Peter Kirby: The Dead of Winter

Taking a felt pen from the desk, he wrote on a sticky label: George Morissette. Putting a name on the possessions was progress. He reached back into the bag and pulled out a thick envelope of papers. He emptied the envelope, laid the papers on the table, and sat down.

There was a disintegrating certificate issued by the Ordre de Notaires du Quebec certifying that Maitre George Edouard Morissette was admitted as a Notary of the Province of Quebec in 1970. Next, there was an old photograph of a pretty woman holding a child of about two on her lap, sitting in a garden, and smiling at the camera. There was a social insurance card, a driver’s license that expired in 1980 and gave Maitre Morissette’s date of birth as March 25, 1949 and a booklet entitled: Alcoholics Anonymous Montreal Meetings. Vanier flipped through it, surprised at how many meetings there were, you could go to a different one, three times a day every day and never go to the same place twice in a month. Each listing showed the language: French, English, Italian, Spanish, and there were even bilingual meetings. Finally, Vanier picked up a small book worn with use: Twenty Four Hours A Day . Flipping to December 25, he read:

I pray that I may be truly thankful on this Christmas Day.

I pray that I may bring my gifts and lay them on the altar.

Morissette never got to see December 25. Maybe he would have been thankful if he did. Vanier wasn’t sure. He got up and started to assemble the first folded box. Even though the instructions were clear on the box, and he had seen it done countless times, it took effort and cursing until he had a functional Exhibit Box. He filled it, throwing the half-eaten hamburger in the garbage. Assembling another box, he filled it too, and then a third. When he finished, he reached for the sheet of labels. He looked at the name he had written on the first label, George Morissette, and added Notaire, 25/03/49 , and Box 1 of 3 , before peeling it off and attaching it to the first box. He prepared another label and attached it to the second box, Box 2 of 3 , then Box 3 of 3 . He placed the boxes one on top of the other against the wall and turned to the bags labelled Number 2.

He continued methodically, stopping only after the third pile to go to the staff canteen for a coffee. When he started in the force, the only choice in coffee was milk and sugar. Now the machines interrogated you: Columbian, Costa Rican, Sumatran, or House Blend? And not just regular coffee, perhaps a latte or cappuccino, or even an espresso? Caffeinated or decaffeinated? Vanier pushed the buttons for his usual blend of Columbian regular, milk, no sugar. It tasted a little better than when he had started in the force.

He took the coffee and walked back to the interview room. With only one more pile to go, his mood was lightening. He felt comfortable with this work in the quiet of the deserted building. He was fascinated by the lives of others and how much you could tell about someone by looking at what they hold precious. He was doing something, and time was passing.

The smell from the possessions in the interview room had become stronger, filling the place with a human smell of sweat and dirt. After a struggle, he got one of the windows to open, and cold air entered with a cleansing presence. He kept his face in the rush of outside air flooding into the room while he sipped his coffee and surveyed the work. Eleven boxes were stacked against the wall; he had put a photograph of each victim on their boxes. George Morissette, the Notary from McGill; Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk from the cleaning room in the Berri Metro; and Edith Latendresse kissed by Santa. Mme. Latendresse had four boxes, more clothes but fewer papers, only a social insurance card and some prescription medicine to identify her.

He began emptying the contents of the last two bags onto the table. Victim number 4’s bags contained the usual assortment of old clothes, rotting food and little else. There was $8 in change in a sock, a roll of toilet paper and drugs, again prescribed by Dr. Alain Grenier, this time for Pierre Brun: Zeldox and an empty bottle of Oxycodone, a powerful painkiller with street value. Pierre Brun could have eased his pain by taking the pills or selling them. Vanier wondered which he did. And he wondered about Dr. Alain Grenier, who had prescribed drugs for all of the victims.

It was 4.30 p.m. and already dark when he finished by placing the picture of Pierre Brun on top of two boxes piled against the wall. Feeling cold for the first time, he struggled again with the window and closed it.

The temperature outside was still falling, but he had no idea what the weather was supposed to be doing. He hadn’t listened to a weather forecast in days. He had all but given up listening to the radio weeks ago, admitting defeat to the omnipresent Christmas spirit. The only exception was the hourly news. Several times a day he tuned to CBC to listen to the news. If there was a death or serious injury of a soldier in Afghanistan, it was always the first story. If nobody had been killed or injured, if there were no ambushes or roadside bombs, he turned it off, relieved until the next time.

He wondered about the people sleeping outside, realizing how little he knew about them. The last few nights had been cold and damp, and he imagined the shelters were full. But there were still people who chose to stay out in the cold. People who refused the warmth of a shelter to hide in a corner somewhere and take the ultimate risk. He grabbed a phone book, turned to the A’s and sat down. Minutes later he grabbed his cell phone and pushed number 6 on his speed dial.

“Allo?”

“Anjili, it’s me.”

Dr. Anjili Segal was one of Montreal’s six coroners. She and Vanier had been friends for over ten years until a brief affair at the end of the summer ended quickly when they realized that they were better friends than lovers. As lovers, they brought out the worst in each other. Vanier hoped that they could salvage their friendship, but it was proving difficult; they had crossed so many lines.

Silence, and then, “Calling to wish me Merry Christmas, Luc?”

“Well, yes. Anjili, Merry Christmas. How was your Christmas?”

“Just bloody marvelous, as you Anglos say.”

“Anjili, how many times do I have to tell you I am not an Anglo. My name is Luc Vanier, you can’t get more Quebecois than that.”

“Luc you’re an Anglo. You spent too much time in Ontario. OK, so we’ll settle for Franco-Ontarian. You prefer that?”

“Call me whatever, Anjili. The bodies from the metro.”

“Ah, business.”

He ignored the rebuke. “I thought maybe you could help me. I’ve found prescription bottles in the belongings of the victims from Christmas Eve. They all have Dr. Alain Grenier as the prescribing doctor on them, but I’ve checked. There are 23 people listed as Alain or A. Grenier. I was wondering…

“The code?”

“Well, yes. The numbers on the label. They link to the doctor, right?”

“That’s why you’re the detective. Give me the numbers Luc, I’ll look them up.

He grabbed a bottle from Pierre Brun’s box and read off the numbers. “Wait,” she said, and he heard the clunk of the phone on a table. She was back in three minutes. “Dr. Alain Grenier. His office is at 5620 boulevard St. Joseph. That’s it, no suite number. The phone number is 514-450-1872. By the way, he was admitted in 1973, which would put him in his sixties. Anything else?”

“I was wondering. I know it’s the holidays, but how soon can we get autopsy results?”

“Luc, you never change. Always work, isn’t it?”

“Anjili, this is important. There are five people dead.”

“I know, Luc.”

“I’d like to see something as soon as possible, even something preliminary. We’re spinning our wheels here until we get a cause of death.”