by Peter Kirby
“What we have is a skeleton staff. Everyone is off singing carols.”
“People need family time at Christmas. Luc, do what you can. Give me something.”
“Yes, sir,” said Vanier. Figuring the meeting had ended, he got up from the chair.
“And think about this, Luc. How do these journalists know so much about this situation? Some of them were on top of this from the start. There are details here,” he said, lifting the paper for emphasis. “Stuff that only someone connected to the investigation would know: the Santa character, the unknown cause of death, the absence of a suspect. How do they know so much? Find out who it is, Luc. I don’t want anyone from my squad talking to the press.”
“Neither do I, sir, but I don’t think that it’s one of our people. It’s probably someone in the Metro Security.”
“Luc, if there is a madman loose I want you to catch him. I don’t want this played out in the media. And keep me informed of every move that you make.”
“Yes, sir.” Vanier turned and grabbed the door handle to leave.
“And, Luc, why didn’t you call me?”
“I did, sir,” Vanier lied, turning back to face him. “I called yesterday on your cell number. I couldn’t get through.”
“Well, OK. Sorry. I may have had my cell phone off for a few hours. You know how it is, Christmas and all. Anyway, from now on keep me informed.”
“Absolutely, sir. In fact, after my meeting with the team, I’ll call to debrief you.”
Bedard was on the phone before Vanier closed the door.
9.45 AM
D.S. St. Jacques had transformed one wall of the Squad Room, pinning photos of the five victims in situ on the map of downtown Montreal, with arrows leading from them to the places they were discovered. Next to each photo she had pinned a bullet-point list of what was known of each of the victims. Most of that came from Vanier’s notes on their possessions. Off to the side were several of the clearest prints of Santa, but nothing approaching a clear face shot. He was tall, probably six two or three, not overweight. His costume made it difficult to tell, but he looked fit.
Vanier took a seat. “So what do we know?”
St. Jacques looked over to Laurent and saw that he wasn’t going to take the lead.
“Well, sir, we have five unexplained deaths on Christmas Eve. From your work yesterday with the possessions, we have four unverified identifications: George Morissette, found at McGill, Joe Yeoman and Edith Latendresse, both found at Berri, and Pierre Brun in Cabot Park. We need to confirm the identifications and get a positive I.D. on the fifth. We’ve started tracking down the next of kin, and we also need to find the possessions of the fifth victim.”
“The identities are verified,” said Vanier. “Dr. Grenier confirmed them from the photos. We have names and ages. The fifth victim is Celine Plante, 52 years old, well, almost 52. An alcoholic who has been on the streets for most of her life. And Dr. Grenier says they were all terminally ill. What else?”
St. Jacques looked at Vanier. “That’s all I know,” he said. “The bastard wouldn’t give me specifics.”
St. Jacques continued. “The Coroner’s office reports that they can do two or three autopsies today and the rest tomorrow.”
“Ask them to request the medical records from Grenier. He refused to turn them over without an official request.”
“Will do,” said St. Jacques. “There’s not much else. We’re waiting to learn more from the Coroner.”
“We have a person of interest, Father Henri Drouin. He’s not a suspect, but I want to talk to him in a bad way. He’s a priest who works in the Cathedral, and Dr. Grenier says he was the spiritual advisor to the victims and knew them all. I went looking for him last night, and he’s disappeared. We need to find him as quickly as possible. Any luck on the Santa suits?”
“Not much, sir. There were almost 400 Santa suits rented out over the holidays. Four different companies — two downtown, one in NDG, and the other in Laval. We’ve talked to the owners of all the stores, and they’re all ready to show their records.”
“OK. Have a couple of officers pick them up and bring them to their stores. No, forget Laval for the moment. Let’s concentrate on the Island. Not all Santa suits are the same, so bring photos of our Santa and get the names and addresses of everyone who rented a similar suit. See if they recognize anything special. And tell them that when the rentals come back, they should check for dirt and moisture and hold onto anything that looks that looks like it was worn outside. You can’t go wandering around in the middle of winter in a Santa costume without getting wet.”
“Yes, sir,” said St. Jacques. “Oh, and the Coroner’s office is having someone dig out what they can on any similar deaths in the last year. They said that it might take some time but I’ll keep after them. Nobody seems to keep records on the numbers. I called the city, the hospitals, the shelters. Nobody counts them but people were guessing anywhere from twenty to forty people, depending on what you include: drug overdoses, beatings or just plain natural causes.”
“Any calls?”
“Since I came on shift, we’ve had 23,” said Janvier. I’m taking them with D.S. Roberge.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Nothing on the victims. The usual crap on Santa: looks like my cousin Pierre, that sort of thing. We’re taking the details but it’s going to take time to check them all out. But look at the photos. You can’t see the guy’s face, and he’s dressed in a costume.”
“So how did the papers get the photos? Can someone talk to Morneau and see if he has any ideas?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do it,” said Janvier.
“So, St. Jacques, you keep following up with the Santa suits. Janvier and Roberge, keep on the phones and let me know if anything strange turns up. See if you can track down next of kin. And can we all try to figure out who’s feeding the press? Laurent, you and I are going to find Father Drouin.”
Vanier’s phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and didn’t recognize the number.
“Vanier,” he said.
“Inspector Vanier, this is Sergeant Julie Laflamme. Just calling to tell you that I’ve had a call from Chief Inspector Bedard. He wants me to handle the media on the homeless cases. I am on my way to Montreal now, and I wanted to ask you not to make any public statements until we have had a chance to talk. Is that OK, sir?”
“Perfect, Sergeant Laflamme. When are you proposing to get here?”
“I should be there in two hours. I was skiing in Tremblant. I’m trying to set up a press conference for 3 p.m. They’re clamouring for information, but let’s keep things quiet until then, Inspector. It’s important that we manage the communications on this one, sir.”
“Sergeant Laflamme, the media seem to be doing pretty well without any help from me. But you have my word on it. I’ll hang up on any journalist who calls me. See you soon.” Vanier clicked disconnect.
Turning to Laurent, Vanier asked, “Who were you with on Christmas Eve? I didn’t see anyone.”
“D.S. Fletcher, sir. He worked Christmas Eve, but he’s off today.”
“So where was he when I was there?”
“He was interviewing staff, I think. It’ll be in his notes. He’s been following up, though. I spoke to him twice this morning.”
“Can’t he let it go? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake.”
“He’s keen on the case. He wants to be up to speed when he gets back.”
The phone on Laurent’s desk rang. He picked it up and listened.
“OK. Thanks.”
He replaced the receiver and looked up at Vanier.
“Father Drouin is downstairs. He showed up at the front desk and said that you had been looking for him.”
“Have them put him in Interview Room 2. I’ll talk to him. You watch from outside. Make sure that we get it all on tape. I want a transcript. Let’s go.”
They took the elevator down to the basement. The building was quiet. Headquarters
was on minimal staff, with officers taking a short break from the madness, trying to build family as kids laughed and friends told stories. Vanier wondered why Fletcher couldn’t let go. Why was he calling for updates?
10.30 AM
Interview Room 2 was designed to elicit the kind of communication that occurs between doomed miners trapped hundreds of feet below ground, intimate, and of no consequence to the outside world. It was a stark, windowless box, empty except for a table and two chairs, with a two-way mirror built into one wall. The mirror encouraged introspection. Father Henri Drouin sat on one of the flimsy plastic chairs, his shoulders sagging and his eyes staring at the floor. Vanier walked in carrying a yellow note-pad and a brown envelope, nodding at Drouin without saying anything. Drouin half rose from his seat and returned to his sitting position. Vanier reached out his hand, and Drouin stood again to shake it, looking like he hadn’t laughed in twenty years, like he was carrying an invisible weight.
“I’m Detective Inspector Vanier, Major Crime Squad. I was looking for you last night at the Cathedral. The priest who answered the door said that you disappeared after lunch and nobody knew where you were.”
“It’s a problem that I have, Inspector. Every Christmas it’s the same thing. The priestly equivalent of post-partum depression, I suppose.”
Vanier thought that was an attempt at humour, but checked himself. Drouin was serious. “Are you depressed?”
Drouin sat up. “Advent is such a wonderful time in the Church, building up inexorably to that glorious moment when our Saviour is born. The churches gradually fill with the faithful until Christmas morning, when it’s standing room only for the flock adoring their Creator. And then, the next moment, it’s empty again. They’re only there for the show. When I look at the packed church at Christmas, I can’t help thinking how empty it will be after the last service, and how it will stay empty for most of the year.”
“The three Bs, I suppose,” said Vanier.
“What?”
“Baptism, bondage and burial. Most people only want the church to be there for the baptism, the wedding and to see them off in style at the end.”
“Something like that, Inspector. It’s the church as theatre, and Christmas is a perennial favourite. It’s always a shock, and I’ve never learned to deal with it. I get angry. Then I get sad and question myself. Then I question the faithful. Then I question the church itself. With experience, I have found that the best thing to do is to just get away.”
“So where did you go yesterday?”
“I went to my family, to my sister and her husband in Dorval. That was a mistake. They have their children and their Christmas is for the children, you know, presents first, video games and toys, then a feast and as little thought about Our Lord as they can manage. I’m an embarrassment to her.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Vanier.
“Oh, she loves me, in her own way, but she thinks that I’ve wasted my life.”
“And what do you think?”
The priest looked up at Vanier, but didn’t answer.
“So how long did you stay?”
“They had guests, and I saw I was holding them back. My presence seemed to remind them of what Christmas was supposed to be. I was making everyone uncomfortable. So I stayed for an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, and then I left. I drove back to town and parked at the Cathedral.”
“So what time did you get back to the Cathedral?”
“Around 5.30, maybe six o’clock, I suppose. But I didn’t want to go in. I decided to go for a walk. Around Old Montreal mostly, it was beautiful, very quiet and peaceful. There was hardly any traffic. Walking through the old streets I felt that I was back in a Quebec of the past. In a Quebec that still believed in Christ. It was comforting.” The priest drifted off, remembering his walk, Vanier waited for him to come back.
“So what did you want to see me about, Inspector?”
“I am investigating the deaths of five homeless people on Christmas Eve. Your name came up as someone who might know the victims.”
“I’ve seen the newspapers. You think they were killed, Inspector?”
“I didn’t say that. Right now, I don’t think anything. I just want to find out who these people were. We’ve got their names, but we don’t know anything about them. I thought you could give us some information about who they were.”
Vanier sat back into the chair like someone with nowhere to go, but desperately in need of a rest. He stared at the wall, giving Drouin room to talk.
Drouin waited.
Vanier barely stirred. “I’m tired. Maybe it’s the season,” he said, almost to himself. “This time of the year is difficult for many people, isn’t it, Father?”
Drouin was lost in thought and didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, “It should be a time of rejoicing.”
“I haven’t been rejoicing. You know what I have been doing? I’ve been pulling corpses out of holes. At this time of year, who wants to do that? But you know what keeps me going? These people were daughters and sons, maybe sisters or brothers. Maybe they even had children, grown children. Grown children celebrating Christmas in their own families while their mother or father slept on the street. Did anyone spend a few seconds this Christmas wondering where any of these people were? Christmas is a time for families isn’t it, Father Drouin? No matter how dysfunctional. And yet they all died alone. I suppose that’s what hit me the most. Five deaths in one night, and they all died alone. That shouldn’t happen at Christmas.”
Vanier sat up and pulled the pack of photographs out of the envelope. He laid each of them out on the table in front of Drouin.
“Do you recognize any of these people?”
Drouin leaned over and examined each photo carefully. “Yes, Inspector. I know all of them.” He began pointing to each photograph. “Celine, Joe Yeoman, Madame Latendresse, Pierre Brun, and George Morissette. They were all what we call clients. I ministered to them. It’s hard to believe they are all dead in one night.”
“You don’t seem shocked.”
“I am beyond shock, Inspector. When I saw the reports in the newspapers I knew that I would probably know some of them. I don’t know what’s happening. I have to believe that God is at work. But He knows so many ways to test us poor humans.”
Vanier pulled a pen out of his pocket and began writing as Drouin talked, scribbling bits and pieces of information of the lives of the unknown. Even though the interview was being taped, he felt compelled to take notes, to write things down. Scribbling scraps of information in an effort to create individuals where before there had been only empty space, to make people out of corpses.
Laurent watched through the two-way mirror as Drouin released every scrap of information he had on the five. Vanier slouched in his chair but he was listening intently, for similarities and for differences, to hear what connected them, other than their common status at the bottom of the pile. Drouin talked of people who used drugs and alcohol to feel nothing, and of the more effective disconnection of mental illness. He talked of diets of hostel meals and rotten food scavenged from dumpsters at the back of restaurants, clothes picked from piles of cast-offs with nothing ever fitting or doing the job of keeping you warm or your feet dry. And he talked of the terror of street life in the winter, when the choice was between a quiet, dark corner where you might never wake up or a single bed in a warehouse of coughing, ranting, fighting, and crying outcasts like yourself. Each of the victims was a walking encyclopedia of medical disorders: scabs and sores that never healed on the outside, and fevers, diseases, and delusions that ate away the inside.
Drouin’s streets were full of thieves, con men, liars, murderers, and bullies, people who were by turn predators and victims, depending on circumstances and opportunity. Alcoholics who craved nothing but a deadening slumber. Young girls taking their first hit in a desperate search for happiness. And end-of-the-road junkies secretly hoping the next trip would be their last. Men, women and children s
elling their bodies because that was all they had left to sell. Children running from abuse. The depressed, the schizophrenics, the paranoid, the delusional who don’t know what planet they’re on, and the just plain unlucky souls life has decided to torture. A population of modern-day Jobs, invisible to all, including Vanier.
He learned about the individuals.
Pierre Brun, who appeared every winter and disappeared again in the late spring, nobody knew where. Some said to a farm in the country, others that he walked to the Maritimes and back. He never said. He just disappeared every June to reappear in October. Nobody remembers seeing Brun in Montreal in the summer.
The completely and irredeemably mad Madame Latendresse, who had more interaction with the voices in her head in one hour than she had in a week with any human. If you got her to speak, she was disappointed to have been dragged away from her imaginary friends and impatient to return to them.
Celine Plante, an alcoholic prostitute who knew nothing but life on the street from the time she was 12 years old. When Vanier suggested that, given her state, she might have been a former prostitute, Drouin disagreed; there was always a market, no matter how rotten the fruit. From time to time she would show up at the various missions and shelters, and most times she would be refused because she was drunk. She worried about her diminishing client base but couldn’t imagine any way out.
George Morissette, a notary whose wife and only child died 30 years ago in a fire in their cottage up north. That was at the end of the summer he had skipped cleaning the chimney to save $50. He had spent thirty years dying with them. It took him twenty years to descend from notary to bum, but he had managed it with the help of the bottle and a broken spirit. It took ten years to descend from bum to corpse.
Finally, there was Joe Yeoman, a Mohawk whose life was a progression in and out of prison; who used anything, drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence, to numb whatever pain he felt.
“Father Drouin, can you think of a link between these five people? A person, maybe, or even a place? Did they know one another?”