“No. He’s gentle, a shy person, very reserved by nature. He may have been different before the death of his son, but believe me, these days it’s almost as though he isn’t there at all.”
“You know about Étienne?”
“Everyone at the station knows. He put in for a transfer a few months after the boy died. We’re like a family here. My wife and I have done everything we could to be supportive. Étienne was a miracle in their lives. His death shattered them.”
“And the drugs?”
Bolduc hesitated.
“It came on gradually,” he said at last. “About two years ago, we started to realize that something was wrong. We covered for him for a while, but the problem was deep-seated. I finally convinced him to see a psychologist. He’s been on sick leave for the last fifteen months. He called here one time, in really bad shape. With some help from another member of the team, I went and got him. He was delirious. Hallucinating. We brought him to the Robert-Giffard Hospital, where he was admitted right away. The doctor explained to us that he was seriously depressed. When he’s in treatment, he manages to function normally. But as soon as he’s discharged, he goes home, stops taking his medication, and gets back into the heroin with Isabelle.”
“But you say he’s never violent?”
“That’s right. The medication calms him down. And when he relapses, he’s only a danger to himself.”
It was a sad situation. Lessard almost pitied the guy. Then he remembered the bodies of the two victims, and his compassion evaporated.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of weeks ago. Madeleine and I brought them some food. We didn’t know what else to do for them. They’re wasting away.”
“How was he?”
“Totally drugged out. He didn’t even recognize me.”
“Does he have family? Friends?”
“I think his father’s still alive. He may have a sister. But we never see them.”
“Was Delorme a hunter?”
“Pierre? No. Hockey’s his sport. He’s one of the only Canadiens fans at the station. You have to understand that since the Nordiques left town, things haven’t been the same.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“If he isn’t at home, try the shopping centre near the psychiatric hospital. That’s where I picked him up last time.”
Lessard saw on his phone screen that Simoneau was trying to reach him. He hung up abruptly, without saying goodbye to Captain Bolduc.
“I just spoke to one of his doctors,” Simoneau said.
“Is he in the hospital at the moment?”
“No. They haven’t seen him in two weeks. Every now and then, he’s admitted for a short stay, especially when he’s having a breakdown. They’ve been treating him for severe depression. The doctor also confirms that he’s a heroin addict, which makes for an explosive cocktail. The heroin can exacerbate the effects of his medication, and vice versa.”
“Does he have violent tendencies?”
“The doctor says yes, but they’re only directed at himself.”
“Is he suicidal?”
“And prone to self-mutilation, from what they told me.”
“Is it conceivable that he committed the acts we suspect him of?”
“The doctor seemed surprised at first. He said those crimes didn’t fit with the profile. But then he added that in psychiatry, anything’s possible.”
Lessard slammed a fist down on the table. They weren’t making any progress.
“Put out a search alert. Check the shopping centre near the psychiatric hospital. I just spoke to one of his former colleagues. Apparently he hangs out there.”
“That’s always one of the first places we look.”
“By the way, do you know what they’ve prescribed for him?”
“You mean the name of the medication?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask. Is it important?”
“It could be. Ask the doctor if he has a prescription for Amytal. A-m-y-t-a-l.”
“Got it. I’ll call you back.”
------------------------
Kilometre 412
“The little boy you lost …”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
I dove back into my memory and saw Étienne lying on the gurney.
“I said three cc’s?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Are you sure?”
The nurse nods.
“He’s in respiratory depression. Put him on oxygen.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse says calmly.
“Did you call Stefan?”
“I left a message on his pager.”
The monitor suddenly emits a strident, continuous alarm. There’s a dull roaring in my ears. My hands are damp. A drop of sweat runs off my eyebrow, stinging my eye. The light is harsh, blinding. The nurse looks at me. What is she saying? Count. One, two, one, two. Count. Keep counting. Come on, Simone. Pick up the defibrillator.
“Clear!”
A white flash. Again, Simone. Do it again. A second white flash. Another injection of adrenalin. Done. My hands are shaking. Cardiac massage. Count. Keep counting. Come on, little guy, hang in there. Don’t give up on me! Breathe, Étienne. Breathe! The nurse is looking at me. She puts a hand on my shoulder. Her voice is gentle.
“It’s over. There’s no pulse.”
“There had been a car accident. When the grandfather came in, he was in cardiac arrest. The boy was conscious. He had an open fracture of the right femur. His blood pressure was falling, so I told the nurse to administer intravenous medication while I stabilized the grandfather. I got the dosage wrong. The nurse didn’t double-check. It wasn’t a huge mistake, but serious enough to be lethal. The child went into respiratory depression. I couldn’t resuscitate him. Stefan, the head of my department, showed up five minutes later. By then it was all over.”
“Did the grandfather die, too?”
“No. His pelvis was fractured. He pulled through after spending a few days in intensive care. I tried to keep working afterward, but as the weeks went by, I couldn’t get a grip on myself. Every time I saw a child … Étienne was five years old. He had a mop of tousled hair and freckles on his nose, and there was a heart drawn in ballpoint on his right hand.” I stopped to wipe away my tears. “Stefan made sure I wasn’t bothered by the hospital administration, and he saw to it that the death was ruled accidental. Was he simply covering his own ass because we were a couple? The boy’s parents never believed it, especially not the father. There were some death threats. My relationship with Stefan began to go downhill. I couldn’t forgive him for getting on with his life as though nothing had happened. And at a deeper level, I suppose I was angry that he hadn’t been there to help me. I’ve always thought, rightly or wrongly, that those five minutes would have changed everything, that he’d have caught my mistake, that the little boy’s life would have been saved.”
“So you left?”
“‘Fled’ would be a better word. Quebec City was suddenly too small. I had sworn to myself that I’d never talk to my father or Stefan again.”
We were silent for a moment.
“There were days when I wanted to end it all, to inject myself with the vials of morphine that I kept in a drawer of my bedside table.”
Laurent nodded.
“I still think about the boy every day. He’d be twelve years old today.”
------------------------
To keep his anxiety at bay, Lessard tried to stay busy.
Why hadn’t Langevin delivered that damn composite sketch? It should have been done hours ago. The detective sergeant searched the Montreal Police directory and found his cell number. Langevin was in his twenties. A tall, gangly kid with bleached hair.
“Hello?” said a female voice.
“Xavier Langevin?” Lessard growled.
He heard whispers and muffled laughter at the other end
of the line.
“Uhh … he’s kind of busy right now. Can I take a message?”
“Tell him it’s Victor Lessard, and if he doesn’t get on the line right now, I’m going to shove my gun so far down his throat it’ll come out his asshole.”
He heard more whispers.
“Detective Lessard, I —”
“Shut up and listen. Fifteen minutes. That’s how much time you have to get your dick back in your pants and bring me that composite sketch.”
He hung up, steaming, then called Adams.
“We haven’t identified any prints yet, Victor. Nothing.”
“What about the kinky photographs?”
“They weren’t taken with the camera found in the BMW. I’m still looking for the retailer who sold the equipment. I have five or six possibilities left. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Hang in there, Doug.”
Next, Lessard tried to reach Berger. He got his voice mail. He was in such a foul humour that he left an offensive message, then instantly regretted it. He was calling back to apologize when Berger answered.
“How’s it going?” Lessard said, embarrassed. “I’m just getting in touch, uh … to find out if you’ve come up with anything.”
“I was about to call you. The toxicology reports have come in. No trace of Amytal, or any other drug, for that matter. As for the identity of the first victim, I think you’re right. It’s the man whose photographs are on that website, Stefan Gustaffson. But I can’t give you an official opinion until a relative formally identifies him. I’m also waiting for the results of the dental comparison.”
“I understand. Uh …” He wanted to put this delicately. “I just left you a message. Do me a favour and delete it without listening to it. I’m under a lot of stress. Thanks, Jacob.”
What next? Why hadn’t Simoneau called back?
Lessard picked up his leather jacket and stepped outside. He crossed the street and went to the convenience store in the building facing the police station. On an impulse, he bought a pack of Camels and, even though he had quit five years ago, smoked two of them before stepping back into the station.
Simoneau called twenty minutes later.
“I talked to the doctor again. Delorme isn’t on Amytal or any other barbiturate.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. He opened the file in front of me.”
Simoneau promised to call back in an hour.
What did this mean? Had the barbiturate been used for some other purpose? Lessard went back to his office and picked up the sheet he’d printed at the library. As he reread it, one passage caught his attention.
Higher doses can cause visual problems, slurred speech, impaired perception of time and distance, as well as a slowing of reflexes and respiration. An overdose can lead to coma and death.
Lessard pondered. Impaired perception of time, slowed reflexes. Coma.
What were you planning to do with the stuff? You didn’t drug your first two victims. Who were you going to give it to? Simone Fortin?
They had to find her, whatever it took.
Lessard called Ariane’s number and got her voice mail again. It was nearly five o’clock. Where the hell was she?
33
Lessard picked up the sheets that the fax machine had spat out. The ethics committee file that Marcel Loranger had sent was fifteen pages long. The detective sergeant returned to his office and looked over the document. It was much more detailed than he’d expected. It had been dictated by Loranger himself. The first thing that caught Lessard’s eye was the file number on the complaint.
No. 10161416.
Why was that number so familiar?
Lessard was about to consult his notes when he remembered the discs. The file number was the same as the number printed on the discs found at Gustaffson’s home and Mongeau’s office. If there had been any doubts about whether the investigative team was on the right track, this put them to rest.
A photocopied press clipping dated March 28th, 1998, accompanied the file. Lessard looked at it.
The headline said it all: BLUNDER AT ENFANT-JÉSUS HOSPITAL?
The accident had taken place around 11:00 a.m.
Lessard scanned the first paragraph.
The grandfather, Robert Delorme, had brought the boy to visit the forestry school in Duchesnay, where he had formerly been an instructor. They were driving home on Route 143, about forty-five kilometres from Quebec City, when a tractor-trailer swerved and rammed their vehicle.
The story went on to describe how it had taken an ambulance thirty minutes to reach them and another thirty to get them to the hospital. When the EMTs arrived, local volunteer firefighters had already stabilized the injured man and boy. As for the driver of the tractor-trailer, he’d been treated for shock.
The article then lapsed into sensationalism, raising doubts about the quality of the medical care the two had received without citing specific facts. But it ended with a troubling question: “How is it possible that a little boy in perfect health was admitted with a simple fracture, only to die a short time later?”
A second page was devoted to an interview with a grieving neighbour who said she had known the little boy and his mother very well.
There was also a brief article that quoted a hospital spokesman as saying there would be no comment “before the facts are clearly established.”
Lessard set aside the clipping and began to read the official report. Loranger’s account opened with a clinical description of the victims’ medical conditions when they were brought in.
This description was so technical that Lessard had trouble understanding it. But from what he could gather, the boy had been put on intravenous medication while his grandfather was being attended to. The child had subsequently lost consciousness and died.
There was a detailed description of the measures Simone Fortin had taken. Once again, the technical language was hard to follow. Lessard skipped to the conclusions. The committee members were unanimous in finding that adequate treatment had been administered. As a result, the parents’ complaint was rejected and the case was closed.
In an addendum to the main report, Loranger described the unpleasant incident that had occurred during the hearing. Whereas the report itself was highly detailed and precise, Loranger’s language in the addendum was strikingly vague. He simply observed that “Mr. Delorme, the patient’s father, made statements that were offensive, disturbing, and liable to cause Dr. Fortin to fear for her safety.”
Lessard put down the document.
He could understand the father’s distress. Losing a child must have been unbearable. But it didn’t justify murder. Without knowing why, Lessard felt uneasy. Once again, he had a feeling that he was overlooking something. He reread the file carefully, but he still couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.
Pearson appeared in the doorway. There was a large brown coffee stain on his shirt.
“I’m going home to change. I should be back in three quarters of an hour.”
“No rush. Spend some time with the baby. It’s pointless for all of us to be here twiddling our thumbs. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
Pearson’s expression darkened. He resented what he saw as Lessard’s attempt to sideline him.
“I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. No more.”
Unable to sit still, Lessard got up and went to Fernandez’s office. He sank into the visitor’s chair and let out a sigh.
“I’ll be gone after this investigation ends.”
Fernandez frowned.
“You’re quitting?”
He told her about the confrontation with Tanguay.
“He can’t fire you for that. The union will back you up.”
“He’d be doing me a favour if he threw me out. I’m not worthy of this job.”
“Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.”
Lessard hesitated.
“Do you remember the informant who told me ab
out the stolen BMW?”
“The anonymous call?”
“I lied.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was Martin.”
Fernandez stared.
“Your son? What are you talking about?”
Lessard took a deep breath. His lungs ached.
“He’s mixed up in that car-theft ring we’ve been after. He and an accomplice were the ones who stole the BMW. My son is a common criminal, and I hid that fact from the investigation team.”
The young woman sat in silence for a moment as a tear rolled down Lessard’s cheek.
“What you did was stupid,” she said at last, “but I would have done the same thing.”
He looked at her, surprised. “Really?”
“Of course. He’s your son. What else could you do?”
Fernandez put her hand on his for a moment. Feeling awkward, Lessard pulled away.
“We need a pick-me-up,” she said. “I’m going out for pizza. You want some?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Ah, come on, Lessard. Sparkling water with that?”
“Thanks, Nadja. You’re sweet.”
She gave him a significant look that caught him by surprise.
“I’m more than just sweet, Victor.”
She put on her coat and went out.
Lessard pondered that last remark. What did she mean?
He needed to keep busy, or he’d lose his mind.
He picked up his notebook, intending to go over the notes he’d taken since the beginning of the investigation, but he couldn’t concentrate. He went out to the parking lot and smoked three cigarettes in quick succession.
He couldn’t help thinking that with each passing minute, Simone Fortin’s chances of survival went down. The killer on her trail would show no mercy.
He dialed Ariane’s number, but hung up when the call went to voice mail. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to him. After all, he had crept away without even bothering to leave a note. He also tried to reach Nguyen, but once again, the call went to voice mail. He left a message. What a maddening day. Nothing was moving.
What else could he do, but wait?
He decided to call his sister. She answered after two rings.
“Hey, it’s Victor.”
Without Blood Page 28