“I need some information about a former employee of your hospital, Simone Fortin. Specifically, I’d like to know about the case that brought her before the ethics committee in 1998.”
“I don’t have the file in front of me, but I remember the facts pretty clearly. It was a somewhat unusual case.”
“Can you summarize it for me?”
“Let’s see …” Loranger had a sudden coughing fit. Lessard recognized the signs. The man was a smoker. “Dr. Fortin had to deal with two patients simultaneously — a young boy and his grandfather. They’d been in a car wreck. First she stabilized the child, who only had a fractured leg. Then she turned her attention to the grandfather, whose condition seemed to be critical. While she was dealing with the grandfather, the boy went into respiratory distress. Despite Dr. Fortin’s attempts to resuscitate him, he died. The parents filed a complaint, alleging medical malpractice. After an administrative inquiry, we organized a conciliation meeting with the parents. That’s standard practice. Dr. Fortin and her department head, Stefan Gustaffson, were also present.” At the mention of Gustaffson’s name, Lessard looked over at Fernandez. “Based on the facts, the committee concluded that correct procedures had been followed and that the child’s death, though unfortunate, couldn’t reasonably have been foreseen.”
“So Simone Fortin did nothing wrong?”
“Correct. But the parents didn’t see it that way. Their reaction was … well, let’s just say it was extremely hostile. That’s why I remember the file so clearly. During the hearing, the boy’s father tried to assault Dr. Fortin physically. He even uttered death threats. I had to intervene with another colleague to remove him from the room.”
“Did Dr. Fortin file criminal charges?”
“No, she decided not to pursue the matter.”
“What about Jacques Mongeau? Was he on the committee?”
“Jacques! What terrible news! We’re all just heartsick about it.”
“Mr. Loranger, please answer the question. Was Mongeau on the committee?”
“No. Although parents would occasionally go to the executive director hoping to overturn a decision. I couldn’t tell you if that happened in this case. In any event, committee decisions are non-reviewable. The executive director has no power to change the outcome.”
Lessard found himself thinking he’d been on the wrong track the whole time. Loranger had just confirmed that the killings were unrelated to Mongeau’s erotic pictures. The solution to the crimes was much simpler.
And much more terrible.
“If what you’re telling me is correct, I need to know the father’s identity. And his home address. I understand that this is confidential information, but there’s a life at stake. I’ll send a patrol unit to pick you up.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can jump in my car and be at my office in ten minutes. Our files have been stored at an external facility since 2002, but I keep computer records with a summary of each case, as well as the names and addresses of the parties. Finding this particular one may take a little time. I didn’t index my files back then.”
“Please hurry.” Lessard gave him his number. “I’ll stay where I am until I hear from you.”
“Detective Lessard? You’ve piqued my curiosity. Does this have to do with the investigation into Jacques’s murder?”
“I can’t answer that for now, but you’ll know soon enough.”
The detective sergeant sat there in shock for a few seconds, then banged the table with his fist. Fernandez approached him. He knew they were on the right track at last. Until this moment, he’d been steering the investigation in the wrong direction.
“I screwed up.”
“We don’t know that yet, Victor.”
He stood up and kicked the wastebasket, which tumbled across the room, scattering papers everywhere. Why hadn’t he figured it out earlier? Why? He hoped with all his heart that Simone Fortin was still alive.
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Kilometre 142
“Are you asleep?” Laurent asked.
“Mmm?”
Kilometre 175
The car stopped. I opened my eyes. We had pulled up at a service station. Laurent had stepped out of the car. I closed my eyes again. The door opened.
“I got you a sandwich. Do you like mayonnaise?”
I sat up in the seat. I had dozed off. “Yes, thanks.”
“I came this close to buying a few beers,” he said, looking at me nervously.
He started the car. We ate in silence.
32
Lessard picked up on the first ring.
“Do you have a pen and paper?” Loranger asked. The detective sergeant wrote down the information that Loranger gave him.
“This is a Montreal address,” Lessard said. “I thought the boy had been treated in Quebec City.”
“As I recall, the accident happened during a family visit. Do you want me to fax you the file?” Lessard gave him the number, thanked him, and hung up.
He handed Fernandez a piece of paper covered with his illegible handwriting.
“Have the tactical squad get ready. We’ll go in as soon as you confirm that the address is still good.”
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Kilometre 226
“Do you miss helping people get well?”
That morning, on the icy rise overlooking the river, I had opened up to Laurent. I had explained that I’d formerly been a physician, and that I held myself responsible for the death of a young boy.
“Sometimes,” I answered.
“Why did you become a doctor?”
“Because of my mother, I think. I was completing my bachelor’s degree in computer science when she died of a ruptured aneurysm.”
“You think her death influenced your decision?”
“My father had left us for one of his mistresses when I was twelve. My mom had a particular gift for making me feel special. I was devastated when she died. I guess going into medicine was my way of giving some kind of meaning to her death.”
“What about your father? Are you still in touch with him?”
What was he getting at? Did he want me to admit that my father was a complete asshole?
“Mom’s death brought us a little closer. He helped me financially while I was a student. I reached out in distress the night I lost that young patient. I needed his support. True to form, he only called back a week later, between meetings. I haven’t spoken to him since.”
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Pearson was on the phone, talking to his wife in a low voice. Sirois was smoking a cigarette.
Lessard had almost succumbed to temptation a couple of times, but he had promised himself he wouldn’t smoke, which put him in a terrible mood.
“Stop jiggling your leg, Sirois, you’re driving me nuts.”
“Sorry, Victor.”
Just then, Fernandez burst into the conference room, out of breath.
“We had the wrong address. They moved to Quebec City in 1999, less than a year after the death of their son.”
She handed Lessard a sheet with the updated address written on it in block letters. He swore. He had been hoping that they’d be able to surround the killer’s home in the next few minutes and, with a little luck, arrest him. This new information changed all that.
“We’ve got to contact the Quebec City Police and have them send units to this address immediately. If we assume that our suspect is after Simone Fortin, he won’t be at home. But they should be cautious. There’s no way to know whether the place is a crime scene …”
He turned to the team.
“Someone will have to go to Quebec City to coordinate with local police. Any element that can help us locate the killer needs to be analyzed.”
Sirois jumped to his feet and grabbed his jacket.
“I’m on it.”
“Take a service car,” Lessard said.
But Sirois was already gone.
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>
Ariane parked her car less than two hundred metres from Simone’s apartment. She turned to Mathilde, who was sitting in the back seat.
“You can take off your seat belt, sweetie.”
The child gave her mother a sly look. “Will you let me hold Mozart, Mom?”
“Of course, my love.”
Ariane unfastened her seat belt and got out of the car. As she was stepping onto the sidewalk, a Buick Regal pulled up behind her car.
She took Mathilde’s hand and they headed for the apartment. The little girl was dragging her booted feet as she went along.
“Do ballerinas make noise when they walk, sweetie?”
“No, Mom.”
“Show me how they walk.”
The child began to tiptoe.
“Much better.”
Ariane helped Mathilde climb the stairs. She took out her key ring and unlocked the door. They stepped into the apartment. Mathilde ran up the hallway.
“Here, kitty, kitty.”
“Mathilde, come and take off your boots!”
He waited for a minute, then went up the stairs. The door swung open when he pushed. He closed it noiselessly behind him.
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Quebec City
Guy Simoneau was the first officer to arrive on the scene, accompanied by his partner, François Béland.
Simoneau was forty-one, a native of the Charlesbourg district of Quebec City. An experienced, competent officer who knew nothing about the Mongeau case.
With his hand on his service weapon, he got out of the patrol car and walked toward the modest brick bungalow. The shabby, poorly maintained house was conspicuous among the neat little homes that lined the street. Followed by his partner, Simoneau knocked several times on the front door. There was no answer.
“We’re going in,” he said.
He drove his shoulder into the aging door, which gave way with a feeble crack. Before stepping inside, he unholstered his Glock.
“Police! If anyone is here, identify yourself.”
“It stinks,” Béland said.
Simoneau looked around. The kitchen was littered with dirty dishes and rotting food.
“The place is disgusting,” he said.
The two cops waited a few seconds, then started advancing slowly. There was no one in the kitchen or living room. They started moving along the hallway that led to the bedrooms.
A door at the end of the hallway was closed. Simoneau heard a rustle and felt his heart begin to race.
“Police! If anyone is here, identify yourself.”
The officers looked at each other. On a signal from Simoneau, Béland broke through the door.
The room was lit by numerous votive candles. A thin woman lay half-naked on the floor. A syringe was still planted in her arm.
Simoneau approached cautiously.
“She’s strung out. Call an ambulance.”
The woman stirred. Her fist was clenched. Fearing that she might have a weapon, Simoneau pried her fingers open and took the object she’d been clutching. It was a photograph of a little boy, his face dotted with freckles.
Cute kid, he thought.
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Ariane was opening a can of cat food when she became aware that someone was standing behind her.
A tingle of fear ran down her spine, but before she could react, a hand was pressed to her mouth, drawing her backward. She felt the cold metal of a blade on her throat.
Before she knew what was happening, her assailant began to pull her toward the bedroom.
She tried to scream, but her voice was muffled by the hand over her mouth. Her greatest fear was for Mathilde. She wanted to yell a warning to flee.
A voice murmured in her ear.
“Calm down, Ariane. If you co-operate, I won’t hurt you or your child.”
A man. How did he know her name?
They had reached the bedroom when Mathilde appeared at the other end of the hallway, near the front door.
The child froze. It took her a few seconds to process what she was seeing. A bad man was threatening her mother with a big knife.
But he was looking at her in a nice way. “Come here, sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s just a game. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”
Mathilde hesitated. Her mother’s eyes were sending her a message that she didn’t understand.
At school, she’d been taught to look for houses with a Block Parent sign. She decided the best thing to do would be to go outside and try to get help. She hoped her mother wouldn’t be mad at her.
She started to back away, keeping her eyes on the man.
“No, Mathilde,” the man said. “Don’t move!”
For a fraction of a second, his grip loosened. Ariane managed to free herself. “Run!”
Ariane felt a cold stroke cut through her carotid artery.
She tried to yell again, but all that came out was a bubbling noise. Her legs went weak and she fell to the floor.
She put her hands to her throat. Stunned, she saw thick blood running between her fingers. The room became blurry. Very gently, it started to fade. She was slipping away.
She realized that she would never see Mathilde grow up. She wouldn’t drive her to school when she started a new grade in the fall, wouldn’t help her with lessons and homework, wouldn’t see her first ballet recital, wouldn’t take her in her arms when she went through her first heartbreak, wouldn’t be there to watch as she received her diplomas, wouldn’t meet the people who mattered in her life, wouldn’t see her children, wouldn’t offer wise advice on how to avoid the innumerable pitfalls of life. She would eventually be nothing but a distant memory.
Why?
What had she done to deserve this?
She only had the strength to breathe a single word.
“Mathilde.”
Then she was silent.
It had taken a few seconds for her life to be cut short.
There was a knock at the door.
Constable Nguyen had no idea of what had just happened inside the apartment when he heard the lock slide open.
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Lessard was alternating sips of coffee with swigs of Pepto-Bismol when Fernandez informed him that the police officers dispatched to Stefan Gustaffson’s home had just found a disc dated March 31st, 2005, bearing the same label as the one discovered in Mongeau’s office. Error message: 10161416.
The disc contained photographs of Stefan Gustaffson’s body. Lessard should have been pleased. The disc confirmed that the two killings were linked, and it helped pin down the time of death. But the wait was eating away at him.
He headed for the men’s room, planning to plunge his face into a sink full of cold water. Just then, his cellphone buzzed in his pocket.
“Lessard.”
“This is Guy Simoneau of the Quebec City Police. I’m at the suspect’s house. We found his wife, Isabelle Beauregard, in the home. She’s high as a kite, and the ambulance guys are saying it’ll be hours before she comes down. Clearly an addict. No sign of Pierre Delorme.”
“Shit!” Lessard said.
“They live in a quiet suburb where everybody knows everybody. According to the neighbours, the two of them have been on hard drugs for a few years now.”
“Does anyone know where the husband might have gone?”
“Nobody’s seen him in a few days. Every so often, he’s admitted to the Robert-Giffard Hospital for psychiatric treatment. One neighbour thinks that’s where he is. I’m on my way over there now. My partner’s searching the house. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more information.”
It occurred to Lessard that psychiatric treatment might be compatible with the profile they had put together for the killer. Amytal was used for the management of anxiety disorders.
“Tell your partner and the technicians to treat the house as a potential crime scene. And have him fax us a photograph of the suspect as soon as he finds one.”
He was about to hang up when he remembered the dream he’d had earlier that morning: the two caribou heads. He didn’t know why, but that image was haunting him.
What had the sales clerk at Baron Sports said about the knife?
“Hunters love them.”
“Simoneau? Be careful. We may be dealing with a hunter.”
“I know. I saw a stuffed moose head in the basement.”
Did that confirm Lessard’s intuition? Did they have the right man? He’d have given anything to be in that patrol car instead of Simoneau. He felt like a bystander at his own investigation, helpless as a child.
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Kilometre 336
“Human beings are weird creatures. We’re the only species in the animal kingdom that prolongs suffering, that extends the lives of cells after they’ve stopped functioning. To tell you the truth, Simone, I ask myself every single day why I haven’t had the feeding tube removed. Is it my own death I’m trying to postpone? Maybe I just need to maintain some connection with the land of the living. Apart from Miles, I have no one in the world.”
“You’re not the only person who faces those questions,” I said. “Everybody in a situation like yours has to confront the same doubts.”
Kilometre 375
“I need to think. I’m going to go for a walk through the cemetery where my father worked.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
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Pearson came in and handed Lessard a couple of sheets of paper.
“This is all we’ve got at the moment.”
Pierre Delorme had been born in Montreal on March 7th, 1964. He had worked as a firefighter for the City of Montreal from February 1984 until December 1999. A few parking tickets, one speeding ticket. No criminal record. In March 2000, he had secured a transfer to the Quebec City Fire Department.
Lessard dialed the number of Delorme’s fire station in Quebec City and asked to speak to the senior officer on duty. His call was transferred to Captain Bolduc. He introduced himself. There was no time for tact or formalities.
“We’re trying to find Pierre Delorme. We think he may have committed a serious crime. Murder.”
“Pierre? Impossible!”
“Why do you say that? Doesn’t he turn violent occasionally?”
Without Blood Page 27