The Dead of Winter

by Peter Kirby

  “Shit. Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem. Hope you find the bastard.”

  “Don’t worry, we will.”

  Vanier’s day didn’t get any better. At ten o’clock, the Justice lawyer called to tell him that the request for a warrant to search Monsignor Forlini’s chalet had been refused. The judge had decided that the affidavit didn’t disclose sufficient grounds to justify the invasion of the privacy of a senior member of the Catholic Church. They had nothing, and he wasn’t surprised. Normally, getting a search warrant was as easy as buying a lottery ticket, but getting a warrant to search the house of a priest was a different matter. The judge knew what he was doing; the Church still had clout in Quebec, especially in the legal system. Every September, the new court season was inaugurated by the Red Mass at the Cathedral, and the senior judges and the Church’s hierarchy got to wear their best red costumes. You would think the place would be as empty as a Prime Minister’s promise, but it was always packed with the top judges and lawyers and those who had helped them move up through the system. After the Mass, there was a lunch with the Archbishop and the Chief Justice as joint guests of honour. If you wanted to go against a member of the Church, you had to choose your battles carefully and get solid support in advance; Vanier had done neither and hit a wall. Now he was sitting across from Chief Inspector Bedard.

  “So, you’re back to square one. Any suggestions?”

  “We don’t know for sure that he left the country, sir,” said Vanier, “so we keep looking.”

  “If he decided to lose himself, he could be anywhere on the planet by now.”

  “I know, sir. But we can’t give up.”

  “I’m not talking about giving up, Luc. I’m talking about using our resources efficiently. If he left the country, he’s someone else’s problem. I can go through the channels to get a warrant and picture to Interpol. We have a picture, at least?”

  “Yes, sir. From a summer picnic at Xeon Pesticides. It’s five years old, but it’s the best we have.”

  “Good, I’ll have it sent to Interpol, and you can get it circulated in Quebec, to the rest of Canada too. Then we wait, he can’t hide forever, can he?”

  “No, sir, but he can go on killing people until we find him.”

  “Luc, unless you can tell me that you have some active leads to follow, I’m going to have to close this down. We can tell the press that we have a suspect and that suspect has left town. Who knows, the papers might pick up on an international manhunt and track him down for us. And even if they don’t, as long as the deaths stop, people will move on. Believe me, Luc.”

  “We do have a good lead, sir. Monseignor Forlini. He’s Collins’s father.”

  “That’s not a lead. It’s the ranting of a deranged woman. We can’t go on that.”

  “What if it’s true?”

  “I’m not ordering you to drop that line of inquiry. I’m saying that what you have given me so far is nothing. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But if anything comes of it, you let me know.”

  That was why Bedard had become Chief Inspector and Vanier was still a Detective Inspector. It made sense. Evidence that was good enough to arrest the average Joe wasn’t nearly enough for anyone who would fight back. At some point, you had to admit defeat and move on. Vanier had trouble giving up, but he also knew you didn’t find people by tracking them down the way they did in The Fugitive. You waited for them to make a mistake and get themselves caught. The best you could do was to make sure that their names, aliases, credit card, photos, and anything else you could think of were on as many databases as you could load them into. The average criminal is a criminal wherever he is, and eventually the red light glows on someone’s monitor, and they’ll place a call to Montreal.

  “How long do I have? How long can I keep up the active investigation?”

  “Luc, this morning I had a call from the Mayor. He wants this thing shut down as quickly as possible. If we have a good suspect and he’s disappeared, he doesn’t want the force wasting valuable manpower looking for someone who isn’t there.”

  “Since when did the Mayor run investigations?” He was pushing Bedard, who was walking a fine political line.

  If Bedard was angry, he didn’t show it. “He doesn’t, Luc. But he made his point forcefully, and I have to give it some weight. He also told me he’d had a call from the Archbishop about your visit to Monsignor Forlini. He tells me Monsignor Forlini is very well respected in the Church. Not just in Quebec, in Rome too. Apparently, great things are expected of him. He has friends.”

  “That’s why they want to shut down the investigation, to protect the Monsignor from embarrassment?”

  “Luc, the Church has nothing to do with this investigation, apart from their normal interest in making sure you don’t bully its priests.”

  “Fuck the Church. You think I’m bullying Forlini? I’m flattered. No, the church wants this shut down because it’s worried about looking bad, not about me bullying one of their holy men. Jesus, one of its own is dead, and the suspect is the bastard son of a nun and a priest. A nun who was hung out to dry when she got pregnant. Maybe that’s what caused young John to flip, a regular churchgoer who answers the prayers of the faithful by relieving some innocent poor bastard of his suffering. God’s holy messenger, a son of the clergy, operating his killing venture out of the church’s head office. And you wonder what interest the church has in closing down this investigation?”

  “Luc, give me something solid, and I can help you.”

  “I have nothing solid, give me a few days to wrap up.”

  “Take a few days to wrap up. But I want it wrapped up, hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vanier rose to leave, and Chief Inspector Bedard reached for his phone.

  FIFTEEN

  JANUARY 19

  7 PM

  Pascal Beaudoin could feel the sweat making his shirt stick to his skin, and he hoped it wouldn’t show through his suit jacket. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a personal stand. The formal jousting over contracts for a client was a different story. As a hired gun, he could do anything. But this was different. He was working for himself, not taking orders, but deciding what he wanted to do, and that made him nervous. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face dry again.

  The night had not been easy. The Governors of the Foundation of the Holy Land Shelter had eaten an early supper at the St. Denis Club, paid for with the Henderson amp; Associates’ credit card, and Pascal had given them the entire story, a full confession of his sins. He didn’t expect it to be easy, but he also didn’t expect the grilling he received. The Governors were all well into retirement and had left the business world years ago. But they all had histories. In their day, they had all been smart and hard men. Beaudoin’s confession had awakened something dormant in each, something close to an instinctive nose for weakness and a dislike of it. Beaudoin felt the heat. The first thing they wanted to know was why the swap was a bad idea. A pile of cash and the promise of a new Shelter were not necessarily bad things. That the people involved might be unsavoury, that was to be expected: they were property developers after all. The Governors were not going to be told how to vote and, anyway, Beaudoin was starting off way behind. He was the one who had taken their proxies with promises he hadn’t kept. Why should they believe him now? Beaudoin was grilled on everything he knew and then asked to leave the room, forced to pace the hallway while they came to a decision. He used the time to wonder if he had done the right thing. Unemployment was inevitable, and there was a distinct possibility that the deal would be approved. Then he would be unemployed and a pariah. After 45 minutes he was called back in.

  They were sitting solemnly around the large round table nursing brandies. Senator Breslin, the most senior of them, motioned him to take the empty seat.

  “Pascal,” said the Senator, “my friends have asked that I speak on behalf of all of us. We are
all” — he gestured to the group — “troubled by your betrayals. We trusted you, and you let us down. We gave you proxies because we trusted you. There isn’t a good way to say this, Pascal, but you lied to us. And that raises the question, why should we trust you now? It’s a difficult question, but we concluded that it wasn’t the principal question to be answered. We looked at the facts of the proposed transaction. You say it’s a setup. You say the Blackrock group can’t be trusted. Well, we decided to ignore your advice on that. We looked at the transaction from the position of the Foundation. And we have decided, after considering all of the facts, that the Foundation should reject the deal until sufficient guarantees are forthcoming.”

  “You’re making the right decision, Senator.”

  “I haven’t finished.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “After that, Pascal, we considered what to do about you. We have decided, again, after considering all of the facts, that we should consider your role in all of this as an education. You were tested and, at the end of the day, and, seemingly not without some considerable effort on your part, you have emerged as a man of honour. So, we have decided to forgive your betrayals as mistakes and stand beside you.”

  Beaudoin breathed a sigh of relief and tried to look humble and contrite, knowing at the same time that he had to get these guys moving quickly. Senator Breslin looked around the table. “I believe that accurately reflects our thoughts.” His fellow Governors nodded approval.

  “Well then, gentlemen,” said Breslin, “let’s get going. I believe the meeting starts in half an hour. And I believe that Mr. Beaudoin has put on some transportation for us.”

  The octogenarians started to get to their feet, slowly and with obvious discomfort for some. It was ten minutes before they were outside the hotel, being assisted into the limousines. When they were loaded, and the limousines started to move off, Beaudoin looked at his watch, fifteen minutes to go.

  “Don’t worry, Pascal.”

  Beaudoin turned around to face Breslin. “Thank you, Senator.”

  The Senator was flanked by two other Governors, who were drifting in and out of sleep. Four other followed in a second limousine, all courtesy of the Henderson amp; Associates credit card, and they were cruising towards the Intercontinental Hotel in Old Montreal carrying a majority.

  8.25 PM

  In the Champlain Room of the Intercontinental Hotel, Gordon Henderson and four members of the Foundation were sitting around the table, getting down to business. Vladimir Markov and Ivan Romanenko were watching the proceedings as invited guests. Henderson had brought along a law student as a bag carrier, and she was shuffling papers on her knees. Henderson had been calling Beaudoin’s cell phone all day, only to flow straight through to voice mail. Beaudoin was toast, and Henderson felt in control. Two hours earlier, the Board had voted in favour of the deal, and he held seven proxies for the Foundation’s 11-vote decision. There was nothing left to do but go through the motions. They would work their way through the agenda, and it would be official, and a healthy part of his retirement would be funded.

  As he was getting the papers in order, the double-doors to the Champlain Room burst open, and a mob of about twenty people flooded the room. It was the usual rent-a-crowd radicals who can be counted on to protest any initiative that doesn’t come from some cooperative, commune, or other voice of the disenfranchised. They were followed by a cameraman from CBC and a reporter with a microphone. The circus was Beaudoin’s insurance policy.

  Henderson leaned over to the law student and whispered, “Go get security to come down here immediately. I want these people out of here now.” The student ran for the door.

  The mob spread out around the room, unfurling banners with various permutations of the same message: “Save the Holy Land Shelter,” “Protect the Homeless,” “No Profiteering on the Backs of the Poor.”

  The light attached to the camera went on, and the camera scanned the room, capturing everyone for the TV news. Henderson watched with horror as the reporter approached, pointing a microphone at his face.

  “Mr. Henderson, Marianne Desautels, CBC News. Do you have any comments on the protests against the sale of the Holy Land Shelter?”

  “No I don’t. This is a private meeting. You have no right. Would you please leave the room?” he said, waving his arms as though he was engaged in crowd control. Henderson wasn’t used to working in public, and it was taking time to adjust to the new environment. “I said get the fuck out of here. You hear me?” he screamed at the camera.

  The only ones leaving were Markov and Romanenko, who got to their feet as soon as the group arrived. They didn’t go far, just out of sight of the cameras. Markov called Henderson on his cell phone.

  “Look, I can’t talk right now,” Henderson told him. “Security is on the way. Once the room is cleared, we can get started. Take a few minutes in the bar. I’ll call you when we’re ready to start.”

  The cameraman was having a field day, and Henderson knew he looked like an asshole.

  “Marianne, Marianne,” he said, trying to be heard over the noise, finding his best smile. “I am sorry about that. I thought we were being attacked. Look, if you want some sound bites, I can give you some. Let’s start again. OK?”

  “Let’s go,” she said, taking a moment to let the cameraman set up in from of them.

  “Mr. Henderson, there has been some objections to the sale of the Holy Land Shelter’s land to developers. What do you say to the critics?”

  Fuck them, he thought. “The Holy Land Shelter is one of Montreal’s finest institutions, and its Board of Directors and its Foundation members are committed to Montreal’s homeless. Believe me, none of us would do anything that would be against the interests of those that do not have a voice. Tonight, what we are considering is a proposal that will allow the Shelter to continue for decades to come. It’s a transaction that will allow the Shelter to build a brand new, state-of-the-art complex. Earlier this evening the Board of Directors recommended approval of Blackrock’s offer, and I am sure that the members of the Foundation will do the same thing, because that offer addresses the long-term funding needs of the Shelter and guarantees its future for years to come. I expect the Governors of the Foundation have been rigorous in their examination of the proposal.”

  “Are you saying it’s not a done deal, it needs to be studied?”

  “We’re saying that if any proposal is approved, it will be because it’s in the long term interest of the most vulnerable members of our society. We have a duty to protect those people, and the Foundation takes that duty very seriously.”

  Two uniformed security guards arrived, and began moving people out of the hall. They went peacefully but not quietly, yelling slogans as they left. Henderson called Markov to tell him he could come back. As he clicked the disconnect button, the doors opened again, and the seven absent Foundation Governors entered, followed by Beaudoin.

  Henderson stared in disbelief as they hobbled and limped their way into the room. One of them looked at Henderson, “Is this the place for the meeting of the Holy Land Foundation?”

  ”Yes,” he said, realizing that his proxies had just become worthless scraps of paper.

  Beaudoin was beaming. “Hi, boss.”

  “Don’t even bother coming in to get your stuff. We’ll send it to you.”

  The seven members of the Foundation joined the other four around the table.

  “If there are no objections, I will act as Chairman,” said Senator Breslin.

  He looked up and saw Markov and Romanenko enter the room.

  Breslin looked up at them, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I believe that this is a private meeting.”

  They looked at Henderson, who was seated in a chair, his head hanging down and his chin resting on his chest.

  “Mr. Henderson. That applies to you also,” said Breslin.

  Henderson raised his head and looked at the Governors seated around the table like they owned the place, assuming autho
rity they hadn’t exercised in years. He rose slowly in disbelief. Markov and Romanenko had already left. There was nothing to do. Casting one last look at Beaudoin, he pulled the door open and left.

  SIXTEEN

  MARCH 25

  Winter doesn’t end suddenly in Montreal; it withdraws slowly, in sullen resentment, like Napoleon’s army from Moscow. Day after day the temperature struggles to climb above freezing for a few hours around noon and quickly falls back in the late afternoon, leaving tiny rivulets of water to become icy traps for the unwary. The snow that fell weightlessly during innumerable snowstorms is packed tight in stubborn boulders of dirty ice grudgingly giving up their bulk to springtime, revealing the filthy detritus that has accumulated in the cold months: dog shit, torn plastic bags, newspapers, Styrofoam cups, meal trays, pizza boxes, and thousands of cigarette butts. Impatient citizens torment the withdrawing army with picks and shovels, breaking up the rock-hard ice and spreading it to accelerate its disappearance. The cycle of thaw and refreeze continues for weeks until finally the city is liberated, and Montrealers spill out of their winter caverns, and occupy every open space. Terraces and park benches fill up and the streets teem with the survivors of a long siege.

  In the Turcot Yard, where the city’s snow is piled into dirty grey mountains, the melt is glacier slow and the land only returns to flat in late June. Such is the power of winter that the Stanley Cup is only awarded as the last evidence of winter disappears.

  Vanier had watched the slow progression to spring. He had been present when they chipped Mary Gallagher from the river-ice that had held her for months and he had watched as Dr. Segal cut into the long-dead corpse to establish the cause of death. It didn’t take long to establish that she died just as the others had.

  6 PM

  The six o’clock Mass was starting, and Vanier was kneeling in a pew at the back of the Cathedral, his head bowed. When he saw Monsignor Forlini take his place in front of the altar, he got up and made for the door, listening to the droning voice over the loud speaker.