The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  “They’re firm on that one, Denis. No exceptions. No booze, no drugs — they have businesses to run, people who want to get dry. Their clients can smell an unopened bottle of wine at 50 yards, and they won’t bend the rules. I already asked.”

  Vanier knew they were wasting their time. They weren’t offering protection, they were just telling him he was a marked man.

  “Look, I have to think this over. Maybe I can just disappear for a few days. I know people. I have places to stay. I mean, who is this guy? Why me? Why the others?”

  “We don’t know. But it won’t be long. Listen, give it a try for a day or two. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Latulippe didn’t answer that one. “No, I’m staying here. I can take care of myself. I can stay quiet.”

  “Denis, we can’t force you to do anything, but this is serious.” Vanier saw that he had already lost him. “Tell you what, take a few days to get yourself organized. The offer is open whenever you’re ready. Take my card and Sergeant Laurent’s. Call either of us anytime and we’ll pick you up. And here, take this in the meantime.” Vanier handed him two twenties.

  Latulippe looked at Laurent, as if willing him to chip in another twenty. Laurent kept his hands in his pockets. He looked at the two business cards in his hand as if reading them.

  “What’s your name again?” he said, looking at Vanier.

  “Detective Inspector Vanier. My number is on the card.”

  “Well, thanks for the offer, but I gotta leave.”

  With that, he was out of the car and walking up University Street with his bags. They watched him go.

  “So what do we do? We can’t have someone follow him around,” said Laurent.

  “No. And we can’t arrest him either. He has his own fucking problems, and they won’t let go of him. That’s why he’s on the street. You think we’re the first to offer him help?”

  “I suppose not.” Laurent transferred into the front seat. “Christ, it’s cold out there. Where to now?”

  “A surprise I’ve been planning.”

  “Great. I love surprises.”

  2.30 PM

  Brossard is a small town on the south shore of the St. Lawrence where those who aren’t rich, poor or stubborn enough to live downtown can afford to raise a family and still be close enough to commute to the city. Because of the bridge, it’s an hour’s commute each way, built for the respectable people who work eight-to-four or nine-to-five, the people who keep the castle running but can’t sleep within its walls, the FedEx drivers, the sandwich shop owners, the elevator and escalator mechanics who keep everything greased and running, and the bank tellers who haven’t been swapped for more machines. In Brossard they raise families in desolate suburban plots where hundred-year-old trees were bulldozed out of the way to lower the cost of putting up the factory-built crap that passes for houses. In the oldest sections, the trees had grown back in orderly rows along the main streets, and with only slightly less order in backyards. In the newer developments, the only nature is trimmed grass and gardens bought from Home Depot. In winter, the landscape is bleak, and the wind blows the snow into great drifts against the only obstacles left: houses, pre-fabricated garden sheds, and above-ground swimming pools.

  Detective Sergeants Roberge and Janvier were in a small house, sitting uncomfortably on a small sofa facing Mme. Adele Paradis, the Grande Dame of the classified advertisement department of the Journal de Montreal. She was sitting on a dark blue La-Z-Boy that clashed with everything else in the room, a fat grey cat was asleep in her lap. Two other cats were prowling around, unhappy with the visitors. Mme. Paradis was nursing a hangover and drinking coffee laced with gin in an attempt to pull herself together. She had been asleep when they arrived, and they had waited ten minutes on the doorstep, and another twenty while she made instant java in the kitchen.

  “So, what can I do for you? Would you like biscuits? I don’t have visitors often.”

  Sergeant Janvier reached into his bag and pulled out three photocopies. Each was a page from the St. Jude section of the classified ads in the Journal de Montreal. On each page, a specific ad had been circled.

  “Mme. Paradis, we’re interested in the ads that have been circled. We went to the office, but they couldn’t tell us much. They confirmed that the ads were all paid for in cash at the counter and there was no address. The people at the office said that if anyone could give us more on who placed the ads, it was you. That’s why we’re here. Do you remember any of the people who placed the ads?”

  Mme. Paradis took the papers with a shaking hand and began to look through them. She was suffering, but doing her best.

  “It was the same person. He bought all of them, Pious John. Such a charming man. Always paid cash and didn’t want a receipt.”

  “Pious John?”

  “Well, that’s what he told me once. When I asked him he said: You can call me Pious John. So that’s what I called him.”

  “You remember what he looks like?”

  “Remember? Of course I do. He’s handsome, a little strange, but handsome. He has these piercing eyes and such a real smile. You know what I mean? Some people smile and you know they don’t mean it. When he smiles, you feel it. I like him. A real gentleman.”

  “So why do you say strange? You said he was a little strange,” asked Janvier.

  “I did, didn’t I? I suppose it was the way he dressed. He always wore this long black cassock. Like a priest, but not quite. At first I thought he was Orthodox. But then he wouldn’t be praying to St. Jude, would he?”

  “I suppose not,” said Janvier.

  “So I asked him straight out. I said, So, what order are you with?”

  “And?”

  “Not the Church of Rome. That’s what he said. It sounded so strange. Not the Church of Rome.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I couldn’t forget his face. Those eyes, they were so expressive. I can picture them now.”

  The officers watched as she seemed to lose track of the conversation. The little colour in her face drained, and she raised herself out of the La-Z-Boy with an effort, the cat waking up in mid-air and falling onto his paws as though he was used to it.

  “Excuse me,” she said, rushing past the officers and disappearing again into the kitchen. They listened to her retching and the sound of vomit drop into the sink. By the rattling sound, there were dishes in the sink. She reappeared wiping her mouth with a dishcloth. Her face was as white as the landscape outside the window.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t feel well. I’m going to have to lie down.”

  “Could you come in to see us tomorrow, Mme. Paradis?” asked Roberge.

  “I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow. But I haven’t been feeling well. So maybe I could call in sick. What time?”

  “As early as you can make it.”

  “So let’s say 10.30, shall we? No sense in fighting traffic, is there?”

  “10.30 it is, Mme. Paradis. Are you sure you know where we are?”

  She squinted at his card again. “Of course. I’ll be there at 10.30 and I will ask for either one of you. That’s right isn’t it?”

  “Perfect.” The officers got up to leave, and she dropped back into the La-Z-Boy. The cat bounded back into her lap.

  “And, Mme. Paradis, perhaps an early night tonight,” said Roberge. “We’ll need you in top form tomorrow. If you’re not feeling well, a good night’s sleep might be a good idea.”

  She promised to be a good girl, and they found their own way out.

  3.30 PM

  Audet was agitated as he looked at the balding civil servant across from him. He was holding himself back with difficulty.

  “Tell me again, M. Letarte, you’re from where?”

  “The Ministere de l’emploi et de la solidarite sociale, you may know it better as the Welfare Services. And, as I said, we have the right to examine all of the books and records relating to the Shelter’s receipt of wel
fare cheques addressed to beneficiaries who have chosen the Shelter as their address to receive benefits. At last count, there were 437 people who received their welfare cheques through the Shelter. So it’s really quite simple. I would like to see the records that confirm receipt and distribution of the cheques.”

  “You got a search warrant?”

  “M. Audet, I don’t need a search warrant. It says right there in section 83 of the Act,” he said, pointing to the photocopy he had given Audet. Then he quoted from memory. “An Inspector — that’s me — can enter any place during office hours to examine and, if found, to remove to be examined at a later time, the books and records of any business or organization that has agreed to receive payments on behalf of beneficiaries under the Act.”

  “Well, I don’t have access to these books and records. It’s Christmas. We’re on skeleton staff.”

  “Then I would refer you to section 90 of the Act.”

  Letarte pointed to section 90, which he had also photocopied. Audet stared at the sheet of paper and Letarte began to recite, “Anyone who fails to produce any books or records in accordance with a request pursuant to section 83 is guilty of an offence.”

  “Wait a second,” said Audet. “You don’t have a search warrant, and I’m guilty of an offence if I don’t give stuff to you? What kind of a country is this?”

  “It’s the law, Mr. Audet. Now, could you please show me the records relating to welfare cheques?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” said Audet, rising from the chair. “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit. Listen, you want to look at papers, you do what everyone does, OK? You go see a fucking judge and get yourself a search warrant.”

  Audet got to his feet, moved behind Letarte’s chair and pulled him up by the collar until the civil servant was standing on his toes.

  “I should toss you out the fucking window, you asshole.”

  “What are you doing? I protest. This is assault.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Holding his collar, Audet frog-marched Letarte out of the office and down the staircase to the front door. Letarte didn’t resist. It was all he could do to keep up with Audet and breathe at the same time. Audet pushed open the door with his left hand, and shoved Letarte violently out the door with his right hand, watching him hop, skip and jump down the three steps of the entrance trying to keep his balance before finally losing his footing on a sliver of ice and falling heavily into the snow piled up at the edge of the path.

  “Fucking asshole,” Audet screamed after him before letting the door close.

  Letarte got to his feet slowly and brushed snow off the front of his coat. He was still shaking when he got to the car parked at the corner.

  “Why do you upset people like that?” Vanier asked as Letarte climbed into the back. Vanier could see the veins in Letarte’s neck pumping blood as he pulled the door closed, pushed the button to lock it, and put his hands between his knees to stop them shaking.

  “You didn’t tell me he was a violent maniac,” he said finally, turning to Vanier. “I could have been killed. I am definitely putting in for overtime on this. Forget any more bloody favours, Inspector Vanier.”

  Vanier was laughing. “Just imagine what it will be like when we come back, Claude.” He turned to the other passenger in the back seat. “So Maitre Giroux, can we get the affidavit finished before we get to Outremont?”

  “It’s all done, Inspector, except for the play-by-play of what went on inside. M. Letarte, did you ask M. Audet for access to the books and records relating to social security cheques?”

  “Damn right I did.”

  Giroux began typing on his laptop.

  Laurent had already pulled a U-turn and was heading to the home of Judge Antoinette Cardillo, duty Judge of the Superior Court of Montreal.

  “And what was his response?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Now, Claude, that’s no way to talk to Maitre Giroux,” said Vanier.

  “I was answering the question. Audet told me to go fuck myself. Oh yeah, he said that he should have thrown me out the window.”

  “Great,” said Giroux, typing on his portable. “Then what?”

  “He said that if I wanted to see the books I should go see a fucking judge and get a warrant.”

  “His exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Then he grabbed me and dragged me to the door and threw me out.”

  “Wonderful. Here. Let me read this back to you.”

  Giroux was drafting and correcting the affidavit while Laurent tried to break speed records. When they pulled up outside Judge Cardillo’s house in Outremont, Giroux was printing out the affidavit on a portable printer. Vanier took in the tasteful Christmas lights that festooned the house; tiny white lights strung around the trees nestled in fluffy snow. Giroux grabbed the papers and his shoulder bag and followed Vanier, Laurent and Letarte to the front door. The judge stood in the doorway in a white dressing gown, her blonde hair brushed back. They had called to say they were coming, and Vanier wondered why she wasn’t dressed. She waited while they took off their boots and then led them into an office on the ground floor.

  “Gentlemen, this better be good, I have 12 people coming to dinner at 7 p.m., and I need to get ready. It’s the holiday season, you know.”

  Vanier watched black-suited catering staff hustling around behind the judge carrying glasses, bowls and cutlery into the dining room. She wouldn’t be peeling potatoes tonight.

  Giroux presented himself and introduced the two officers and Letarte. Vanier recognized her but didn’t say anything. He had appeared as a witness before her about two years before. She hadn’t believed him when he said the defendant’s statement had been voluntary, and she let the rapist go. Two months later he was picked up again, this time for rape and murder. After a longer trial before a different judge, he was put away for life, without parole eligibility for twenty years. In a fit of anger fuelled by too much whiskey, Vanier had sent Cardillo a copy of the judgment, in a plain envelope, and just in case she had forgotten, he included a copy of her own judgment. It made him feel better.

  “We’re here to request a search warrant, Madame Justice. Here is the affidavit, and here is the warrant we are asking you to authorize.”

  She took the papers and began reading the affidavit and the terms of the warrant. She looked up at M. Letarte. “You’re the affiant?”

  “What?”

  “Are you the person who swore the affidavit?”

  “Yes, in the car, before Maitre Giroux, on the way over here.”

  “And it’s all true?”

  “Yes, Madame. It’s the truth.”

  “You’ve had an interesting afternoon.”

  “I suppose that you might call it that, yes.”

  “Why are you conducting these inquiries over the holidays. Why are things so urgent?”

  Letarte was lost. He knew that he couldn’t say that he was doing it because Vanier asked him, and that he owed Vanier a favour. “I had a call, Madame, suggesting that certain officials at the Holy Land Shelter were defrauding welfare beneficiaries of their allowances. It’s my duty to investigate.”

  “If I could interrupt, Madame,” said Vanier.

  “I wondered when you might speak up, Inspector,” she said, looking at him coldly.

  “We consider that the allegations are very important, and if we don’t act immediately, important evidence will be lost.”

  “Inspector Vanier. Didn’t I see you on the television yesterday, hiding behind a Press Officer?”

  “Well, if you saw me, I couldn’t have been hiding very well.”

  She glared.

  “Is this request related in any way to your investigation of the homeless deaths on Christmas Eve? You know that we frown on using pretexts to collect evidence.”

  “Madame, we have no reason at this time to make any connection between any fraud at the Shelter and the deaths on Christmas Eve.
Except, of course, that in both cases, homeless people are being treated very badly.”

  She got his point. She had more to lose by refusing to authorize the warrant than by granting it. The homeless had become a news item, and she didn’t want to be seen assisting in their exploitation.

  “Very well, Inspector. Here is your warrant,” she said, signing three copies and pushing them across the table. “Go make your search.”

  The men stood, wanting to be gone.

  “Don’t stand on formalities. Why don’t you just turn and run. You have work to do, I suppose.”

  “Thank you, Madame Justice,” said Giroux.

  Vanier was on the phone to his good friend Leroux, a Detective Inspector in the Fraud Squad, before they were in the car. “We’re ready to roll. Get the gang down there, and we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  They made it in fifteen. Vanier recognized the two unmarked cars and a black van by their occupants, ten officers in all, all of them itching to get out. He got out of the car and gestured to the others to follow. It was fifty minutes since Letarte had been thrown out into the snow, close to a world record for a search warrant. Vanier entered the building and waved the search warrant at the camera with a broad grin before leading six officers and Letarte down the hallway. Giroux tagged along just for the fun of it. Four officers stayed outside to watch the exits. Audet was sitting at his computer and looked up, open-mouthed, as they burst into the room. He started to type quickly, Vanier was already behind him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him over the chair and away from the keyboard. The chair fell, and Audet hung in mid-air until Vanier released his grip, letting him fall to the floor on his back. Audet knew better than to fight back, storing the anger.

  “Fuck,” was all he could say.

  “I did as you said, M. Audet. I went and got a warrant,” said Letarte with newfound courage. Vanier handed a copy of the warrant to Audet.