The Dogs of Winter

by Ann Lambert

  As she waited for her assistant, Chloé, to text her that she was waiting in the car outside, Danielle scrolled through her emails on her phone, and nibbled at a piece of dry rye toast. Her new boyfriend, Sidney, had made reservations at Joe Beef for tomorrow evening. Danielle smiled at the thought of him. He was a lovely man, made few demands, and seemed to actually love being with her. Of course, it would all go south sooner or later, probably sooner, but for now she decided to enjoy the idea of being a little bit in love, and to imagine he was a bit in love, too. Danielle answered his text and quickly flicked on the local news on her kitchen television. A polar vortex was bringing life-threatening cold to Chicago—which was now colder than Antarctica. The weather woman was somewhat hysterically announcing that it was so cold a person’s corneas could actually freeze. The thought of Americans shivering in the cold made Danielle smile. Her friends from south of the border often teased her about the igloos all Canadians lived in, and how they got to work by dogsled. Then the news shifted to the trial of Bruce McArthur—who was accused of killing homeless gay men in Toronto. An awful story, that. The police kept digging up their remains, buried in people’s gardens where McArthur had worked as a landscaper. Danielle switched to the local news. As usual, there was lots of coverage of the big storm, stock images of cars buried in snow and people leaning into the blizzard clutching at their coats. She turned up the volume as the Atwater Tunnel appeared on the screen. The body of an unidentified female had been discovered near the tunnel on Monday morning. Then there were images of paramedics loading a body into an ambulance. She appeared to have been a victim of a hit-and-run, and police were investigating. There were no more details. Danielle Champagne managed to get off her chair and to the kitchen sink just in time to violently throw up.

  Ten

  Wednesday morning

  January 30, 2019

  NIA FELLOWS was sitting in the cavernous vestibule of St. John the Evangelist church, blowing on her very hot coffee in a small Styrofoam cup. She glanced around at the walls, every square inch of them covered in bulletin boards with cheery pastel-colored titles: referrals for legal aid, housing, mental health counsellors, nutrition advice. So many people trying to do good. Nia looked down at Hamlet devotedly licking himself. At least she didn’t have to lick herself clean. She’d just had her first hot shower in six days, and it was glorious. She had scrubbed the grime off her feet and fingernails, washed her hair with fragrant shampoo, and even got to put a little cream on her dry, chapped hands. She had found some fresh clothes in the hand-me-down bin as well. Life that morning was pretty good. They’d managed to spend the night of the snowstorm at The Bunker, an emergency shelter for homeless youth. At twenty-one, Nia was still considered a youth, but at twenty-five, Christian wasn’t, so they were lucky to have been let in. She was just waiting for him to be done with his shower, and then they could head down to the housing office to check where they were on the waitlist for emergency housing. Their “problem” was that they had a dog, so none of the shelters would take them in except the Salvation Army one, but there they felt pressure to attend bible study, and that was a problem. There was a guy there, though, who sometimes took pity on them and snuck them into a utility closet. He barely said a word to them, but always greeted Hamlet with “Well, hello there, gorgeous!” and kindly offered him a few treats. But Christian was creeped out by his uniform, and so they avoided that shelter, too.

  Most of the time, they were forced to wander around the city, bedding down in the metro stations until they were kicked out at one a.m., or finding a warm grate by one of the big stores downtown. Sometimes, they found a temporary squat with friends, but they kept those for the really cold nights, like last night. She smiled as she thought how delighted Christian had been to get into the mission this morning—they were often too late, and all the shower spots were long gone. Hamlet had stopped licking himself and slumped onto her feet with a big sigh. He looked like someone had played a cruel and possibly painful joke—crossed a St. Bernard with a Jack Russell terrier. Nia made an enormous yawn and tried to stretch out her legs, but Hamlet grumbled and refused to move. There was nothing to read here, so she was forced to look at the walls. There was a really old-school image of Jesus—blond-haired and blue-eyed—with one hand on the head of a small child, the other on the head of a lamb. Christian had been super-

  religious once. His folks bought the whole Jesus died for their sins thing. He grew up in a church where people spoke in tongues—he said his father often did this thing called xenoglossy—where the possessed dude speaks a real language, but one that he doesn’t actually know how to speak. Sometimes members of his church prayed in these crazy made-up languages. Glossolalia. Nia loved the sound of that word.

  Christian decided to run away when the elders of his church kept trying to cast out the demons from his body. One of those elders seemed to think forcing Christian to give him blow jobs was the best method. It didn’t work. Christian saw the devil everywhere, especially when he was off his meds. Nia herself came from a couple of atheists. To her parents, Jesus and Buddha and Mohammed were just a bunch of scam artists who figured they’d finally gotten the religion market cornered. Her mom once told her a story about the day the pope visited Montreal. Apparently, he was rolling down St. Urbain Street in his Pope-Mobile—this golf-cart thing with a bullet-proof windshield—doing that celebrity-pope wave at the throngs of people lining the street. Nia’s mom just happened to be there, returning home from a walk on Mount Royal. When the pope zoomed by, a couple of women standing on either side of her just collapsed on the sidewalk, overcome with religious ecstasy. Nia’s mom always told this story laughing her head off, saying she’d never seen anything like it before or since.

  Nia’s memory was interrupted by a cold blast from the door of the church. A guy with a long, grizzled beard came shuffling in, swaddled in an assortment of scarves, jackets, and blankets. It was impossible to tell how old he was—he could be thirty or seventy. He was politely talking to himself, and shuffled past Nia without even a glance, the stench of urine and vomit following him. At least it wasn’t that Isaac guy, who always seemed to turn up at the oddest places. He was always trying to get them to talk to him, with his sandwiches and his tea. Nia heard he’d been accused of assaulting a girl at a school when he was a teacher. Others on the street loved him; they said he did all this work on his own dime. Nia had a pretty good sense about people—and that Good Samaritan guy gave her the creeps.

  Christian was taking way longer than normal, and Nia was starting to get antsy. They had a lot to get done that day. He was supposed to scout out a new place for the night, and she needed to get to the housing office. Hamlet was now completely laid out across her feet, sound asleep. She leaned down to scratch behind his ears and smiled at the memory of their first encounter. It was in Carré St. Louis, a gorgeous Parisian-style square surrounded by Victorian houses, boasting a beautiful fountain at its center. It was one of the most upscale addresses in Montreal, and also where homeless people often hung out, especially during the hot Montreal summers. Christian was shirtless and looking very ripped. He was wading with Hamlet in the fountain, throwing a stick for him and laughing every time Hamlet brought it back. He had gorgeous blond curls that were becoming dreadlocks and not a single tattoo on that beautiful body. Nia sat on the fountain’s edge and joined in the game with the dog. Hamlet immediately adored her, which impressed Christian. He was not given to trusting humans.

  “My dog likes you.”

  “You’re English?”

  Christian affected a lousy British accent, “Oh, yes, milady. All the way from South Porcupine.”

  “Oh? I’m from North Porcupine! What a coincidence!”

  His smile narrowed. “There is no North Porcupine. Or East or West Porcupine. Only South.” His dog was now hanging in mid-air, attached only by his jaw to the stick in Christian’s hand.

  “I’m Nia. I’m actually from the imaginat
ively named town of Rockville. That’s about two hours southeast of here. But I live in Montreal now.”

  Christian stepped out of the fountain, dragging Hamlet along behind him. He beckoned to her to join him on the park bench.

  “Would you like to join me for a small repast?” He pulled out of his knapsack a lightly squished sandwich, half an Oh Henry chocolate bar, and a can of beer, which he popped open and sipped from a paper bag. He offered it to Nia. He had the most penetrating blue-green eyes. Nia took a small sip. She hated beer. He gestured for her to drink more, so she did. She was eighteen then, and he was twenty-two, and they’d never really been apart since.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door to the mission, and Christian emerged, shouting, “I am dead to sin!” Someone had clearly offended him. Nia grabbed Hamlet’s leash and pulled them both outside. Christian could not afford to be barred from any more shelters. He could be as calm and chill as a monk, but when he was off his medication he was sometimes unpredictable and scary to others. The day was weirdly warm, definitely above zero, probably twenty-five degrees warmer than two days earlier. It was global warming, and Nia found it very scary. Christian kept reminding her that soon climate change refugees from all over the world would be moving to Canada, and more and more desperate people would be scrambling for the crumbs that were left for them. For that morning, anyway, Nia was grateful for the relative warmth. It would make the day ahead a bit easier.

  “Listen, Christian.” Nia handed him the leash and pulled his hat down over his ears. “I need to get to the housing office and see what’s going on. I want you to get over to that squat on Berri and get us a spot. Can you do that today?”

  Christian looked straight at her and nodded, but his eyes weren’t properly focused. She repeated what she’d just said. Nia was loathe to let him go off alone, as he was very vulnerable when he was like this. But she was determined to get them into housing, especially since Christian wouldn’t hear of placing Hamlet in a no-kill shelter until they could get on their feet and get him back. “I’ll go to the food bank at the Welcome Hall, then I’ll meet you at the squat.” Christian nodded, held her tightly for a few moments, and then began the trudge along the snowy sidewalk, as Hamlet followed behind.

  Nia watched them disappear around a corner, heading in the right direction, then made her way to the nearest bus stop. She planned to nick a few pairs of warm socks for Christian from The Bay. Three of his toes still had not fully recovered from the frostbite he’d suffered in the November cold snap. Nia jumped on the #80 bus through the side exit door. An old lady gave her the stink eye, but Nia stared her down. This was going to be a good day. She could feel it. What she didn’t know was someone had been watching them and following them all morning.

  Eleven

  “WELL, FOR STARTERS, he plays with his penis all day long. I mean, is that normal?” Nicole LaFramboise looked Roméo directly in the eye, as though only a man could understand or comment on such a thing. He responded with a shrug. “I only had a girl—I don’t know. And if you’re asking with regard to my personal experience? No comment.”

  Roméo and Nicole were drinking coffee in his precinct office in St. Jerome. As usual, all eyes on the other side of the window were trying not to stare, but certainly most were speculating about their conversation. It was a slow day at the precinct, and they were acutely aware of the past relationship of the two people in that room and were hoping for some drama that morning. Nicole was getting Roméo caught up on the latest atrocities her two-year-old had committed. “Last week, he somehow managed to get a pair of scissors, and cut off the tails from half his stuffed animals. And he loves them, I know he does. Am I raising un maudit psychopath?”

  Roméo smiled. “All two-year-olds are basically psychopaths.”

  “And yesterday? I walked into the living room, and there was a very large, smelly poop on the sofa. His diaper was on the floor. When I asked him what happened, he said his toutou, a big brown monkey, did it.” Roméo had to raise an eyebrow at that one. “I mean, I only left him in the living room with his toys for like, three minutes!” Roméo offered Nicole a second coffee from his brand-new espresso machine, a gift from Marie. It had changed his life. Nicole waved her hand at the offer. “I’m trying to keep it to two a day. I’ll be needing one later just to stay awake until five o’clock. I go to bed when the baby does, at like, seven p.m. It’s doing wonders for my social life, let me tell you.” Nicole laid her forehead on Roméo’s desk, and pretended to snore.

  “I have to say, Nicole, that anyone who raises a child is a hero. Especially someone who raises one alone.” Roméo could see the tears starting to gather in Nicole’s eyes. He made himself busy with the coffee, so he didn’t have to witness it. She couldn’t stand crying in front of anyone.

  Nicole switched to a more familiar tone, “Dis-moi. How the hell do people have two kids? I mean, I think I’d end up bringing back human sacrifice.”

  Roméo spooned a bit of sugar into his cup. “Does the father help out at all? Does he still see the baby on some weekends?”

  Nicole grimaced. “When he’s around. He missed last weekend because he’s off skiing with the new guidoune in…in Zermatt? I don’t even know where that is.”

  “It’s in Switzerland. And I guarantee you that you’re getting the better deal here. It’s hard to see it sometimes, but he is the one missing what really matters.”

  Nicole reached out to take Roméo’s hand, and then thought better of it. Instead she fiddled with her pen. “I know that. I do. Merci, Roméo.”

  Roméo caught the eye of one of the new uniformed officers who was openly observing them. He pushed himself away from the desk and stood up. “So. Au travail. Let’s get to work.”

  Nicole pulled the two huge files from her black briefcase. “Oui, boss.” She opened the first one and turned it around so Roméo could read it properly. “I’ve flagged two cases—I mean, if that meets with your approval.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I had a look at these. I agree.”

  Nicole started to go over the first one, “A ten-year-old boy, Dieudonné Masoud, disappeared on his way home from school in St. Eustache eighteen years ago. His body was found three months later in a field next to an abandoned farmhouse.”

  Roméo looked at his photo, one obviously taken at school. The boy’s eyes shone brightly, and a broad grin animated his chubby face. Dieudonné. A gift from God. He wondered how people survive losing a child. They don’t really. They just stay alive.

  Nicole continued, “Many different eye-witnesses gave conflicting testimony as to who he was last seen with, and the parents never gave up on finding out what happened to him.” Roméo leafed through the file quickly. Their appeals for help, and their repeated offers of a reward for information were heartbreaking.

  The other case involved a seventeen-year-old girl, Chantal Lalonde-Fukushima, who vanished from a party in Laval, north of Montreal, in 1997. Her body washed up on the shores of the St. Lawrence weeks later. She had been raped. The cause of death was drowning, but her body was so battered by the rapids she had come through that it was impossible to determine anything else conclusively. There were many witnesses who came forward, but all their testimony had led nowhere.

  “The girl’s mother has contacted our Cold Case squad already. She’s demanding that we open the case again.” Nicole handed Roméo a photo of the girl. It appeared to be some kind of modeling head shot. She was unusually beautiful and photogenic.

  “Is the father alive?”

  “Yes, but they are now divorced. Since….” Nicole checked a paper. “Since ‘ninety-nine. He seems to have accepted what happened and moved on. She has called several times since yesterday.”

  Roméo nodded. “Let’s assign the Masoud case to Robert and his team. You and I will take the girl’s case. Let’s get started right away. We’ll re-interview the last people who saw her alive at that party. In
terview the mother again. And the father. We’ll start there. Get Isabelle to go over the medical examiner’s report. On both cases.” Roméo glanced out his office window to the room full of cops. He nodded towards the one who had been watching them so intently. “Take chose—what’s his name—with you. He seems really keen and could get out of the office for a—”

  Roméo was interrupted by the insistent buzz of his desk phone. He held a finger up to Nicole to excuse himself and answered it. She took the opportunity to stretch her legs a bit and check out his office. Besides the expensive new coffee machine, and a framed photograph of Marie holding—she had to admit—a gorgeous baby, nothing much had changed in Roméo’s office. Every surface was covered in files and papers, but neatly arranged. Organized clutter. Nicole knew that Roméo had received several citations and awards for exceptional service over the years, and not one was displayed anywhere. They were probably buried in a drawer or sitting somewhere in that awful apartment of his. Roméo returned the phone to its receiver.

  “That was the SPVM. Precinct twelve. Downtown.”

  Nicole raised an eyebrow. “The Montreal police? And? What do they want?” There was no love lost between the Montreal force and the Sûreté du Québec. Suspicion and loathing would more accurately describe it.

  “An unidentified woman’s body was found Monday morning in the Atwater Tunnel. A suspected hit-and-run. A piece of paper was found in her pocket, with…my name and number on it.” Roméo stood up and started patting his pockets for keys, his phone, and phantom cigarettes. “They want me to come in to answer a few questions. Looks like I’m going to Montreal.”