Peter Kirby - The Dead of Winter

“Well, they were all known in the community, the shelters and the drop-in centres. You might try their social workers; there would be files on them. But social workers have case loads so unmanageable that they can never get to know their clients.”

“Anyone else?”

Grenier hesitated again. “If you’re looking for someone who might know these people as individuals rather than faces or numbers, you might try Father Drouin. My friend, Henri Drouin. He works out of the Cathedral. He’s a good man, a holy man. If he knows these people, he will be able to tell you much more than I.”

“How do you know him?”

“Our paths crossed in our missions, and we became friends. He does wonderful work with this community. Sometimes I think that my drugs are a pale substitute for the spiritual comfort he gives to his flock. Because of him, I started attending mass in the Cathedral.”

“Could he be involved with these deaths?”

Grenier seemed shocked at the suggestion. “Father Henri? If you knew him, you would know how ridiculous a proposition that is. Take it from me, if that’s the direction of your investigation, you are on the wrong track. Father Henri is incapable of hurting anyone. All of these unfortunate people were going to die soon, and they all died on Christmas Eve. That’s it. There’s nothing more. It’s a tragedy, but I don’t think there was any human intervention. They were simply called home.”

“One last thing, Doctor. Do you own or have access to a Santa Claus costume?”

“What?”

“A Santa Claus costume. Do you have one? Or if you had to, could you get one?”

“Well, I suppose if I needed one, I could always rent one, but no, I don’t have a Santa Claus costume. Why do you ask?”

“Just one of the questions that we’re working on, that’s all. And where were you on Christmas Eve?”

“Me? You think I could have killed these people? Really, Inspector, that’s going too far.”

“I’m sorry if the question upsets you. But I would like an answer.”

“I was at home until about 10 p.m., with my wife. I went to Midnight Mass at the Cathedral. My wife stayed home. She was tired. After Mass, I came home.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Vanier. “One last thing. Could I have a copy of your files on these people?”

“I can’t turn them over just like that, it’s a question of patient confidentiality. But if the Coroner’s office calls, I can have the files copied and delivered tomorrow. I need an official request.”

Vanier sat back in his chair, hoping that silence would prompt the doctor to say something, if only to fill the void. Grenier continued staring at the photos for a few moments and then looked up. “Is there anything else?”

“I don’t think so. But don’t hold back on me, Doctor. If there’s anything you think might help me, you should tell me.” Vanier stood up and leaned forward with his hands on the desk leaving grease marks on the polished surface. “What are you thinking about that you can’t tell me?”

Grenier tried to look Vanier in the eyes but could only manage it for a moment. “There is nothing. I’ve told you what I know.”

“Maybe. But what about what you suspect? Do you have any hunches, Doctor?”

More silence. Grenier was waging an inner battle. “There is nothing more, Inspector.”

“If only life were so easy. If only we could choose to avoid the difficult by ignoring it. Doctor, I need help and I get the impression that you’re not being entirely candid with me. I think you’re holding back.”

“That’s an outrageous suggestion. If I knew something that might help you I would tell you.”

“Doctor, I love my job. And sometimes I get calls from lawyers, from the Chief, from the Mayor’s office, asking, Why are you persecuting this poor man ? I love those calls. If I weren’t good at what I do, my ass would have been canned long ago. But I get results. And if I find out that you’re holding something back, I’ll be persecuting you.”

“Are you suggesting…?” he asked, indignant.

“No suggestions. I don’t believe in coincidences and neither do you. These people were killed, and I’m going to find the killer. If you know anything and choose not to tell me, that’s your problem. But when I find out who did this, I’ll figure out if you haven’t been entirely cooperative, and I’ll come back for you. Accessory? Withholding evidence? Who knows? But I’ll be back to haunt you. As for the killer? Pray to St. Jude for him, because his really is a hopeless case. I’ll get him.”

“You don’t even know that they were killed.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, Doctor.”

Vanier lifted his hands from the desk and stood up.

“One last thing, Doctor. They don’t stop. You know that, don’t you? Once they start, they don’t stop. If you know anything and don’t tell me, the next victim is yours. So why don’t you go through your Top 10 list and try to predict who that will be. Here is my card, Dr. Grenier. Call me. I don’t sleep well, so anytime is good.”

Vanier handed him the card. “I can see myself out.”

He left Grenier motionless at his desk, looking at Vanier’s business card. Grenier hardly noticed him leaving.

9.30 PM

The Cathedral, Marie Reine du Monde, squats on a downtown block next to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, imposing the Catholic Church’s presence on Montreal. It’s a scale model of St. Peter’s in Rome, but along its mantle it’s not 13 statues of Jesus and his apostles but the patron saints of Montreal’s 13 parishes keeping a close watch on the faithful. Behind the Cathedral, two long three-story buildings house the offices and apartments of the soldiers of the Church.

The snow banks had been cleared outside the Cathedral, and Vanier parked in front. He followed a pathway that had been shoveled from the street up to the main doors, and tried each without success. He followed the cleared snow-track back to the street and walked around the building until he found a shoveled path to a door with a light over it, like a stage door behind a theatre, the only way in after the show was over. He rang the bell. After a few minutes, the door opened a crack, and a frail old priest in a cassock looked at him, his bony, pink hand holding the door, ready to slam it shut it as soon as he could get rid of the visitor.

“Good evening, Father. Merry Christmas.”

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Inspector Vanier, Montreal Police. I’d like to see Father Henri Drouin.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. As I recall, he left after lunch, and I expect to see him when he returns.”

“And when might that be?”

“Please, Inspector. This is the priesthood, not the army. He doesn’t have to return at any particular time. I expect if you return tomorrow he will probably be here.”

“Does he have a cell phone?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps I could take a message. He will see it as soon as he returns.”

Vanier fished out a card. He wrote his cell phone on the card and handed it to the old priest. “Ask him to call me as soon as he gets back. Any time. Tell him it’s important that I speak to him.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I will see that he gets the message.”

The priest closed the door without waiting for Vanier to turn and leave.

Vanier walked slowly back to his car, wondering where the authority of the police had gone. When he started, a uniform would always get attention and an Inspector would have people jumping to give him whatever he wanted. Now, civilians wanted nothing to do with them. They were tolerated when they were catching criminals, but they were as disconnected from the rest of society as the criminals.