The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  “What are you suggesting? That I prayed that they would be killed? Are you insane?”

  ”No, Doctor. I’m not insane. I see five cards begging St. Jude to deliver five people from their suffering, and I’ve got five corpses lying in cold drawers in the morgue. They’re not suffering any more. Haven’t your prayers been answered, Doctor?”

  “I didn’t pray that they’d be killed. I prayed that they would be spared the suffering they were enduring. I didn’t pray for more suffering. Have my prayers been answered? Who knows?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Inspector. You can’t understand. You don’t know the pain that these people were enduring. You have no idea. You see someone pushing a supermarket trolley full of their possessions, and you think you understand.”

  “So death is better?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  St Jacques walked back into the room with two mugs of coffee.

  “You wife was coming in with a tray and turned around. Thought I’d salvage some coffee. We haven’t had breakfast.”

  She put a mug of coffee before Vanier. He picked it up and leaned back.

  “Sergeant, while you were away, Dr. Grenier admitted that he wrote the five prayer cards that name our victims, but he’s not sure if his prayers have been answered. Now, you were saying that I shouldn’t put words in your mouth, Doctor.”

  “That’s right. Who are you to accuse me of being involved in this?”

  “I’m not accusing…”

  “I’ve spent thirty years bringing comfort to destitute people. I tended them, loved them. What I did, I did out of love, and with God’s blessing. You, Inspector, you might toss the occasional dollar in the direction of someone who holds his hand out in the street, but I live with these people every day.”

  “What I was saying, Doctor-”

  “Let me finish, Inspector. I’m not the one who decided to empty Quebec’s mental health institutions and force the sick and dysfunctional into the streets. I wasn’t the one who waved them goodbye and sent them off to fend for themselves with nothing but a bottle of pills. Blame the politicians, the liberals in the universities. Blame society. Those people who sit safe and warm in cozy houses, far away from the street, those who decided that the state shouldn’t pay to look after the sick and broken. They said, Put them into the community, and we can take better care of them there. Yes, a great idea. A great idea if we lived in a community of saints. But we don’t. We live in a community of isolated, self-absorbed individualists who don’t give a damn about their fellow man.”

  Vanier and St. Jacques stared as Grenier continued as though a long-sealed tap had been opened. He was the one trying to ease the suffering caused by others, and it was an affront to think that he could do harm.

  “We poured them out of the institutions like shit from a bucket to float away God knows where; but not into my neighbourhood. As soon as they stop in my street, or collect in my parks, well flush them away somewhere else. Make them move on. Sure, we buy virtue by writing cheques to charity, a cheque for little Angelica in some godforsaken hole in Africa, or Juan in a hovel in the Dominican Republic. And maybe we get a yearly photo of our good works that we can stick on the fridge and tell our friends about our adopted kids in the Third World. But we turn away from the sick, destitute, beaten and just damn poor that live right here. Every day, we cross the street assuming that a Samaritan will turn up to help the broken man lying on the ground.”

  His eyes were getting cloudy.

  “These are my people, Inspector. Praying for them, and asking others to pray for them, doesn’t make me a murderer. I cared for them.”

  Vanier was taken aback. St. Jacques spoke up.

  “Dr. Grenier, in the prayer cards, we found five other cards that we’d like to ask you about.”

  Vanier took out the second envelope from his pocket and laid the last five cards on Grenier’s desk. Grenier looked at them.

  “Oh my God.” He reached out his hand and touched one with his finger. “Duane Thatcher died in November.”

  “We know that, Doctor.”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from Antonio Di Pasquale in, what, six to eight weeks.” He shifted his eyes to the third card. “Mary Gallagher, a lost soul in need of help, but what’s the point. She’s dying, like Denis Latulippe and Gaetan Paquin. They all know it. They know they are on their way out, and I think they accept it. Like it’s the natural trajectory of their lives. But don’t think for a moment that I wanted them to die. Nothing is more ridiculous. I put their names on these cards because, deep down, I want to have some grain of hope for them.”

  “If four are still alive, where can we find them?”

  “Inspector, these people are nomadic. They’re here one day and somewhere else the next. They might keep to regular haunts for weeks and then, a whim or a new friend might take them to a squat in St. Henri for a month. Try the missions, the shelters. That’s all I can say. And I’ll ask around. If they show up at my clinic, I’ll call you. Find them, Inspector. If they’re in danger, find them.”

  “I intend to,” said Vanier. “But who else is looking for them? Any ideas?”

  “You mean the prayer group?”

  “That seems a reasonable conclusion. Maybe someone is doing some divine intervention of their own.”

  “No, that couldn’t be. It’s impossible. The people in the group are all devout Catholics. They’re not murderers.”

  “Why don’t we start with some names?”

  “Names? It’s not a social club, Inspector. If I know anyone who attends, it’s because I know them from somewhere else.”

  “We have to start somewhere. You give us some names, and we talk to them, and they give us some more. Eventually, we should have everyone in the group, and we’ll talk to them all.”

  “Well, I can tell you the ones that I know.” He started with Father Drouin and excused himself. “Of course, you know Father Drouin already.” He continued with others; a few doctors, two lawyers, a businessman. The mayor of a small town on the West Island was an occasional participant. St. Jacques wrote them down, recognizing a few from occasional mentions on the news or in the newspapers.

  “If you think of any others, you’ll call me or Sergeant St. Jacques.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement.

  “Yes, of course, Inspector.”

  1 PM

  The dining hall of the Old Brewery Mission had been decorated for the holidays with grinning plastic Santas stuck to the walls, and ropes of red and gold tinsel that failed to hide the grim functionality of the room. The room was hot, the air thick with the smell of institutional food, and long mess-hall tables were lined with men and women waiting for a plate to be put in front of them, or slurping down food with the speed of the half-starved. Two cooks stood behind a counter filling plates with a thick stew and a roll of bread. Volunteers moved quickly between the serving counter and the tables.

  Vanier and Laurent were sweating in their overcoats. Pools of melting snow were gathering around their boots. Robert Bertrand, the director of the mission, stood beside them surveying the room. “It won’t be long now. Serving is what takes the time. They don’t linger over the food. Probably ten minutes and you can talk to him.”

  Every now and then, one of the patrons would look up furtively, trying to decide whether the obvious presence of cops involved them.

  As the last plates of stew were placed on the tables, fruit salad was ladled from industrial-sized cans into small bowls, and the volunteers began the circuit again, removing the empty dinner plates and replacing them with the dessert.

  “When you’ve been doing this as long as we have, you get efficient. Three hundred people a day on average, three hours of prep, and it’s all over in twenty minutes. Another hour to wash up and we begin the preparation for dinner. We never stop, Inspector!”

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Bertrand. It’s quite the operation you have here,” said Vanier.

  “Well, we
couldn’t do it without help from an army of good people. We exist because of human kindness.”

  Vanier watched the volunteers move with practiced efficiency. Every plate was served with a quick comment, a smile or a hand on a shoulder; food for the body and food for the soul. As they moved through the room, islands of laughter would erupt from the volunteers and the diners.

  “Your people are having fun, Mr. Bertrand,” said Vanier.

  “Compassion is good for the spirit, Inspector. Our volunteers enjoy themselves. If any of your men are feeling depressed, send them to us and we’ll have them fixed up in no time. Perhaps you’d like to try a shift yourself?”

  Laurent smiled at the image of Vanier serving fruit salad to the homeless.

  “Not me, Mr. Bertrand. But Laurent here might be just the man. He could do with a little exercise in the compassion department.”

  “Well, gentlemen, anytime either of you want to try something new, you’re more than welcome. Just walk in off the street, and we will find something for you to do. I guarantee it will open your hearts. You won’t regret it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Vanier.

  Lunch was ending. “Come along gentlemen. Let’s go meet Gaetan.”

  Gaetan Paquin’s dinner companions had already left, and he was wiping greasy sauce from his lips with a serviette. He eyed them suspiciously as they approached,

  “M. Paquin, do you mind if we sit down?” asked Vanier.

  “I don’t own the table.”

  Laurent and Vanier sat down opposite Paquin on the long bench.

  “I’ll leave you to your business then,” said Bertrand and walked off towards the kitchen.

  Paquin glared at the two men but couldn’t hold the eye contact. He looked down at the table, and then back to each of them. His hands were dark with dirt. On a farmer, it would have been testimony to honest work in the fields, but on Paquin it was just dirt. You could have grown vegetables in his fingernails.

  “Police. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want with me? I haven’t done nothing. Think I would be sitting here accepting charity if I had?” he said.

  “We’re not here for anything that you’ve done,” said Vanier.

  Paquin exploded in disconcerting laughter. You couldn’t tell if it was amusement or relief. “Ha. What a joke? I haven’t done nothing. I’ve broken every single one of your fucking laws and I’m proud of it. So lock me up. Do me a favour, lock me up.”

  “We’re here about those deaths on Christmas Eve,” said Vanier.

  His demeanor changed. He was paying attention.

  “That wasn’t right. I knew two of them. Good people. Just a little down on their luck, that’s all. They didn’t deserve to be killed.”

  “You’re right. We are trying to find the person who did it,” said Vanier.

  “So it’s true, they were killed? That’s the word on the street.”

  “Yes, it’s true. And we have reason to believe that your life may also be in danger. Your name came up in the investigation and we think you may be in danger. We’re here to offer you protection for a while, until this gets resolved.”

  “Me? Who the hell would want to kill me? I’m nobody.”

  “Just like the others. There wasn’t much point in that, either. But they’re dead. We want to offer you protection. Just till we find out who did it.”

  “The police offering me protection?” Again, the off-centre laugh that seemed like it could snap off into delirium at any moment. “You people have hounded me all my life. I’ve been fucked around by the police for as long as I can remember. It’s a joke, you offering me protection.” His voice was getting louder.

  “I’m sorry for whatever other officers put you through,” said Vanier. “But believe me, we’re here to help you.”

  Paquin’s mind was racing trying to process so much information. Life was usually simple, he took decisions on impulse with little thought for consequences. But this was different. “What kind of protection?” he whispered, looking first at Vanier and then to Laurent.

  “We’ve arranged for you to stay in a small men’s shelter in the East End. You’ll be off the streets for a while. Warm bed at night, good food. Medical help. I understand that you have a condition.”

  “I get help. I go to Dr. Grenier’s clinic when I’m sick. He knows me.”

  “It’s temporary. We’re going to resolve this thing soon and then you can do whatever you want. We think you should be off the street for a few days. We can drive you there now if you want.”

  Paquin wasn’t good at decisions. His mind was a jumble of fear and desperation. Shelters had rules and restrictions. The doors are locked at night. Get up now. Shower now. Eat this. Don’t drink… don’t drink. That was the clincher.

  He looked at the officers. “I’m not afraid. I’ve survived 25 years on the streets.” His courage was returning as he talked. “I don’t need your fucking protection. I don’t need you. Go find your crazy and lock him up. But you’re not locking me up in no fucking shelter just because you can’t do your job.”

  “Think about what you’re saying. We’re not locking you up. We’re offering you a chance. Take it, or at least give it a try,” said Vanier.

  “No way. No fucking way. I can look after myself.” He was becoming agitated, looking beyond the officers to the door. “Am I under arrest? Because if not, I’m leaving,” he said, but not getting up from the table until they gave him a sign. He knew the rules.

  “Here,’ said Vanier getting up. “Take my card. If you change your mind, call me. Call me. Anytime.”

  Paquin took the card, stuffed it absent-mindedly into the pocket of his filthy coat, and stood up. Vanier reached into his pocket and took out two twenties. “If you won’t accept our help, take this. Maybe it will help.”

  “Every little bit helps, Inspector,” said Paquin, already planning what to do with 40 dollars as he headed for the door.

  2:00 PM

  As they left the Old Brewery mission, St Jacques called with a possible location for Latulippe. In a few minutes they pulled into a diplomatic parking space outside the ICAO building on University Street. A panhandler was working the cars stopped at the lights, moving up and down the line of cars for as long as the red light lasted, then manoeuvering back to the sidewalk through slow traffic. He was showing a grimacing mouth full of filthy teeth to each driver while waving an extra-large McDonald’s paper cup and doing a weird, shuffling dance to music only he heard. His breath formed white clouds in the freezing air, but he seemed impervious to the cold. The light changed to green, and he snaked his way back to the sidewalk. He recognized them as cops immediately.

  “Hey, I ain’t doing nothing wrong, just exchanging coins for songs.”

  “Are you Denis Latulippe?” said Vanier.

  “What of it?”

  “Can we talk?”

  He didn’t answer, just shook the cup under Vanier’s chin. There wasn’t much to shake. “Talk ain’t cheap,” he said.

  Laurent got his attention by holding a five dollar bill over the cup.

  “We’ve got a proposition for you,” said Vanier. Laurent dropped the bill into the cup.

  “What might that be, officers?”

  “We think you’re in danger. Your name came up in an investigation. Someone threatened to kill you. Do you have any idea who would want to kill you?”

  “Kill me? They’d be doing me a favour, and no one done me a favour in a long time. Except for your friend here of course” he said, motioning to Laurent with a yellow-toothed grin, as he pulled the five dollars from the cup and pocketed it. “Who the hell would want to kill Denis? I’m everyone’s friend.”

  He started his shuffling dance again.

  “Think about it. You know anyone who would want to put you out of your misery? Maybe for your own good?” said Vanier.

  Latulippe was taken aback, but seemed to be giving it serious thought. “Naw. Can’t think of anyo
ne. You guys serious?”

  “We are. And we think it’s serious enough to offer you some shelter. Think of it as a week’s holiday in the country. All expenses paid.”

  Despite his bravado, Latulippe was taking it seriously. His thoughts telegraphed to his face like it was wired directly to the emotional centre of his brain; the worst poker face in the city.

  “Wait a minute. Is this anything to do with those people who died on Christmas Eve? Is it about that?”

  “Yes,” said Vanier. “Your name came up, and we thought it best to make sure that you were out of harm’s way. Look, I’m freezing out here, why don’t we talk in the car?”

  “You’re not arresting me?”

  “For what, selling songs? We’d have to go after Celine Dion too,” said Vanier. “Grab your bags, and we can talk in the car.”

  Latulippe reached behind a column in the building entrance, grabbed a backpack and a large Holt Renfrew shopping bag, and followed them to the car. The engine started at the first turn of the key, and Vanier put the heat on full blast. He turned to look at Latulippe in the back seat, dwarfed next to Laurent and grinning like a circus clown. He quickly regretted pumping the heat. Sitting with Latulippe in any enclosed space would not have been pleasant, but with the heat going, the air quickly became as thick as the inside of a Port-A-Can on the last day of a NASCAR weekend in August. Laurent cracked his window down and pointed his nose into the cold breeze.

  “Seriously,” said Vanier, trying to make sense of Latulippe’s insane smile. “What would you say to an all-expenses holiday in the Laurentians? A nice house just outside Morin Heights, or we can do a halfway house in the East End. Your choice. Three meals a day, TV, your own room. Just no booze or drugs. You can go outside to smoke. What do you think?”

  Latulippe had lost his grin. “I can’t think! I need time. Look, I don’t understand. Who would want to kill me? Why me? You got a cigarette?”

  Vanier raised his hand to indicate no. Latulippe looked at Laurent and got the same response.

  “We could buy you a couple of packs on the way if you want,” said Laurent.

  “Look, I don’t think I can dry out that quickly, you know. I need to work up to it. Not saying that I can’t go dry — I can. It’s just that I need some time, that’s all. You know, get into the right frame of mind. I can’t do it suddenly. These places of yours. Maybe one of them can change the rules for a few days, give me a chance to work up to it. Time to adjust, you know?”