Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

  Stepping around a sheet of ice, I got into the first car in line.

  I gave the driver the address of Miles’s building and sank back into the seat. I wasn’t surprised that I had remembered the address. I’ve always had a photographic memory for numbers.

  The driver sped away from the taxi stand. He spent the entire trip alternately flooring the accelerator and slamming on the brake. By the time we reached Miles’s place, my heart was in my mouth.

  The fare came to less than seven dollars, but I gave the man both five-dollar bills that were in my wallet. I was touched by the picture of his two young daughters taped to the dashboard.

  I had spent the brief cab ride thinking about the events of the last few hours.

  What had really happened?

  If there was a logical explanation, I was hoping with all my heart that Miles would be able to supply it.

  I looked up.

  The building was wreathed in a fine mist. I struggled up the front stairs, leaning on the handrail for support. As though to highlight my disability, a squirrel was scrambling up the building’s façade as nimbly as a spider.

  Reaching the doorstep, I knocked twice, then turned the door handle without waiting for an answer.

  The door was locked.

  Strange. Miles had told me that he never locked the door.

  I was about to knock again when a wrinkled old lady opened up. Her white hair and thick glasses were in stark contrast to the trendy tracksuit and running shoes that she was wearing.

  “Yes?” she said.

  I was briefly dumbstruck by this unexpected apparition. Did Miles live with his grandmother?

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “Uhh … I’ve come to see Miles.”

  The woman’s surprised expression wasn’t encouraging.

  “There’s no one by that name living here.”

  She was going to close the door, but I blocked it with my forearm.

  “It’s important, ma’am. I need to see him.”

  Her aged eyes peered at me suspiciously, as though I were a weirdo. “You’ve got the wrong address, miss. I don’t know anybody named Miles.”

  As I raised my hand, I realized that I was trembling. Even so, I managed to point into the apartment.

  “This may seem silly, but would you mind if I had a look around?”

  The old lady studied me. I could well imagine what was going through her head. Was I one of those junkies whose syringes occasionally turned up in the cemetery?

  “It’ll only take a minute,” I said.

  Could she sense my distress? After a moment’s hesitation, she let me in.

  Inside the apartment, a terrible shock awaited me.

  The living room had been completely redone.

  The walls had been painted a dull shade of green. A frayed carpet lay on the floor, and a couple of old shelves were sagging under the weight of a variety of knick-knacks. In the middle of the room, a worn-out couch faced an antiquated TV set. A game show was on.

  I had been in this place only a few hours ago. I recognized the configuration of the apartment. The living-room window offered an identical view of the cemetery.

  Yet someone — I didn’t know why, or how — had figured out a way to rearrange the interior.

  “Is something wrong, dear?”

  “I need to look in the bedroom,” I said, determined to get to the bottom of this.

  Without waiting for permission, I went up the hallway. I opened the bedroom door and found myself looking at an aging four-poster flanked by mahogany bedside tables. My eyes swept the room, searching for Miles’s painting.

  All I saw was dusty yellowed wallpaper on the walls.

  I headed straight for the bathroom.

  Once again, a bitter disappointment awaited me.

  The room was full of towels, perfumed soaps, creams and ointments of all kinds. There was no sign of the spartan simplicity that had reigned in Miles’s bathroom.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. I was in a sad state, with purple rings under my pallid eyes and tangled hair flying in all directions. I heard the old lady behind me.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, nettled. “Come, I’ll see you out.”

  A perfect stranger had walked into her home and started searching the place. Who could blame her for being annoyed?

  I followed the woman back to the front door, scanning the living room once more in the hope of finding some indication, however small, that Miles had been in the apartment.

  I saw nothing.

  Could I have gotten the address wrong? No, I knew I hadn’t. The old lady opened the door. I gave her a timid smile.

  “I’m sorry I bothered you, ma’am,” I murmured.

  Despite the woman’s obvious sincerity, I couldn’t quite convince myself that I had made a mistake. Before walking out, I gave in to temptation and asked the question I was burning to ask.

  “Forgive me for prying, but how long have you lived here?”

  “Since July 1st, 2002,” she said. “I remember the date because it was one year to the day before my husband’s first heart attack.”

  The response was out of my mouth before I had time to think.

  “That’s impossible. You’re lying!”

  Watching her expression darken, I instantly regretted the outburst.

  “Get out,” she said sharply, “or I’ll call the police.”

  I must have been a sorry sight.

  After wiping my eyes, I blew my nose noisily.

  “Take another one.”

  The old lady held out her box of tissues. The tears had come in a rush, and I’d been helpless to stop them. The woman had been taken aback, but she’d recovered her composure and sat me down on the couch.

  Her anger was gone. Now she was holding my hands between arthritic fingers.

  “You really are a mess,” she sighed. “What’s got you so upset?”

  “I … it’s kind of complicated.”

  “And you don’t think I’d understand? You remind me of my daughter. She thinks I’m feeble-minded. She hasn’t called in a month.”

  Poor woman. I looked at her with sympathy.

  “It’s this fellow Miles you’re all worked up about, isn’t it? You don’t need to explain. I know what it’s like to be in love.”

  “He was just a friend. The truth is, I hardly knew him.”

  “Considering the state you’re in, I’m guessing he was more than a friend.”

  She was right. Miles had awakened something in me that had been asleep for too long. Desire, certainly, but this went deeper than sexual longing. After the little boy’s death, I had withdrawn from the world. I had walled myself in, preventing anyone from touching my heart. Miles had made me want to live again. Thanks to him, I was ready to take off the mask.

  “The truth is, I thought this was his apartment. That’s why I reacted so strongly when you said you’d been living here since 2002.”

  “My husband and I took the place over from my sister-in-law, after she moved to Brussels.”

  She paused before speaking again.

  “Maybe your friend lived here before her.”

  “How long was your sister-in-law in the apartment?”

  “Lucille? I’m not sure. Twelve years, maybe.”

  “That can’t be,” I whispered. “It can’t be …”

  “I only mention it because you’re not the first person who’s asked for permission to look around.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A young man came to the door one time. He said he’d lived here years ago. He insisted on looking around, kind of like you.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “He never mentioned it.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I hardly remember. He was quite tall. Youthful.”

  I gave her a quick description of Miles.

  “Yes, that could be him.”

  “When was this?”


  “More than a year ago,” she said without hesitation. “My husband was still alive at the time.”

  “Did he come here yesterday, by any chance?”

  “If he had, I’d have noticed.”

  She patted my arm.

  “I know how upset you are, dear. But when two people love each other, their paths are bound to cross sooner or later. Your story reminds me of that American couple who were separated during the war. She got remarried, believing he’d been killed, but it turned out he was in a German hospital the whole time, being treated for amnesia. Then, three years later …”

  I wasn’t listening anymore. All I could hear was the harsh drumming of my heartbeat in my ears.

  “Good heavens, you’re so pale!” the old lady said. She winked. “Let me pour you a glass of gin. That’ll put things right. Oh, and since you’re here, why don’t I bring out my wedding album? Wait till you get a look at Alfred. He was such a handsome devil …”

  My brain felt like it might explode.

  Everything the woman had said was impossible.

  I had retreated to the front door. The old lady was sweet, but I was in no mood to look at her wedding pictures. Despite her evident good will, there was nothing else she could do for me.

  “I’m sorry, but I have a pressing engagement,” I lied. “I really must go.”

  Her expression was so disappointed that I almost relented.

  “Thank you for everything,” I said, clasping her shoulders.

  “You’ll find him, dear. You just have to believe.”

  I left. Outside, the daylight stung my eyes. A whirlwind of information was spinning in my head. What had I learned? The old lady had said that she didn’t know Miles, and that she’d lived in the apartment since 2002. She had also claimed that a young man answering Miles’s description had insisted on looking around the place some time ago.

  Unless she was a stellar actress, she was telling the truth.

  I went down the front stairs and started walking along Côte-des-Neiges. I crossed the street and approached the cemetery gate.

  A funeral procession was going up the main path, led by a black limousine. As I watched the cars rolling along, I was struck by the thought that life is no more than a brief intermission.

  I stood there, lost in thought.

  The procession disappeared at the end of the path.

  As I gazed at a headstone, the puzzle confronted me in all its contradiction. On the one hand, I had no reason to think the old lady was lying. On the other, I couldn’t shake the sense that someone had altered Miles’s apartment.

  Which forced me to weigh a hypothesis that was painful to consider, but nonetheless inescapable.

  Had Miles orchestrated the whole thing?

  If so, why?

  And an even greater question was haunting me.

  Where had he gone?

  11

  Lessard holstered his weapon. The killer wasn’t in Jacques Mongeau’s office. A hospital security guard had arrived on the scene before the detective sergeant. Lessard instructed him to move back the crowd of gawkers gathered at the office door.

  He would remember this day as one of the longest and most difficult of his career. When death strikes, the body that’s left behind is like a remnant of the past, paltry and grotesque. Hanged, drowned, heads blown off, bodies shattered by car accidents — Lessard had seen them all.

  As a cop, he had learned, more or less, how to cope with this aspect of the job. But his initial response was always the same. Something in him couldn’t accept the abjection of death.

  It had happened again just now. He had thrown up into the wastepaper basket.

  He started noting details of the crime scene. The man was sprawled in his office chair, his chin resting on his chest. His throat seemed to have been cut. Another wound near his heart had left a large pool of blood on the floor. His right hand lay palm upward on his thigh. The visitor’s chair had been overturned.

  Suddenly, the detective sergeant spotted a detail that made him wonder for a moment if he was seeing things. The man’s index finger had been cut off.

  It was a clean cut. Judging from the marks on the wood, it had been done on the desk.

  Had it been inflicted post-mortem?

  Next to the blotter lay a transparent plastic CD case. The disc inside bore a label showing a date, a web address, and a line of text:

  Error message: 10161416.

  Had the disc been left there by the murderer, or did it belong to the dead man?

  There were no other signs of violence in the room. The pastel walls, faded carpet, and melamine furniture suggested that the place hadn’t been redecorated since the 1980s.

  A photograph on a shelf caught his eye. It showed the victim with his wife and two sons.

  Lessard sighed.

  The family would have to be notified. At this moment, they were going about their lives, unaware of what had just happened. In a few hours at the latest, a police officer would bring them the terrible news. Lessard himself had carried out this grim task too many times. Nothing was worse than the anguish of family members and the helplessness he felt on such occasions. He did his best to behave appropriately, but he never knew what to say.

  After violence has spoken, what’s left to add?

  Not having any gloves, Lessard took a tissue and used it to extract the victim’s wallet. Inside, he found some cash and a driver’s licence with a photo. The corpse sprawled before him was, beyond any doubt, Jacques Mongeau.

  The name rang a bell. Was he well known?

  Lessard opened a drawer and found an agenda, a packet of stamps, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a few condoms. No great surprise there. The man wasn’t the first or the last to have enjoyed a little action on the side.

  He heard approaching footsteps and voices calling out. Fernandez and Sirois entered the office, followed a moment later by Pearson, who handed him a cup of coffee and a pair of latex gloves. Constable Nguyen was in the corridor, cordoning off the area with police tape. The entire sixth floor would now be a crime scene.

  Fernandez and Pearson both reacted with brief revulsion when they saw the body. Sirois was impassive.

  “The technicians are on their way,” Fernandez said.

  “Who are they sending?” Lessard asked.

  “Doug Adams and his assistant.”

  The detective sergeant nodded. Adams wasn’t exactly the world’s most exciting guy, but he was conscientious and trustworthy. He knew his work, and he was unfailingly discreet.

  “Who took the call?” Lessard asked.

  “I did,” Fernandez said. “It was his secretary who found him. She’s being treated for shock.”

  “I want to see her as soon as possible.”

  While the conversation continued, Pearson and Sirois were examining the victim’s wounds.

  “Find out who came in here before I arrived, apart from the secretary. Did the security guard touch the body?”

  Fernandez was scribbling in a notebook.

  “Has anyone checked for surveillance cameras on this floor?”

  “I just did,” Pearson said. “Negative.”

  They observed the crime scene in silence. Sirois was idly fiddling with his ballpoint. Fernandez and Pearson were taking notes. Lessard tried to reach Commander Tanguay. He left a message on his voice mail. It dawned on him that the others were waiting for him to speak. What should he say? He tried to organize his thoughts.

  “Okay,” he said, “what do we know?”

  “Jacques Mongeau was the executive director of the hospital,” Sirois began. “He was found dead by his secretary.”

  “There’s a severe wound in Mongeau’s chest,” Lessard continued. “His throat’s been slit and his right index finger has been cut off. Adams should be able to confirm this, but it looks like the injuries were caused by a knife.”

  “The stab wound is deep and irregular. I’m guessing the weapon was a commando knife,” Pearson said. He ha
d served in the army before becoming a cop.

  “So the killer may be in the military,” Fernandez suggested.

  Lessard took a sip of coffee and continued.

  “We don’t know the murderer’s identity, or his motive. Apart from the overturned chair, there are no signs of a struggle, but it’s clear that Mongeau was killed in this room.” Lessard took a step toward the window. “It doesn’t look like he tried to escape. Did he feel safe? Did he have an appointment with his assailant? If so, did the secretary see him? Was the office searched? Is anything missing?”

  The questions hung in the air.

  “We can rule out robbery. The victim’s cash and credit cards are still in his wallet.”

  “What I don’t get is the severed finger,” Sirois interjected. “It’s like some kind of ritual, or the settling of a score.”

  “I was coming to that. Why cut off the man’s finger? Why the right index? Was the injury inflicted before death? Should we be reading something into it?”

  “There’s another possibility,” Fernandez suggested. “Maybe he was tortured. The assailant may have been trying to get information out of him.”

  “His screams would have been heard,” Sirois said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Lessard said. “There’s padding on his office door.”

  “What if the information was the finger itself?” Pearson mused.

  “What do you mean?” Lessard asked.

  “Fingerprint recognition,” Pearson said.

  Everyone was silent for a few seconds.

  “That’s a lot of unanswered questions,” Fernandez sighed.

  Though still confused, Lessard knew the detail was an important one. It would be crucial for the medical examiner to determine whether the finger had been cut off before or after death.

  Pearson knelt down and looked under the desk.

  “Nadja, dig into the guy’s past. We don’t know what we’re looking for, but we need to find the key that unlocks all this. Who was he? Did he have enemies? A mistress?”

  “Which amounts to the same thing,” Sirois said. No one laughed at the joke.

  “Check his bank records. Have any large amounts gone in or out lately? Find out whether his fingerprints are on file. Did he own a safe with fingerprint recognition? You get the idea.”