by Peter Kirby
Sergeant Laflamme was taken aback and was tempted to look behind her at Vanier for the answer. Vanier was enjoying it.
Recovering, she responded, “There is no evidence that the chemical was kept in the suspect’s apartment, and we are continuing our efforts to locate any traces of the chemical that may still be in existence. I must stress that this is still a very active investigation.”
“Sergeant, are you certain that the body recovered in the loft is Collins?”
“The body was very badly burned, but we are confident that it was the body of Mr. Collins. The Coroner’s office is performing tests to confirm the identity of the body, and we are awaiting those results. Nevertheless, we are confident that this investigation is drawing to a close.”
Jennifer Higgins from The Gazette yelled, “A question for Inspector Vanier. Inspector Vanier, are you confident that the body is that of Mr. Collins?”
Before he could even think of moving forward to speak into the microphone, Sergeant Laflamme answered, “Inspector Vanier’s view is the same as the one I have just given: while we are awaiting a positive identification, we have reached a level of confidence that it is Mr. Collins. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
NOON
There wasn’t room to empty the dump truck inside the Laboratoire’s building, so they had worked out a protocol. An area of the parking lot had been scraped clean with shovels and covered in two layers of thick painter’s plastic. Vanier was there out of curiosity. He wanted to see how they would handle the logistics of emptying a truck full of dirty snow and body parts. Laurent was along for company, and they watched the dump truck back up to the plastic sheets until a man in a white plastic evidence suit raised his arms for it to stop and let its red-streaked load slide on to the plastic mat. Dr. Segal had taken charge of the operation and then moved over towards Vanier. They were both having trouble separating the private and public.
“That’s a lot of red snow,” said Vanier.
“There must have been a lot of leakage during the night. Don’t worry, we’ll still have lots to test,” she said.
After about a third of the truck’s load had emptied onto the floor, the guy in the evidence suit waved the driver to stop. The driver lowered the dumper, and three technicians moved in and began shifting through the pile of bloody, hard-packed snow and street garbage. They worked with shovels, bouncing clumps of snow like prospectors, and it soon became clear they weren’t looking for small human nuggets but sizable chunks of flesh. The body parts were separated from the snow and garbage, and they began filling large plastic buckets with flesh and bones, pushing the junk off to the side.
“The snow-blower driver removed the screen,” said Vanier, feeling the need to explain the size of the pieces being recovered.
“Nice,” said Segal.
The image of the technicians carefully fingering the dirty snow reminded Vanier of TV news footage of bombings in Israel and religious Jews picking through the debris of destroyed lives searching for human flesh so it could be treated with respect and buried properly. The more he watched, the more body parts Vanier recognized; a gloved hand with an arm up to the elbow, part of a leg, still clothed but without a foot, a chunk of the torso, and then the head. The technician brushed snow off the face and cradled the head gently in his hands, turning it face up towards the group of watchers. It had come through the blower cleanly, severed at the neck but otherwise undamaged.
“I’ve had enough,” said Vanier. “Dr. Segal, unless you need me here, I think that I can find something more useful to do. Oh, and by the way, his name is Denis Latulippe.”
“You knew him? I’m sorry, Luc.”
“He was on the list. Laurent and I tried to convince him to get off the streets for a while.”
“We can manage here,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “This is going to take some time. I’ll call you as soon as I have something to report.”
Light snow was falling again as they crossed the parking lot. Vanier opened the back door and pulled out a snow brush. He handed it to Laurent.
“You do the snow and I’ll get it warmed up.”
Laurent took the brush and began clearing the snow off the car. It was light and came off without effort. He finished and got into the passenger side, throwing the brush onto the floor in the back.
“So. Denis Latulippe,” said Laurent.
“Yeah.”
“You think he was killed?”
“We’ll know that soon enough. Either that, or I gave him too much money and he went on a bender and blacked out in the snow.”
They drove back to headquarters in silence.
6 PM
Two men sat in comfortable armchairs watching flames in a wood stove lick through foot-long logs of maple. An invisible sound system filled the room with a Bach English Suite. The older man was carefully dressed for the country, like he had planned to look relaxed; a thick maroon cardigan over a checkered flannel shirt and brown corduroys, all new. His hair was dyed a youthful dark brown but failed to hide his age. The younger man looked out of place beside him in jeans and T-shirt, with a borrowed sweater draped over his shoulders.
The older man looked at the firelight playing on his companion’s face. “John, when was the last time you went to confession?”
“I couldn’t say. Years for sure.” He didn’t break his gaze on the burning logs, but his eyes became distant.
“It’s a powerful sacrament, John. It reaches deep into the soul.”
“I know. But a good confession takes two people. An understanding listener is essential and they’re hard to find. Hearing confessions is routine for most priests, the same sins repeated week after week. They stop listening. I mean really listening.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. That’s always a danger. We’re all human, and human sins tend to be an unimaginative repetition of human frailty. But a good priest learns to listen with his heart. The words aren’t important. It’s what’s behind them. You try to understand and provide comfort and hope, maybe even some guidance. It’s a heavy responsibility if it’s done properly.”
“Standing between God and man is a heavy responsibility.”
“You have to destroy your own ego to separate God’s message from your own. An old priest once told me you should be a pipeline, not a filter. Sometimes we manage it. Sometimes not. Our egos are strong and you must always ask the question: is this God’s message of love, or is it my opinion of what God’s message ought to be?”
“And how do you tell, Father? How do you know?”
“I don’t know, John. You can never know. You must keep testing yourself. One thing I do know is that certainty is a red flag. Only saints and charlatans are ever certain. I am neither, so I always wrestle with doubt.”
“Are you certain of that, Father?”
Father Michael Forlini smiled, “Well, I’m certain I’m not a saint. A charlatan? I hope not.”
Silence settled as they watched the fire. Outside, snow continued to fall in big flakes covering the woods in a thick blanket, silently covering the tracks of their arrival.
The cottage was simply furnished, but in the storm it had a womb-like quality. Two armchairs and a couch filled the small living space, and an intricately woven Persian carpet lay on dark, polished wooden floorboards. Apart from the murmured conversation and the almost imperceptible harpsichord, the only noise was the occasional burst of the refrigerator motor from the kitchen.
“So, what are we to do?”
The question went unanswered for a long time, both men staring at the flames.
“I have not sinned, Father. I have done God’s work.”
“So you believe, and if your belief is true, even if you are mistaken in that belief, then it is no sin.”
“Do you believe God speaks to you?”
“To me personally?”
“No. I mean that God does speak. To his people, if we have the courage to listen.”
“Yes, John. I believe that God
does speak to his people, to all of us. The problem is we don’t listen. Too often, we hear only what we want to hear.”
“God has spoken to me. I believe, with my whole being, that God has spoken to me. I have that certainty that you spoke of. But I am not a saint, or a charlatan. I’ve struggled for years. I fought against it. I know all the arguments; that it’s human vanity, that I am delusional, that I am too unimportant. You cannot imagine how I resisted his voice. And then, one day, I came to the realization that it was wrong to refuse to listen.”
“My child, God speaks to us all, but our minds are fragile. We are unreliable.”
“That is why I resisted.”
“That’s good.
“But I didn’t give up. I didn’t cut him off. I examined what people were asking; good people, people with faith. When there was an answer to a sincere prayer, I became an instrument.”
“Ah.”
“I can stand before anyone and tell them that I have done only good. All that I have done is to provide answers to the sincere prayers of the faithful. That’s all.”
“I know, my child. But who would understand?”
“You’ll help me, Father?”
“Of course I will help you. I understand your faith. But you must promise me it has stopped. There are serious theological issues we must understand before you do anything else. These acts must stop.”
“I know that, Father.”
“Was Father Drouin’s death an answer to a prayer?”
Again, a long silence.
“He was going to interfere with God’s work. What he was going to do would have destroyed everything. It would have harmed the Church and it was against God’s wishes. Good Catholics have always done what is necessary to protect Mother Church.”
“The Church must be protected. And sometimes that involves very troubling decisions.”
“Isn’t it our most sacred duty? To protect the Church?”
“Scandal must be avoided. The world is full of evil people, always waiting for any opportunity to destroy us.”
“Father, I realize that it has gone too far. But I need help to know what to do, what is right. I need help. I need to understand what I am doing. I need the support of the Church.”
“You have our support and you can stay here as long as necessary. I will come and see you, bring all that you need. You must pray and study. Here is the perfect solitude. We need to understand this holy connection of yours. But John, this thing must stop.”
6 PM
The jarring ring of the cell phone in Vanier’s pocket forced a couple of the more aware drinkers to look up from their beers.
“Vanier.”
“Inspector, it’s Pascal Beaudoin. My daughter, Stephanie, she’s disappeared. You’ve got to do something.”
“What?”
“My daughter, Stephanie.”
Oh, Christ, thought Vanier.
“We’re in St. Sauveur. Stephanie came off the hills about an hour ago. One second she’s standing next to the ski runs. The next second she’s gone.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 40 minutes, max,” said Vanier. “Wait for me.” Vanier folded his cell closed and grabbed his coat. He called the Squad Room on his way to the car and got St. Jacques. She agreed to meet him in the parking lot outside headquarters.
“Tell Janvier to get me the Police Chief in St. Sauveur and patch him into my cell.”
“Yes, sir.”
She was standing in the parking lot when he arrived. He heavy-footed the gas, and they were back out of the lot and onto the street before she had buckled the belt.
“What’s the hurry, boss?”
“The daughter of a friend of mine may have been snatched from the ski hill at St. Sauveur. He just called me. Get on the phone to the SQ and see if you can get me an escort on 15 North. If you can’t, just tell them him to make sure they stay away from the car. We’re not stopping.”
He pushed the car onto the Ville Marie Expressway, accelerating past everything, weaving in and out of lanes like a video game. St. Jacques was clutching the seat with one hand and trying to contact Central with one-thumb dialing. She looked at the speedometer. He was cruising at 160 km. When they hit 15 North, he gunned the motor and settled into 180 km on the long, straight Autoroute going north to the mountains.
The phone rang; she listened for a few moments and then put the phone on speaker, holding it in front of Vanier. “It’s Janvier,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Inspector, I have Captain DuMoulin from the SQ in Ste. Agathe on the line. He’s the Director for the area. Go ahead, Captain,” said Janvier.
Vanier started: “Captain DuMoulin, Inspector Vanier here, Major Crimes in Montreal. I have a report of a missing child at the ski hill in St. Sauveur. This is a friend of mine. And the child may have been taken. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Inspector. We’re already onto it. I have two men at the chalet checking it out.”
“Two? That’s all? And I suppose they’re walking around together?”
“We’re doing our best, Inspector. It’s the holidays, you know. The two at the mountain, they’ve already talked to the parents.”
“Captain, I’ve talked to the father, and the parents didn’t see anything. Maybe someone else did. If there were any witnesses, you need to speak to them now. Can we get anybody else out there?”
“For you, Inspector, I’ll have two more cars go up. And I’ll tell the guys who are there to start asking around. Maybe we can get a description of a car.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Excellent, Inspector, I’ll be in touch.”
Vanier saw the flashing lights in his mirror, an SQ car approaching fast, weaving through traffic and gaining on Vanier.
“Oh, Captain, one more thing before you go.”
“Yes, Inspector?”
“One of your guys is coming up behind me. Looks like he wants me to slow down. Can you get him to back off?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Inspector, but please drive carefully. What are you driving?”
“Grey Volvo, and I just crossed the Riviere-des-Prairies bridge.”
St. Jacques flipped the phone closed and fought with the seatbelt to slip it back in her pocket. The SQ car was directly behind them, playing its siren, the noise barely reaching them. Christ, thought Vanier, they’ll start shooting soon. In the mirror he saw the SQ drop back for a second and then shift into the middle lane. It sped up again, gaining quickly. As it pulled level, Vanier looked to his right and saw the driver smiling back at him, his right hand pointing forward before he shot ahead and pulled into place in front of Vanier. The SQ escort slowed down to match Vanier’s 180 km, clearing the way with flashing lights and a siren. This guy is crazy, Vanier thought.
They continued for twenty minutes, and Vanier’s phone rang. He started digging into his jacket pocket to find it.
“Please,” said St. Jacques, “Let me. Just concentrate on the driving. You’ll get us killed.” She reached into his pocket and removed the phone.
“This is Sergeant St. Jacques, Inspector Vanier is busy at the moment. You can speak to me.”
She listened for a few moments
“Just a second,” she said, taking the phone away from her ear. “Sir, they’ve found a girl abandoned at the McDonald’s at Exit 105, La Porte du Nord. A car is on its way.”
“Get the kid’s name. What’s her name?”
St. Jacques spoke into the phone. “Captain DuMoulin, do we have a name for the child?”
She listened again, then turned to Vanier.
“Sir, they don’t have a name yet, but we’ll be at the exit in a few minutes at this speed. We should stop there and see.”
“OK. We’ll stop. But tell DuMoulin that we need a name as soon as possible. Oh, and get onto the SQ to tell Sparky up front that we’re getting off at exit 105.”
In minutes, the SQ escort indicated he was pulling off, and they followed. Vani
er slammed on the brakes in the tight exit ramp leading to a service stop dominated by an Esso Station and a McDonald’s. He braked hard in front of the McDonald’s and ran in, leaving the driver’s door open. There was a knot of people standing around, trying not to gawk too obviously at a distraught girl, maybe eight years old, sitting with an older girl in a McDonald’s uniform. They were holding hands. The younger girl’s face was red from crying and her cheeks shiny with tears. Vanier squatted down in front of her, an attempt at a smile on his face.
“Stephanie?”
She lit up at the sound of the familiar.
“Are you the daughter of Pascal Beaudoin?”
“Oui, ou est Papa?”
“Why don’t we get him on the phone, Stephanie.”
Vanier dialed.
“Pascal, I have someone who wants to talk to you,” he said, handing the phone to the child.
“Papa?”
Vanier stood up, smiling.
St. Jacques approached. “She’s the one?”
“Thank God.”
Beaudoin arrived fifteen minutes later with his wife and a small boy in tow, walking like a toy soldier in his one-piece snowsuit. In the meantime, Vanier had made friends with Stephanie, both of them drawing pictures on the back of McDonald’s placemats and asking each other to guess what they had drawn. Caroline ignored him and grabbed her daughter as though she was still in danger. She pushed her face into the girl’s neck and wept with heaving shoulders. Stephanie looked at Vanier over her mother’s head and smiled. He winked at her.
Beaudoin was holding his son’s hand. He turned to Vanier, “Somebody took her?”
“It looks that way. We need to get her to a hospital. She needs to be checked out.”
“You don’t think…?”
“Pascal, I don’t think anything. But we have to be sure. We also have to speak to her, find out what she can tell us.” Before Beaudoin could object, he added, “We have people who are trained to do these kinds of things. Anyway, let’s get her to a hospital and get it over with as soon as possible. The ambulance will take her to St. Jerome, that’s the closest.”
“Ambulance, what ambulance?” Beaudoin was beginning to realize that finding his daughter safe wasn’t the end of it.