Without Blood

by Martin Michaud

  Had she participated in Mongeau’s intimate soirées?

  Had she become a problem that needed to be eliminated?

  Starting now, the team would have to concentrate its efforts on the young woman. She was the missing piece that would enable them to solve the puzzle.

  Pearson objected that Lessard was jumping to conclusions.

  “What proof do we have that the BMW was the car that struck Simone Fortin?”

  “We have an eyewitness. We have the impact damage on the hood of the BMW. We have the piece of denim that was caught in the bumper. And we know the car was in the neighbourhood after the hit and run occurred. What more do you want?”

  “Okay,” said Pearson, not giving up, “let’s say it’s the same car. What proof do we have that it wasn’t just an accident? What proof do we have that Simone Fortin is in danger?”

  “This is what I’m trying to explain to you! The slip of paper marked 4100 Côte-des-Neiges. The killer was waiting for her, Pearson! First he runs her over. Then he parks the car, intending to finish her off, but the crowd of onlookers gets in his way. In the meantime, the car is stolen.”

  “Nice theory, Victor, but it doesn’t explain why the killer keeps changing his modus operandi. He murders the first victim with a knife and sticks the body in the trunk of the BMW. He cuts a finger off the second and tries to kill the third in a hit and run. And let’s not forget the disc we found in Mongeau’s office, or the blog. Do you see a pattern in all this?”

  The feeling that he might be mistaken weighed on Lessard once more. Was he leading the team in the wrong direction?

  “It’s just a hypothesis, but I’d be willing to bet that there’s a connection between Mongeau’s murder, the body in the BMW, and the hit and run involving Simone Fortin. We need to look into her past, dig up every scrap of available information, and find the missing link.”

  “Maybe I’ve been watching the wrong science shows,” Sirois said, laughing, “but I thought the best place to find the missing link was Africa.”

  Lessard glared at him. This was no time for jokes.

  “Should we drop everything else?” Fernandez asked.

  Lessard hesitated.

  “Let’s make this our focus for the next few hours. By the way, have you heard from Simone Fortin?”

  “No.”

  “We need to track her down in a hurry. Do you think she left the hospital under her own steam? I wouldn’t have thought that was possible after being in a coma.”

  “Good point. I’ll talk to the nurse who was on duty. We need to know what condition she’s in.”

  “I’ll call Ariane Bélanger.” He reddened, but no one noticed. “She may be able to help us.”

  “Unless Simone Fortin is already dead,” Sirois said.

  Lessard’s response was sharp and instantaneous.

  “Keep the helpful comments to yourself, Sirois.”

  He looked around at the group. “I want her description sent to all patrol units. Let’s go!”

  Not another death. Please. It would be more than he could bear.

  Lessard poured himself a cup of coffee and retreated into his office. His chair creaked under his weight. When he reached for the phone, he realized that his hand was trembling. He took some time to compose himself before dialing the number. Once again, his call went to voice mail.

  “Hello, Ariane, it’s Victor Lessard.” His voice was cool and professional. “I need to talk to you right away about Simone Fortin. It’s urgent.” His voice softened a little. “Uh … I also want to apologize about last night. I had to leave in a hurry. I’ll explain later.” Then he turned professional again. “Please call me as soon as you get this message.”

  He left his cell number and hung up. Only after cutting the connection did he realize that he’d forgotten to say goodbye.

  Why must he always be so awkward?

  ------------------------

  Ariane had managed to do the impossible. She had prevailed on Mathilde to get dressed.

  Then she had taken a lightning-quick shower.

  The challenge now was to find a parking space on Sherbrooke Street. After searching for a while, she gave up and left the car in a no-parking zone.

  She took a sip of coffee as she watched Mathilde bouncing around on the dance floor. When the class was over, they’d stop off at Simone’s place to feed the cat. Ariane had been relieved to get a message from her, but she’d also been concerned to hear that she was so far away. What was Simone doing way out there?

  She thought affectionately of Victor Lessard. She had enjoyed their evening together, but he seemed so shy. He’d crept away without a word. Ariane was certain that she’d scared him.

  Would he call today?

  ------------------------

  Lessard had considered going home for a nap, but he decided to stretch out on his office rug for a few minutes instead.

  He had just rolled his jacket into a ball to serve as a pillow when he heard a commotion in the corridor. Voices were being raised, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  Please, please … not another dead body.

  He opened the door and found himself nose to nose with a crimson-faced Tanguay. There were flecks of foam at the corners of the commander’s mouth.

  “Do you think I’m a complete idiot, Lessard?”

  “I was just going to call you, Commander. We have an important lead —”

  “Save it for Major Crimes. I’m taking you off the case.”

  Lessard didn’t have time to reflect on the fact that he was putting his career on the line with what he was about to say. His reply came out like an arrow, swift and true, and hit the bull’s eye.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Tanguay stared at him. “Excuse me?”

  Lessard swallowed. “You heard me, sir.”

  “You don’t have a say in the matter, Lessard!”

  Tanguay was glaring at him. The detective sergeant took a moment to steady himself. Everything hinged on the words that were about to come out of his mouth.

  “If you want to transfer the file to the Major Crimes Unit, that’s up to you, Commander. But if you do, there’s a fair chance that certain photographs will come out — photographs I would have thought you preferred to keep private.”

  Tanguay’s face went white. The bluff had worked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lessard. Is that a threat?”

  “Let’s just call it a friendly warning.”

  For a few seconds, the two men looked at each other. Then Tanguay lowered his eyes.

  “You have no conception of the shitstorm you’re walking into, Lessard.”

  He turned and marched away down the corridor. Before going around the corner, he punched the wall hard, leaving a crater in the plaster. Tanguay had powerful friends. Lessard was certain that his career as a cop had just ended.

  He was a dead man walking.

  28

  Waldorf pulled the car over on a dirt road beside a chalet. Thick white smoke was rising from the chimney. As we crossed the threshold, I recoiled. A young man was sitting in the kitchen, handcuffed to a chair.

  “I forgot to tell you, Simone. Our friend Laurent has agreed to go cold turkey.”

  The young man turned away, humiliated.

  The resemblance between father and son was striking. They had the same fine features and magnetic eyes. Laurent’s build was more athletic and imposing than his father’s.

  “I know,” Waldorf said, noticing my reaction. “They really do look alike. Did you have a good night, Laurent?”

  “Fabulous,” he grumbled. “Don’t ever go into the hotel business. You’ll lose your shirt.”

  The scarred man prepared a syringe and injected its contents into Laurent, who didn’t flinch. I watched in shocked silence.

  “It’s to help him get through the initial phase of withdrawal,” Waldorf said.

  “Unlock the cuffs, Waldorf! I want to take a shower.”


  When Laurent came out of the bathroom, he was freshly shaven. His damp hair had been swept back from his forehead. He had put on clean blue jeans and a black shirt. Waldorf, who was pouring coffee, let out a low whistle.

  “You look like a new man.”

  “Give it a rest, Waldorf. Like I said, you’re not my type.”

  Laurent looked me over.

  “Is she the tangible evidence?” he asked.

  “She is indeed,” Waldorf answered. He turned to me. “Simone, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  I was seated at the table with a cup of coffee in front of me. Without understanding what was going on, I nodded. Waldorf led Laurent into the bedroom. When they re-emerged, Waldorf was wearing his coat and holding a sports bag. I reacted without thinking.

  “Are you leaving, Kurt?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Yes.”

  I got up. I didn’t want him to leave without explaining what he’d said earlier about messengers. There were dozens of other details I hadn’t yet asked him about. I glared at him resentfully. He raised a hand to placate me.

  “Laurent will fill in the gaps. At this point, he knows as much as I do.”

  My mind was teeming with questions. I couldn’t just stand there like an idiot while Waldorf escaped. There was no way I’d let him run out on me.

  “You said you received a message. Why didn’t Miles give me one?”

  It wasn’t just a question. It was an expression of bitter disappointment.

  “Simone, I’ve kept the promise I made to Miles. As far as everything else is concerned, I’m going to trust his judgment. I don’t think your being here is simply a coincidence.”

  I became agitated.

  “Kurt, you can’t leave now!” I said, making a pathetic effort to block his path.

  Gently, he moved me aside.

  I wanted to hold him back by force. I wanted to punch him in the face. Laurent’s gaze was fixed on the wood grain of the table.

  But as Kurt was leaving, he called out.

  “Hey, Waldorf!”

  Kurt stopped. Wringing his hands, Laurent spoke in a voice that was barely audible.

  “Thank you.”

  The former neurosurgeon waved before vanishing into the morning light. His departure left me drained. My strength was gone.

  Laurent and I looked at each other for a few seconds.

  He was staring at me, expressionless. The silence was unsettling, but I held his gaze.

  “I’d like an explanation,” I said at last, to dispel the awkwardness.

  “There’s nothing to explain.”

  He stood up and went to the window. I waited for him to speak again.

  “I don’t know what Waldorf told you about me,” he said at last.

  “Not much,” I answered uncertainly.

  “I guess you’ve figured out that I have a drinking problem.”

  What was I supposed to say to that?

  I decided to say nothing. Was it my silence that won his trust?

  At Laurent’s suggestion, we went for a walk on the pristine snow that covered the beach. I was wearing boots and an immense down coat that I’d found in a closet.

  “Waldorf told me earlier that you met Miles,” he said.

  He sighed and looked out across the water. A freighter was making its way through the ice floes.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “It was very nice of you to come all the way out here, but I really don’t feel like having someone else try to convince me that my father is living in a parallel reality.”

  “Is that what Kurt told you?”

  “Yes. It all started a few weeks ago. He sent me a letter claiming that while he was in a coma, he’d been in contact with Miles. At first, I thought he was just some nut job. I didn’t reply. But not long afterward, a second letter came, along with documents proving that he’d had an accident and been hospitalized. The envelope also contained newspaper clippings about his career.”

  “You still didn’t believe him, though, did you?”

  “What did that stuff prove? That he was a successful guy who’d spent some time in a coma, and now he’d lost his mind. As far as I was concerned, it was just another hard-luck story. But then he started harassing me. I lost my temper. I wanted him to leave me alone.”

  “So why did you agree to see him? What changed your mind?”

  “I didn’t agree. He just showed up.”

  Laurent started walking again, his hands thrust in his pockets. I looked into the distance. The sky was full of low, cottony clouds.

  “And are you convinced now?”

  “I don’t know anymore. To tell you the truth, he troubled me. He was nothing like the raving lunatic I’d expected him to be. He told me things that only my father and I ever knew about. But I have to say, even now, I have trouble believing that Miles is living somewhere else.”

  “I agree, it’s a hard thing to accept.”

  “Did Miles also give you a message?”

  “What is all this stuff about messages, Laurent? I don’t understand.”

  He studied my face, gauging my sincerity.

  “Miles told Gustave and Kurt to let me know.”

  “To let you know what?”

  ------------------------

  He’d been shadowing Ariane Bélanger all morning.

  Discreetly, through the front window of the building, he had observed the child’s dance class while keeping a constant eye on her mother. Ariane’s attention had been focused on a fashion magazine. As far as he could tell, she hadn’t received any phone calls. But he wasn’t discouraged.

  Sooner or later, Simone Fortin would turn up.

  The little girl was adorable. A tiny flower in a heartless world.

  He knew a thing or two about children. They were incontrovertibly the most precious treasure of all. Yet society scarcely lifted a finger to protect them.

  Daycare workers and teachers were underpaid. Intent on preserving a few crummy private-sector jobs, the government preferred to give tax breaks to multinational corporations whose only goal was to increase their profits.

  How could we hope to create a better world if we didn’t invest in our children?

  Ariane Bélanger and the little girl stepped out onto the sidewalk. The child was skipping along, holding her mother’s hand. Her tutu was visible under her coat.

  He followed at a distance, never losing sight of them.

  ------------------------

  “Miles wants me to take out his feeding tube. He wants to die.”

  I stared, astonished.

  “Do you know why I’ve gone all these years without having it removed?”

  Laurent fixed his gaze on me. I contemplated my boots, which looked like dark spots on the snow. His heartache was touching me to the very core.

  “People think it’s all about religious convictions, but it’s not. I understand the diagnosis. I know my father is in a neurovegetative state. What I don’t know is whether that state is irreversible. What if the doctors are wrong? What if, a few years from now, science figures out a way to give him his life back? And who’s to say he won’t wake up all by himself someday?”

  “I’m not judging you, Laurent. Euthanasia is a huge step.”

  He let out a long sigh.

  “And if he’s living in a parallel reality, that complicates everything. How can I be sure he really wants to die? How can I be sure I won’t be cutting short his long struggle to stay alive?”

  I didn’t speak. What he needed right now was to be listened to.

  “If I knew for certain that he was ready to end it, I’d do whatever it took to honour his wish, even if that meant committing a crime. But who am I supposed to believe? Gustave and Waldorf, who tell me he wants to die? Or you, who didn’t hear him say anything about his intentions?”

  Laurent was about to say something else, but he changed his mind. We were approaching the top of a rise. He helped me climb the las
t few metres. From the summit, we had a spectacular view of the river and l’île aux Pommes, a narrow, rocky island a few kilometres in length.

  “The day it happened, we’d gone sailing. We had stopped for a picnic lunch on that island over there. The sun was shining in a clear sky. Since my mom’s death, he had always urged me to live every moment to the fullest. He was never sad, never defeated.”

  Laurent told me that after arriving at the wharf, Miles had asked him to tie up the boat. He described the accident and explained how the coroner had reached the conclusion that an improperly fastened rope was the cause of Miles’s catastrophic fall.

  “The people of the town never said anything. No one pointed a finger at me.” He wiped away a tear with his thumb. “If only I’d taken a few extra seconds to tie up the boat securely. But I was on autopilot, doing something I’d done hundreds of times before.”

  “It was an accident,” I said.

  “How is a person supposed to go on living after something like that? What’s left? I mean, can you even understand what it feels like to be responsible for such a serious accident, for its terrible consequences?”

  I saw Étienne Beauregard-Delorme standing a few steps away, motionless, staring at me. The pallor of his face accentuated his blood-red lips. He was simply standing there, without emotion, without reproach, mute and disembodied. I reached out with one hand, convinced that I could touch him. As suddenly as the vision had appeared, it was gone.

  Our paths had been identical. Guilt had flayed us alive. We both bore the crushing burden of our past actions. Would there be time enough in Laurent’s life to find redemption after the error for which he had condemned himself? And what about me? After so many years spent fleeing my past, would I ever achieve grace?

  “You’re wrong, Laurent. I do know how it feels to be responsible for someone’s death.”

  We stood on that hilltop for a long time as I told him my story. When I was done, we went on standing there for an even longer time, gazing at the river in silence.

  29

  The breakthrough that Lessard had been hoping for came shortly after 10:00 a.m. He had nodded off when Fernandez and Sirois burst into his office. In fact, he’d been dreaming. The two caribou heads he’d seen at Baron Sports were moving their lips, trying to talk to him, but he couldn’t understand their gurgles.