idea is vigorously resisted by the hard core Catholic clerics. The Church wants to know the sinners and it wants to know the details of their transgressions.

Monsignor Forlini had a sermon that he liked to give to stiffen the spines of believers. Jesus had told His apostles that those whose sins they forgave were forgiven and those whose sins were retained, were retained. This meant that God had given the apostles — and only the apostles — and through them the priests — and only the priests — the divine authority to forgive sin or to refuse to do so. So Jesus Himself had decreed that sin could not be forgiven directly. He put the apostles between the people and Himself, and the priests were the heirs of the apostles. The only way to have your sins forgiven was by confessing them to a priest in the sacrament of confession. And you had to gain forgiveness in this lifetime, because it would be too late after. So the faithful kept confessing their sins.

That was how Monsignor Forlini knew exactly where to go to solve his problem.

He was sitting in Moishe’s Steak House, a legend on boulevard St. Laurent, the historic fault line between Montreal’s English and French communities that had served Montreal’s powerful for over 50 years. Antonio DiPadova, one of Montreal’s better known criminal defence lawyers, sat opposite Forlini, nervously scanning the room for clients and potential clients. Being seen dining with a senior member of the Church could be bad for business.

They talked easily of politics and sport, of DiPadova’s charitable work, and his substantial donations to the Church. DiPadova was going to Rome in the summer, and an audience had to be arranged and, Monsignor Forlini hinted, a possible Papal acknowledgment of his contribution to the works of Mother Church. Forlini opened at dessert.

“Antonio, I have a problem.”

Well fed, and relaxed under the effects of a pound of marbled sirloin and a bottle of a 1998 Barolo that cost as much as the two steaks, DiPadova answered: “And I hope it’s something that I can help you with, Monsignor.”

“Perhaps you can. But it’s somewhat delicate.”

“In my experience, between friends it’s always better to put everything on the table.”

“Perhaps you are right, Antonio. You have been such a good friend. I should put my trust in you.” The Monsignor hated being humble but thought it might be effective.

“So, how I can I help?”

“Antonio, there is a child, a child who has reached a dead end and needs a second chance. I can vouch for him, nothing serious, just a second chance.”

“And? How can I help?”

“The second chance involves a change of identity. I assume that means a new passport, a driver’s licence, social insurance card, the whole thing. A deluxe package if you will. He needs a new life. I am willing to pay whatever it takes.”

“Monsignor, I think I can help. Don’t worry. My line of work brings me into contact with all kinds of people. I know who can arrange this. But these things aren’t cheap. You need to give me details. You know, since 9/11, this whole identity business has come under close scrutiny. Things are not what they were. Perhaps you could write out some details.” DiPadova took out a pen and a scrap of paper, handing it to the Monsignor. “Some simple information, the name that you would like, the height, weight, place of birth. Basic information.”

The Monsignor began writing, knowing he was putting himself into the debtor column with every word. DiPadova took the paper when he had finished and read through it quickly.

“Let me see what I can do. I’m sure I can help you.”

“Anything that you can do would be appreciated. I really didn’t know where to turn. What else do you need? You mentioned the cost.”

“You will need to give me ten photographs. Let’s wait for the rest. I’ll let you know.”

“I can imagine that things have become strict, even with passport photographs, I heard you need identification even to have a photograph taken.”

“Have your friend go to one of those photo machines and take a bunch of head shots. These people will turn them into passport photographs.”

“Your service to the Church will not go unrewarded, Michael.”

“It’s the least I can do, Monsignor,” he said, putting the hand-written note into his pocket.

The delicate business was finished, and Monsignor Forlini ordered brandies and relaxed into the habitual friendly role of the clergy. He asked about DiPadova’s family, and about how the children were doing at school. He talked about how difficult it was to love and serve God in the modern world.

DiPadova didn’t rush to pick up the cheque. Forlini looked at the leather folder that the waiter had put on the table, and eventually reached for it, already feeling the change in their relationship.

DiPadova had no trouble convincing the Monsignor to accept a lift back to the Cathedral, and watched the priest relish the soft leather seats of the Mercedes, stroking it unconsciously as the radio played piano jazz through BOSE speakers. As he left the car outside the Cathedral, the Monsignor made eye contact with DiPadova.

“What I asked is very important, Antonio. Your assistance in this will be greatly appreciated. Good night in the grace of God.”

DiPadova pulled away, resisting the urge to pump his fist in the air in celebration at something as simple as having Monsignor Forlini in his debt over a new identity. New identities were sold on the streets of Montreal every day. A first class, deluxe package that would withstand scrutiny by U.S. Customs was $10,000 at the most. But to have a future Archbishop, or even a Cardinal, in your pocket for $10,000, well that was priceless .

JANUARY 3

12.30 PM

John Collins had disappeared or, more accurately, he had never reappeared. Everyone at Xeon knew him, or thought they did, but each said that he had been closer to someone else. Truth was he was close to no one. He worked among them but was alone. Nobody knew where he lived or what he did outside work. Just about everyone said he was a little strange, but no more than that, not strange enough to be unusual.

It was the same thing with his neighbours. They all recognized him and would nod to him in the street, but that was all. The police had questioned and re-questioned everyone who had attended the Circle of Christ sessions and, again, the face was familiar, but that’s where it stopped. They remembered him, but didn’t know him and never remembered seeing him with somebody. He was a loner, living within the hive as though he belonged, but passing his life in a universe of one.

Vanier was frustrated. It was like Collins had never existed. And Vanier didn’t know how to find someone who was so disconnected.

His phone rang.

“Anjili, any news?”

“News indeed, Luc. How did you know?”

“About what?”

“About Audet.”

“He’s the corpse?”

“There’s no doubt. The dental records, blood, measurements, height, everything matches. The corpse is Marcel Audet.”

“You’re certain.”

“Luc, we could do a DNA but it seems pointless. In my opinion, there is no doubt it’s Audet.”

Vanier took a long breath.

“So what does it mean, Luc?”

“I don’t have a clue. I need to think.”

“Any word on Collins?”

“He’s disappeared down a deep hole. That’s not so hard if you hardly existed anyway. His own mother couldn’t find him and he wasn’t even hiding. What chance do we have when he really decides to hide? And how does Audet show up dead in his van?”