Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

“See what you can do. And find out if anyone keeps records of homeless deaths. Take a look at the numbers over the last few months and see if there’s anything suspicious. OK?”

“Yes, sir. Oh, and this, sir.” She picked up a brown envelope from the table and handed it to Vanier. “These are the photos of the victims.”

Vanier reached into the envelope and pulled out five colour photographs. Each was a front-on headshot, like mug shots except the eyes were all closed.

Inspector Morneau had been watching from a discreet distance, listening to the exchange.

“Inspector Morneau. If I go to the McGill Metro, could you have one of your people meet me and show me where the victim was found last night?”

“Certainly, Inspector. I’ll send someone. When you arrive, he will be waiting at the ticket booth inside the University Street entrance. He’ll be in uniform. Just introduce yourself.”

12.30 PM

Montreal is rooted in hard, volcanic rock by a giant system of tunneled spaces, an underground city that grew like an ant colony. It started with the metro system, opened just before Expo 67, and hasn’t stopped spreading. Tunnels are main streets connecting underground neighbourhoods where food courts in shopping centres replace village greens. A 35 square kilometre, neon-lit, climate controlled, private metropolis, a Disney-like masquerade of public space controlled so tightly that real city mayors are jealous. Metro Security and private guards swarm through the spaces keeping order, while security cameras manned in real-time see everything so that reaction is always swift. Doors that open early in the morning to welcome consumers are locked at night like the gates of ancient walled cities. By unwritten and ever-changing rules, access is granted and denied at the whim of high school dropouts with uniforms and failed candidates for the police force. It’s a modern world where piped music replaces birdsong and artificial scents replace flowers.

In this world, the homeless must adjust to a constantly changing level of scrutiny. They may be grudgingly tolerated in one area, providing they keep moving through, and forbidden in others. When they walk from a semi-public metro tunnel into a commercial space they are picked up on security cameras, and guards appear to make sure that they either don’t come in or that they leave quickly.

The McGill Metro station is the heart of the underground city, occupying a four-acre rectangle at the basement level of surrounding buildings. There are only three street entrances to the station, but there are six others through the adjoining shopping centres. The middle of the station concourse is cut open like a trench, and you can watch the trains on the lower level. Two sets of turnstiles guard access to the platforms, one at each end of the concourse.

Vanier tried an office building on University Street but the door was locked, with access only for those with electronic keys. He crossed the street to use one of the street entrances.

It was warm inside, and he undid his coat as he walked towards the ticket booth. A metro security officer was waiting for him. A kid, Haitian by the look of him, with everything hanging from his belt but a gun.

“Inspector Vanier, I presume,” he said, reaching out his hand with an ear-to-ear grin that lit up his face.

Vanier took his hand and smiled broadly, reading the name badge, “Constable Duvalier.”

“Yes, sir. And before you ask, no relation.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that,” said Vanier, “Papa and Baby Doc were not the best of people. So, Constable Duvalier, can you show me where the body was found?”

“Of course, Inspector. It was on the eastbound platform, last night. Follow me.”

Constable Duvalier waved him through the turnstiles with a sign to the sullen ticket seller locked in his booth.

“He’s not happy to be working on Christmas,” said Duvalier apologetically, leading Vanier down the stairs. “Time and a half, and an extra day’s vacation and he’s not happy. What does it take?”

He led Vanier down one flight of stairs to the eastbound platform.

“The body was found down there in the corner,” said Duvalier, pointing to the end of the platform. “He was asleep on the floor.”

“And nobody told him to leave?”

“That’s the thing, Inspector. The rules are clear, no sleeping in the metro. Believe me, it’s on the exams to become a metro officer. We all know it. But just because you put on a uniform doesn’t mean you hang up your humanity.”

Vanier thought about that.

“And all the others, they’re in the union. It’s not part of their job description.”

“And we’re all human.”

“Christmas Eve, it’s minus twenty degrees outside, all the shelters are full, or closed, or they won’t take them because they’ve been drinking. So what do you do? You throw someone out in the street? No. People look the other way. The cleaners push the machines up and down the platform and notice nothing. The train drivers come and go and see nothing. And my colleagues don’t happen to look in that direction. The guys on the screens, for some reason, they can’t pick it up. What’s that? A conspiracy? So he lay there. And he was dead. Who knows how long? Who’s to blame?”

“Constable Duvalier, if I was blamed every time I looked the other way I’d be selling newspapers.”

“It’s not easy. Do it too much and the rules become arbitrary.”

Vanier thought about that too.

They walked down the platform to where the body was found. Duvalier stood in a corner at the end of a metro platform and pointed at the floor. The sleeper would have been clearly visible to a driver going in the opposite direction, and to the cameras trained on the platform.

“That’s it?” said Vanier, almost to himself.

“That’s it,” said Duvalier.

They went back upstairs.

“You’ll have to exit to the street. All the building entrances are closed.”

“Thank you, Constable Duvalier,” said Vanier as he turned to climb a shut-down escalator to the street.

1.35 PM

On Christmas afternoon, the building housing the Montreal Police Headquarters was almost deserted. Interview Room 6 had been set aside for the personal possessions of the victims, and Vanier was in there because he had nothing better to do. Four separate piles of garbage bags were propped against the wall; the possessions of the fifth victim had still not been found. On a sheet of white paper, someone had given each pile a number. He grabbed two garbage bags that sat under the sheet marked Number 1 and brought them to the edge of the table, next to where he had dropped a yellow note-pad and a pen. He tipped the contents of the first bag onto the table and started taking inventory, listing each piece before putting it back into the bag. Before he had refilled the first bag, he changed his mind and decided to walk to the exhibit room to get cardboard boxes and labels. He grabbed as many of the flat, unfolded boxes as he could manage, putting sheets of sticky labels and a felt pen in his pocket. As an afterthought he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and returned to the room. He pulled on the gloves and got to work, ignoring the fetid smell filling the room.

Sorting through the first pile again, he began listing bulkier items: a sleeping bag and two blankets; a couple of T-shirts, one from St. Petersburg, Florida, the other from the last world tour of the Police; three pairs of formerly white Y-front underwear, three pairs of socks, and three oversized acrylic sweaters. He wrote it all down. Next was a roll of toilet paper and a copy of the Journal de Montreal — the insulation of choice for the homeless. The second bag was less bulky. It held a hairbrush and a toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, an empty plastic drinking cup from Starbucks, a zip-lock bag full of cigarette butts, and a half-eaten hamburger from McDonald’s. He wondered what kind of homeless person would buy his coffee at Starbucks, and remembered the container found by Neilson last night. He pulled the top off and sniffed. It smelled of rancid milk and alcohol. He set it aside for testing and returned to his inventory. There was a thick plastic bag from the Societe des Alcools filled with coins. Vanier counted the coins and wrote down $37.88. There remained two bottles of pills, both Celebrex 200 mg, one empty, the other half-full. Prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier to George Morissette. The labels on the pill containers also said they were dispensed by the pharmacy at the Old Brewery Mission.